The Face of Scandal

by Helena Maeve

  To his credit, Dylan ate everything she put in front of him without complaint.

  “There’s beer in the fridge,” Hazel told him as they worked together to clear the table. She had noticed he liked a bottle now and again after a hearty meal, leaving the harder liquors to Hazel and Ward.

  Dylan avoided her gaze. “I was hoping to stay sober tonight.”

  “If that’s what you… Oh.” There were few things Dylan insisted on in their play—sobriety was one of them. He had delayed a scene before if he thought Ward had self-medicated with a little more bourbon than was strictly safe.

  He always made sure Hazel was sober before they engaged in anything risqué.

  “We don’t have to,” he hurried to add. “If you’re not in the mood.”

  Hazel drew herself up a little straighter. “Didn’t say that.” They were getting better about not second-guessing each other’s motives when it came to asking for sex, but even the most faithfully upward curve could know the occasional hiccup. “Just you and me, huh?” she mused, watching as Dylan loaded the dishwasher.

  “No one else here…”

  Not right now. Sadie was gone, but her presence lingered. Hazel couldn’t dispel the memory of her leaning against the counter, making Dylan’s favorite pancakes. She was embarrassed to admit she had thrown away the leftovers as soon as she had the kitchen to herself again.

  “Okay.”

  Dylan glanced up, something at once eager and wary in his eyes. “Sure?”

  He always asked. He never could just take her at her word. And while that generally struck her as an extra precaution, tonight Hazel had no patience for unwarranted doubts.

  Without a second thought, she strolled up and slid a hand around Dylan’s nape to pull him into a searing kiss. The short hairs on the back of his neck tickled her fingers. His body was a rigid wall against hers, supporting her when she shifted forward to rest her belly against his pelvis. It was worth it to hear Dylan’s sharp inhale.

  “Bed or playroom?” Dylan asked, tipping back. His eyes were blown wide, practically no difference in tint between the rim of his irises and the glossy black of his pupils.

  “Playroom,” Hazel decided abruptly.

  They left the rest of the dishes in the sink.

  * * * *

  The chain between Hazel’s breasts clinked with every twist of her body against the cross. It tensed occasionally, turning the dull ache in her nipples into a sharp sting. The butterfly clips were merciless. Hazel dreaded looking down at herself for fear of seeing the puckered flesh purpling from the lack of blood flow, but her spine had a mind of its own. Her back curved, independent of conscious thought, as Dylan flicked the crop against her shoulder blades.

  Hazel shouted out, “Six!” only to hear him chuckle.

  “You’ve lost count, haven’t you?”

  She blew out a shaky breath. How could she deny it? There was no talking her way out of this one. After the paddle and the delicate, almost pleasurable swish of the flogger against her thighs, Hazel had run out of energy to keep track of the strokes. She glided on the pain he dished out, arousal a throbbing pressure in the pit of her stomach.

  Suddenly, Dylan knotted a hand in her hair and jerked her head up. “I asked you a question.”

  Hazel gasped. “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. Fuck…” Her eyes stung, but not with disquiet. She knew Dylan would leave no marks unless explicitly asked beforehand. By morning, the worst of the ache in her thighs will have faded to a pleasant, low-level tenderness. The rush of endorphins offset any embarrassment she might have felt at the thought.

  “Can’t trust you to get anything right,” Dylan said, and clucked his tongue. Even in reprimand, he tempered the sting of the words with a kiss to her shoulder. “Perhaps I’ve been too lenient.”

  He didn’t ask Hazel to agree with him—likely assuming she’d do it just to please him, no matter how true it was. Instead, Hazel slowly became aware of the leather cuffs around her wrists and ankles coming undone. She stumbled on weak legs, staggering blindly until Dylan guided her away from the cross with gentle hands on her aching hips. The first step was agony, a fire bolt racing up her spine.

  In silent rebuke for her faltering, Dylan tapped the base of the plug slotted between her ass cheeks. Pleasure coiled in her veins. She had wanted to beg him to fuck her with the stainless steel toy when it was first inserted—perfectly smooth and cool to the touch, larger and larger as it pressed inside her until Hazel had thought she would split open. The tapered stem was no wider than Dylan’s index finger. Her muscles could almost relax around it.

