by Sabrina York
The woman was a demon. She touched him everywhere he wanted to be touched, needed to be touched. He nearly yowled when her slender finger slipped back, beyond his balls to stroke that hellishly sensitive strip of skin in the back of beyond.
His eyes flew open. He might have made a sound—some pleading snarl—because she looked up at him and smiled. The shower pattered down on him, drumming him with insanity and washing away the soap. She continued to hold his gaze, and stroke, slowly, up and down as the suds sluiced away.
And then—God help him—she went to her knees before him and bent her head again.
Sweet Jesus. He nearly came at the hint of her breath on the head of his cock. He clenched his muscles in an attempt to hold back. Because shit, he didn’t want this to end so quickly. Ever.
When she engulfed him, he moaned. Without thought, he tangled his fingers in her hair and held her closer. She murmured something, something that rumbled through his being. He didn’t know what it was. Didn’t care.
Her mouth was a melody as it moved over him. Warm. Velvet. A sucking, suckling haven. She pumped him too, squeezing him as she worked his length. Blood surged. A knot formed in his belly. A familiar agony coiled in his balls and a curtain of bliss blinded him.
He knew he could not hold out. Knew he could not persevere. She was too much for him, too glorious in her ministrations. Far too greedy for him. She wanted everything. She wanted his all.
She touched him again, in that place where she shouldn’t. Clearly she didn’t know what disaster she taunted. Clearly she didn’t care.
He seized. Glory and gratitude gushed through him and from him. His body mind and spirit flailed in the claws of this delight. He was aware of her murmurs and moans, her lapping and sucking and strokes, but barely, and only at the most primal level of his being.
It was magnificent.
She was magnificent.
God help him.
He was lost.
He succumbed.
Mission or not, he was going to have her.
The goddamn concierge better have an enormous supply of condoms.
They did actually shower.
And to Pansy’s surprise, she enjoyed it immensely, even though she really wanted something else. She wasn’t sure why her need for him had become so clawing so quickly, but it had. It could have been nothing more than the reaction, as he said, but she doubted it.
At any rate, she washed him—all over—and he washed her. She’d never been fond of having someone wash her hair, but with Mason, with his seductive touch, it took on a new meaning.
She really wanted to stay in that shower forever. But she couldn’t.
For one thing, there were the annoying huffs and whimpers at the door. And when Lola began scratching to get in, Pansy knew it was time to emerge from this delicious dream. Lola’s claws were sharp and the last thing she needed was for her dog to burrow through the bathroom door.
So she and Mason turned off the spigots and dried each other off with lush fluffy towels, and then slipped on the robes the hotel provided.
When she opened the bathroom door, Lola pinned her with an accusing look. Pansy attempted to ignore it. This thing was new to them both. Lola had never had to deal with a strange man padding half-naked through her suite.
Hopefully Lola would come around.
Or not.
She skittered up to Mason, blocking his way, and scolding him with a high-pitched tirade.
He chuckled, which really didn’t help.
Lola hated when people laughed at her. She would probably pout all night.
Pansy scooped her up and kissed her furry face, attempting to make nice, but Lola was not mollified. She wiggled to get down and then, with one last snarl at Mason, she padded to her little kennel and curled up on her pillow.
She did, however, still glare at them both.
“Your dog is spoiled,” he said and she whirled on him.
“Hush. She’s very sensitive.”
“Is that what they’re calling it?” He laughed and tugged her into his arms and he kissed her, so she didn’t answer.
The kiss was slow and easy, still something of an exploration but one that lacked the frenetic heat of their earlier exchanges. She quite liked it. She imagined she would enjoy curling up with him on a lazy Saturday morning and just whiling away the hours in his embrace.
He pulled back far too soon and peered down at her with the hint of a smile on his lips. “We, ah, should probably call the concierge.”
She couldn’t stop her responding grin. “Lets.”
It was late at night, so late one could call it early morning, but there was always someone on duty. Pansy tried not to blush as she made her request and, at Mason’s urging, she asked for a first aid kit and a hamburger. When she hung up the phone, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her onto his lap on the sofa.
“It must be nice to have the world at your beck and call.”
She snorted. “The world is hardly at my beck and call.” Some days she felt as though she were living on the razor’s edge of disaster.
He shrugged. “Famous. Rich. Entitled.”
“There are plenty of drawbacks that go along with the deal.” She didn’t mean to speak so sharply, but she didn’t like the hint of distaste in his tone, though it was veiled. “I have little privacy to speak of. I live and die on the whims of a fickle industry…and there are heavy political burdens. Not to mention the fact that I am responsible for the livelihoods of a thousand employees.”
“A thousand?”
“Twelve hundred.” To be precise. “I work fourteen to sixteen hours a day, don’t take weekends or holidays and rarely see my family.”
He pulled back and stared at her. “That’s not the image I have of you.” Why did he seem so surprised? And why did disappointment shaft through her at the evidence he didn’t see her true self? Surely it was too early to expect such nonsense.
“My persona has been carefully crafted by a team of publicity experts. I’m supposed to embody the brand of FlyTower. Young. Carefree. Devoted to a life in the pursuit of the latest trend.” God, how she hated it.
He threaded his fingers through her hair and guided her head onto his shoulder. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”
Such simple words.
They should not cause tears to prick at her lids or make her heart ache.
“No worries,” she mumbled into his terrycloth lapel. “We work hard to promote the fantasy.”
They sat there in silence for a moment, just being, and then he asked, “What did you mean, political burdens?”
She cringed. That was the core of it, wasn’t it? She leaned up and propped her hands on his shoulder and stared into his eyes. They were hazel with flecks of green. This close, they were mesmerizing. She wanted to sink into them.
“Pansy?”
“Hmm? Oh. The political shit.” She blew out a breath. “Our company grew too fast, too soon. We needed capital to keep up and it made sense at the time to go public. Mom brought in some of her friends as investors and of course we’re traded on NASDAQ. The trouble with that is, if you’re a publicly traded company, you have to have a board of directors overseeing everything. You lose a little bit of control and then a little more. And then…”
“And then?”
“And then Mom met Steven.”
“You say his name like it tastes bad.”
“I don’t like him.” She hated him. “It was one of those May-September romances. Young gigolo seducing an older woman, making her feel wanted again.”
“I see where this is going.”
“Yeah. Well, Steven convinced Mom to marry him.” She blew out a breath. “That was a fresh ring of hell in itself. He’s my age. Next thing you know, he’s on the board of directors. Issuing orders, trying to take control. When Mom died, he got her shares.”
“Shouldn’t they have gone to you?”
Pansy merely lifted a brow. It was a question she’d asked a tho
usand times. “I have no idea why she changed her will. I had no idea she had. But Steven, Catherine and I now have equal shares. To make things worse, we don’t agree on the direction the company should take. Steven wants to pander to the schlockier trends, to cheaper target markets, and Catherine and I want to keep it classy and upscale.”
“Well, don’t your combined votes outweigh his?”
“Technically. But if there is a public vote, the shareholders have a say and some of them have enough votes to tip things his way. That’s why I’m here, meeting with some of Mom’s friends who hold large shares.” It was tiring, always being “on”. Always battling with Steven.
Somehow, here, in Mason’s arms, she felt she could relax, release some of the tension. It was nicer than she could ever have expected. She nestled deeper. “I like this,” she said.
He murmured something into her hair. It might have been, “Me too.”
But then a knock came at the door and ruined it all.
He shifted her from his lap and padded to the door, stopping on the way to collect his pistol. All of a sudden, it hit her again, the thought, the realization: she wasn’t safe.
Ah, but she was. With him, she was.
He peered through the peephole and then tucked his weapon behind his back and opened the door.
The concierge, an older man, in a far-too formal suit for 4 am, nodded primly and wheeled a cart into the foyer. “The items you requested.”
Pansy grinned at Mason’s sudden consternation. His lips flapped and he patted his—empty—pockets. “I…ah…thank you.”
The concierge nodded and backed into the hall and Mason closed the door.
“I didn’t have any money for a tip,” he said, and she laughed out loud.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he gets a tip,” she said, bounding to her feet and coming to survey the items on the cart. First and foremost was the domed lid covering the hamburger. She’d laughed when Mason had ordered it, but all of a sudden, she was famished. The smell coiled to her nostrils and her stomach growled. She snagged a french fry. The first aid kit was a simple one, in a metal box emblazoned with a red cross, but the condoms?
She tried to hold back her laugh but it came out in a snort. The condoms were neatly wrapped in a brown paper package, tied with a bow.
That was funny enough, but then she caught sight of Mason’s expression and she couldn’t hold back. Her hilarity rocked through the room. When he picked it up and turned it from side to side, studying it with a bemused frown, she howled.
“Your life is really something, isn’t it?” He said. To which she just laughed more.
They shared the burger—it was delicious—and then Mason gently tenderly treated her scrapes, covering a few of the larger ones with bandages.
It should not have been an erotic undertaking, but somehow it was.
He was a large man. A warrior. To watch him intently and cautiously dab at her legs, to stroke a bruise, to bind her wounds, was moving. It touched something deep within, nudged it. Woke it up. With some element of surprise, she realized what it was, this yearning.
He could take care of her.
She’d never had the need, or the desire for such a thing before.
But now it blazed through her like a wildfire.
She was tired of doing it all by herself.
She was tired of never truly trusting a man.
She was tired of being alone.
She wanted a partner.
She wanted him.
When he closed up the first aid kit and set it on the table, she covered his hand with hers. “Mason?”
He glanced at her. Their gazes locked. “Yes, Pansy?”
“I think it’s time to go to bed.”
It was time.
She wanted him.
Needed him.
Craved him on her, and over her, and in her.
It was time.
Chapter Six
Mason’s throat locked as he stared at Pansy, her wide wanting eyes, her near pleading expression.