  As with so much else about their play, this, too, was a matter of half-measures and calibration.

  “Hands,” Dylan ordered.

  Hazel held her wrists out, joined in front of her, and winced as she brushed the sides of her breasts with her elbows. The chain that dangled over her stomach swayed a little, igniting electric shocks in her nipples.

  To her surprise, it wasn’t another pair of leather cuffs that Dylan fetched from the black-painted chest of drawers, but a length of red rope. Her pulse kicked at the sight.

  They had discussed this, if only in passing. Ward was a big proponent.

  “Dylan loves a good rope tie,” he’d whispered in Hazel’s ear as he walked his fingertips decadently slow up her thigh. They had found themselves in a tucked-away jewel of a bar in San Gabriel at the time, and Hazel had been so captivated by the filth Ward had poured into her ear that she’d barely noticed three refills of her cocktail until she’d had to stand.

  Between flying back to Missouri and hosting Sadie’s post break-up recovery, they hadn’t had the opportunity to test Ward’s hypothesis. The thought came to Hazel that they should wait until he was around to enjoy it, but Dylan was already laddering the rope up her forearms. He was tall enough that rising up on tiptoes was enough to slide the rope through a steel loop fastened to the ceiling and raise her wrists up.

  Hazel had been in this position before.

  She couldn’t claim to be relaxed with her hands hoisted over her head, but worry only entered her mind when Dylan repeated the process with her right ankle. The oiled ropes didn’t bite into her skin as she feared, but having one leg yanked up to her chest tripped the wire of her unease.

  “You’re gonna bring the roof down,” she gasped, trying to laugh through the sudden tightness in her throat.

  Dylan scoffed and bent to work the ropes down her other leg. His touch sparked electricity wherever he touched her skin. Hazel’s cunt pulsed with desire, her central nervous system clearly every bit as confused as the rest of her. Then Dylan pulled on the rope that attached to her left knee and ankle, expending just enough effort for his biceps to bulge beneath his skinny-fit black shirt.

  The other ropes creaked, taking all Hazel’s weight.

  “Red,” Hazel gasped. “Red, I can’t… I can’t do this. They’ll break, they’ll— Oh, God, put me down.”

  At once, Dylan relaxed his hold, the tension in the makeshift cable released and Hazel’s foot thumped back to the ground. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” In a heartbeat, the cadences of his voice had gone from cruel tormentor to compassion and tenderness.

  “No, they’ll—”

  “They won’t break,” Dylan promised her. He cupped her cheeks to still her frantically dashing gaze. “Hazel, look at me. Calm down. I’ve got you. Do you trust me?”

  Don’t ask me that.

  Malcolm had been fond of testing her resolve whenever things got particularly bad between them. If she trusted him, she could have no reason to object. If she loved him, then safewording was a personal affront.

  But Dylan wasn’t Malcolm.

  “I don’t want to do this,” Hazel forced out.

  “Okay.” He grimaced as he unraveled his work, the knots loosening without effort. “There, see? Everything’s fine. Now…”

  As soon as she was free, Hazel backed out of the playroom, her legs buckling like pool noodles when she hit th
e edge of the bed. She half sat, half collapsed to the mattress and put her head in her hands. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about.”

  The playroom door shut with a click as Dylan followed her out. She was suddenly very cold, the nipple clamps more pain than pleasure.

  “Wait, let me—”

  Dylan’s plea fell on deaf ears. With a shaking hand, Hazel unclipped first one, then the other, and squeezed her eyes shut against the pain that blossomed in her flesh. “Fuck…”

  She could suffer spanking and caning, no problem, but remove the nipple clamps without enough pressure to take the edge off and she howled like a dog. The thought of removing the anal plug filled her with added shame.

  She had spoiled the moment. She’d ruined their evening. Again.

  Dylan crouched on the floor at her feet. “Is it okay if I touch you? You don’t have to say yes…”

  “I know that.” It’s not what you think. Hazel struggled to meet his eyes. “You did nothing wrong.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it.”

  “You don’t have to worry about my feelings right now.”

  Hazel rolled her eyes. “Stop being so fucking understanding! Please. You make the saints look bad.”

  Although it seemed to take some effort, Dylan nevertheless mustered a shaky smile. He took her ankle in a gentle hold and began rubbing at the patch of skin where the ropes had barely mottled the flesh.

  His touch was so delicate that Hazel feared she might weep.

  She reached down and, threading her fingers through his, pulled her hand between her knees. “Did Ward—how much did he tell you about the film?”

  “Not much,” Dylan admitted. “I didn’t want to know.” He hesitated before he went on, “He mentioned you were crying. Did I do something to—?”

  Hazel shook her head quickly. “No, nothing like that.” I know you’re not like Malcolm.

  Dylan listened when she asked him to stop. He took her cramping legs into account. He never pushed her beyond what she could take.

  But Dylan deserved an explanation. Hazel looked down at their joined hands. “We were doing suspension play in the basement of his parents’ house. I guess I must’ve tugged too hard or moved around too much…” Or simply weighed too much. She cleared her throat. “Anyway, by the end of the video one of the nails in the ceiling comes loose.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, the others came out, like, ten seconds later. I, uh, hit the ground pretty hard. Chipped a tooth,” Hazel recalled with little mirth. “Whoever uploaded the video left that part in. Sort of an America’s Funniest Home Videos kind of thing to go with the porn.” She worried the chain that tied the butterfly clips with a toe. “That’s why I freaked out on you.”

  Bet Sadie would never do that. She’d laugh it off.

  “No wonder,” Dylan’s voice was dark.

  Hazel winced. “I know I should’ve told you—I just couldn’t.” It wasn’t the only secret she’d kept from him. Dylan was probably used to peeling back the layers of Hazel’s neuroses by now. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t tired of it yet.

  To her surprise, Dylan rose from the floor and gave her hand a reassuring press. “Scoot up.”

  “Why?”

  Dylan arched his eyebrow. “Do you want to stop everything?” It was a rhetorical question—every time something went wrong in the bedroom, Hazel was quick to jump back on the horse. Her libido cared nothing for wounded egos or minor bodily harm.

  She always did as she was told, slave to his heated gaze and the slow glide of his palms up her splayed thighs.

  “You can tie me up again if you want…”

  “Oh, you’re giving me permission?” Dylan snorted.

  He made no move to head back into the playroom. Before Hazel could do more than sit up, his body slotted into place against hers, warm and strong, the scent of his cologne enveloping her. He kissed her nape as Hazel arched her spine, shivering with the sensation of soft, pressed trousers against her buttocks. It didn’t last.

  With a sure hand, Dylan nudged her down to all fours. Hazel bit her lip to smother a moan as she felt him trail kisses down her spine, over and between the welts he’d etched into her skin just minutes earlier. He grazed the arch of her foot with his lips, then trailed them up again, planting soft kisses along her calf to the shallow dip behind her knee.

  Her clit pulsed with need for him, cunt moist with arousal long before he deigned to flip her onto her back and slide a fingertip inside her.

  “Ah—fuck.” Hazel threw her head back and pulled her knees to her chest. She scored indentations into the meat of her thighs as she tried to squeeze into a tight ball, to make herself small and palatable and submissive.

  “More?” he teased. Another rhetorical question, that.

  The familiar rasp of a zipper being tugged down reached Hazel as though from far away. She saw Dylan stretch for the bedside drawer and caught just a brief glimpse of the collar and leash, the bottles of lubricant and the small vibe the boys sometimes used when they truly wanted to torment Hazel into frightening the neighbors.

  He came away with a shiny condom. Hazel let out an anticipatory whimper. She wasn’t unaware of Dylan rubbing the head of his erection up and down her pink, gushing cunt, but it was the show of concentration on his face she cherished. If ever she’d doubted that he wanted her, the answer was written there.

  All thought melted away with the slow thrust of his cock inside her.