There was no need to plead.
In the past hour, kissing her, holding her, being with her, his reticence had fled. His resistance had melted.
All the reasons and justifications and excuses for keeping his distance from her had slipped down and away, into the dark mire of his baser needs.
It was central to the core of his being, it was necessary to take her, possess her.
But still…she should be warned.
He set his hand on hers, stilled her stroking. “Pansy.”
She glanced at his hand, confining hers. Cuffing it. Her lip came out. “What?”
“There’s something about me you should know.”
She froze. Studied him. Her head tipped to the side in the way it often did. He found it adorable, but he did not allow himself to become distracted.
This was too important.
“What is it?”
“I am…” Shit. How to put it?
“What?”
“I am not a…gentle man.”
He almost laughed when she screwed up her features into a moue of disbelief. “You were very gentle just now, when you tended me.” Her voice dropped to a sultry whisper.
He scrubbed his face. “I mean…in bed. I’m not a gentle man in bed. I like it…”
She peered at him the way a meerkat on the Serengeti might peer at a lion—if it had never seen one before and had no idea how utterly savage a creature it could be. “How do you like it?”
God. A sizzle snarled through his balls.
That, and a trickle of trepidation. If he told her and she walked away, he’d be devastated. But if he didn’t tell her, he couldn’t guarantee he could pretend to be something he wasn’t. Not in the blazing heat of passion. Not the way she knocked him off balance and made him forget…everything.
He blew out a harsh breath. “I’m a Dominant.”
She stilled.
His heart ker-chunked and then launched into a rapid tattoo. He watched her, studied her—every flicker of her eyelash, trying to assess her reaction. But she was good at hiding her feelings. Her face was a mask.
“What…does that mean, exactly?”
Holy hell. He would assume she knew. At least have some clue. “I like to dominate my partner in bed.” Yeah. Simple, clear, and utterly vague.
“Do you like to…hurt women?”
Fuck! He hated her words, the tremble in her voice. Worse, he hated the sudden doubt in her tone.
“Hell no.” A snarl. But it didn’t frighten her.
“What…exactly do you like to do? Tie them up?”
He swallowed the drool in his mouth at the thought of tying her to a bed and—
Oh. She was waiting for an answer. “Sometimes. But I prefer to command a woman to restrain herself.”
She blinked. “What does that mean?”
Heat sluiced through him at her look. “Shall I…Shall I show you?”
“Show me?” A peep.
“Here. Now.” Oh, yes please.
She shook her head and his hope deflated. “I don’t like feeling helpless. Like tonight? With those men? I was terrified.”
“Of course you were. But that was real. There was no trust there, no understanding. In these things, we always make sure everyone understands the limits before anything happens.”
She nibbled her lip. Her resistance faded a tad. But then she said, “I don’t think I want to be bossed around. I don’t do well with authority.”
Oh, excellent. He tried not to crow.
He tugged her closer. “Pansy, the whole point of a D/s relationship is that the submissive is the one calling the shots.”
She tipped her head again. He really wanted to kiss her pursing lips. “I don’t understand. If you’re the boss, how would I call the shots?”
“You set the parameters. For example, if you don’t want to be spanked, I wouldn’t do that.” He shot her a hopeful look. “Do you want to be spanked?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been spanked.”
God. A virgin. She was killing him.
“But I wouldn’t mind trying it.” Holy fuck. “But I don’t think I’d want to be tied up. I don’t think I’d like that.”
“Okay. It won’t happen.”
“It won’t?” Was that a hint of petulance?
“Not unless you ask.”
Beg, but whatever. He was making progress.
“Would you like to try an experiment? Something simple? To give you a taste?”
She set her palm on his cheek and stroked his scruff with her thumb. “Yes, Mason. I think I would. But if I don’t like it…”
“If you don’t like it, just say Lola.”
“Lola?”
The Chihuahua lifted her head and made a noise, something like a huff of revulsion.
“Lola will be your safe word. Something that tells me you need to stop right away.” Because yeah, that word would do it. “What do you think? Shall we try?”
“Yes.” She settled deeper in his lap, wriggling with a little too much enthusiasm.
“Stop,” he said. He invested his tone with a bite, so she knew the game had begun.
“Stop? Stop what?” Oh yeah, he was going to enjoy this. She was far too defiant.
“Stop moving.”
She blinked. He could tell she was holding her breath. Eventually she would have to let it out so he didn’t remind her to breathe. Rather, he shifted her on his lap and arranged her against the arm of the sofa, with her legs spread out along its length. He traced her collarbone and let his finger drift down between the lapels of her robe, though still, he held her gaze. “Okay Pansy. Here are the rules. Are you ready?”
She nodded. Her eyes were like saucers.
“No moving. Not an inch. And no talking. Do you understand?”
“Can I say Lola?”
Lola whined.
He sighed. “You can always say Lola, no matter the rules. But know, when you say it, I stop. Whatever it is I am doing. I stop. So only say it when you mean it.”