  “Oh, God, Dylan…” She made to lower her legs and hug his flanks, but Dylan clamped her knees together with strong hands, tightening the channel of her vagina. Every scrape of his length over her hypersensitive slit was all the more maddening for it.

  He only teased her for a moment before easing into her again.

  Hazel made a low, unflattering noise in the back of her throat and groped for purchase on the pillow. “Don’t stop. God, don’t stop…” Breaths knifed in and out of her aching lungs as she rocked against him, ears ringing with the sound of their bodies joining and pulling apart.

  Heat pooled behind Hazel’s clit, every blissful thrust strumming that spot inside her ramping up her orgasms that much more. It took a few tries, but once Dylan found the right angle, there was no contending with his vigorous rhythm. Hazel clutched the pillowcase with white-knuckled fists, hips arching off the bed as her whimpers of pleasure folded into ragged cries. She wasn’t afraid of breaking without permission. She wasn’t afraid of being left hanging.

  Her only fear, baseless as it was, floated at the forefront of her thoughts with the horror of failing to take what Dylan had in store for her.

  Syncopated breaths gave way to a mewling sob.

  “Come for me,” he choked out, voice husky with effort. “Come.”

  Bliss. Savage, unyielding bliss.

  Hazel tipped over the edge with a particularly embarrassing keen, squeezing around the toy in her ass and Dylan’s length inside her as she peaked and crested, climax battering her sanity like crashing waves.

  Chest heaving with every breath, Dylan fucked her through it, racing for his own release.

  He buried himself inside her on the last thrust, his heart hammering against Hazel’s ribcage so loudly that for a moment she mistook it for her own. The weight of his body against hers was a pleasant but suffocating burden. Hazel wrapped both arms around his waist to keep him in place.

  “And to think,” she panted, “that when we met I thought you were just another Ward Cleaver clone…”

  Dylan was silent for a moment. Then his shoulders began to quake with laughter.

  Hazel bit his ear in retribution. “Shut up.”

  “No, no…” He propped himself up on his elbow, heedless Hazel clenching her fists in the placket of his shirt. He hadn’t even taken the time to undress. “Tell me more,” he entreated, cheeks flushed with exertion. “It’s not every day I get to hear about your fantasies. I’m almost afraid to ask but—what did you make of our
Ward?”

  “A young Mr. Burns?”

  Dylan threw his head back with a loud guffaw. He was impervious to Hazel slapping his ass by way of redress.

  “You can’t tell him!”

  “Are you kidding?” Dylan snorted, dipping his head to flick her nipple with his talented tongue. “Soon as he steps through the door, it’ll be Montgomery this, Montgomery that…”

  “Don’t you have anything better to do with that mouth?” Hazel quipped.

  He pretended to mull it over. “I can think of a few things…”

  As they kissed, Dylan settled back against her gently, their momentary hiccup in the playroom already forgotten. It wasn’t the first time their plans went up in smoke. It probably wouldn’t be the last.

  I warned you.

  Hazel tried to recall a time when she’d been this happy with Malcolm. They must’ve had their moments or she wouldn’t have spent two years trying to make it work.

  Maybe it wasn’t just Malcolm fucking with her head and getting away with it. Maybe it was Hazel letting him. She wondered if she was doing as much with Dylan and Ward.

  Her eyes fluttered shut as Dylan slipped out and replaced his cock with two long fingers, crooked just so to make her lose her mind. There would be time to worry about why this worked for them later, Hazel decided. For now, she gave herself over to the sensation of Dylan’s hands on her, gently coaxing another slow, unearned orgasm from her aching body.

  Chapter Seven

  Barring the Enrique Iglesias playlist warbling from the car radio, the drive over had gone by in complete silence. Hazel killed the engine and waited for courage to find her. “You didn’t have to come with me,” she said, delaying.

  “Are you kidding? It was this or sitting around while Mom frets and flits and asks me what happened to Frank for the umpteenth time.” Sadie liberated her phone from her handbag. “You said an hour, right?”

  “Maybe less.” Maybe not at all, unless Hazel found the strength of conviction to slide out of her seat.