Auctioned to the Spanish Dom [The Spectrum Auctions 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage and More)
Page 5
“Not even if I beg for it, Sir. You said I’d have to beg for your cock.”
Pedro tensed and swore softly.
“Not even then. Though you, Peyton King, test the patience of a fucking saint, and we both know that I’m no saint.”
She giggled at that and the corners of his mouth kicked up in a rueful smile.
“That said, shut up, woman, before I gag you again, and let me get the tangles out of your hair.”
He swatted her thigh lightly with the end of the hairbrush, and Peyton mock saluted him.
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Pedro shook his head and proceeded to run the brush through her hair.
“You’re going to pay for that, girl.”
Her reemerging snarky side so wanted to goad him on that, but the expression on his face stopped her. It seemed her need to please him was far greater than her need to keep the upper hand, so she sat there and let him take care of her. Besides, there was something so incredibly erotic of big, bad Master Pedro brushing her hair for her.
By the time the action was finally completed to his satisfaction, her sore butt was going numb from having sat in the same position, and she jumped out of her skin when Pedro spoke.
“There, that’s better. Now take the robe off and lie facedown on the bed.”
The sudden steel of command behind those words meant she scrambled to comply with a speed that surprised even her, and her stomach tightened in need when she heard him rustle about. She had noticed the big, black hold all he must have brought along. Risking a glance at him, she saw him delve into the bag. Unfortunately he chose that moment to look up, and his eyes narrowed.
“Eyes on the headboard, pequeña, or I have a blindfold in here with your name on it.”
That thought really shouldn’t have her pussy clench in need, should it? But then again, even with her vanilla boyfriends, Peyton had always enjoyed a bit of role play. Tying up and blindfolds had been a firm fixture in the bedroom, and she’d done a fair bit of tying up herself. None of her previous experiences had ever made her as wet as the mere suggestion in Pedro’s accented voice.
The bed dipped again and she heard the sound of something being unscrewed.
“Relax, this will be cold at first, but it will help with the bruising.”
“Bruising?” she asked and yelped as something cold hit her shoulder blades. Instantly, Pedro’s warm hands massaged the coldness away, and Peyton blew out a breath when his hands hit the top of her ass and a particular sore spot.
“Yes, I can see them form already.” He ran his hands along that part of her ass and squeezed the tender flesh. Heat shot through her veins and her pussy clenched, and she bucked into his hands.
“Hija de mi vida, you’re so fucking responsive, pequeñita.”
Peyton’s stomach tightened in excitement at the strained quality of his voice and all thoughts of bruises flew out of her head, as she gave herself up to his whispered words in Spanish and the magic his hands worked on her body. By the time he was finished, a sense of peace had settled over her, as her tired muscles relaxed, and she found herself drifting away again. Pedro lifted the hair off her neck and kissed her just under her ear. The action made her smile, and the last thing she heard before exhaustion finally claimed her were his whispered, “Dulces sueños, pequeña.”
Chapter Five
The insistent, shrill tones of her alarm clock roused Peyton from her deeply erotic dream and she cursed under her breath. Sore muscles protested when she flung her arm out to hit the old-fashioned alarm clock. Instead of turning off, the blasted thing fell on the floor and danced along the hardwood flooring, just adding to the cacophony of noise that bombarded her skull.
Dammit, it was Saturday, and with everything else going on last night she’d forgotten to turn the thing off.
Her ass stung when she swung her legs out of bed and went alarm clock hunting. The thing had danced itself all the way to her bathroom door, and by the time she finally managed to shut it up, Peyton was wide awake.
She winced when she straightened from her crouch, and her eyes went wide when she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. Not only was her hair a raven’s nest, her upper back, and in particular her ass, showed some spectacular bruises. There were clear welts left over from Pedro’s crop and a couple of thin lines that must have come from a flogger. The whole area looked red and bruised, and she gingerly touched the biggest of the welts. A rush went through her as she remembered the pleasure she’d felt when Pedro had paddled her behind, and she rolled her eyes at her body’s predictable response at the mere thought of him.
Surely she ought to be horrified at these, not secretively loving the fact that he had marked her so. Was one session with him enough to turn her into a lunatic? Or had he been right all along and this was who she truly was? Peyton grabbed her phone and snapped images of her bruises. Why, she wasn’t quite sure. They might come in handy for her article, if only to show what consensual marks looked like.
A giggle escaped her at the consensual part. If someone had told her only yesterday that she would consent to being bruised, she’d have laughed her head off. Clearly there was far more to this whole BDSM lark than she’d first thought.
Gah, she needed coffee to have any hope of making sense of her conflicting emotions this morning, and where the fuck was Pedro anyway? She knew they’d only signed up for that one scene, but surely he ought to be here to make sure she was all right or something? Did she want him to have stayed the night, though? His mere presence scrambled her brain to such a degree, she acted completely out of character, so it was probably a good thing he wasn’t.
The note propped up next to her coffee machine caught her by surprise. Written in bold confident strokes, it was from Pedro, and there was tube of cream next to it.
Hope you’re not too sore this morning, pequeña. Put this cream on your bruises three times a day. It will help with the healing, and think of me when you do that. Scarlett has my number if you want to continue this.
Pedro
P.S. Make sure you eat a decent breakfast.
A warm glow went through Peyton and she added a mental Yes, Sir in her head, which did nothing to help clear her mind. Pedro seemed to have firmly wheedled himself into her psyche.
Peyton put the coffee on to brew, and grabbing the tube of cream, positioned herself back in front of that mirror to put the cream on the bits she could reach. It had indeed a soothing effect on her skin, and she wished she could put it everywhere, but that was impossible without help. Somehow she didn’t think Mrs. Robinson next door would appreciate a knock to help cream her up, helpful as her neighbor was.
By the time she’d finished and had put her robe on, the coffee was brewed and she sat down at the table to sip the hot, fragrant brew. She startled when she realized that she was tracing Pedro’s handwriting with her finger.
Mindful of his instructions, she made herself some porridge and poured herself some orange juice, while she contemplated her next move.
Mistress Scarlett’s number was in her contacts, and her fingers itched to ring the woman, but was she really ready to take this whole thing a step further? What she needed was an excuse to look him up. Peyton’s lips curved into a smile when it came to her. It had been his birthday yesterday, and she’d never really acknowledged that fact. Baking was one of Peyton’s passions, so she would make him some of her brownies and bake him a birthday cake and drop it round. Perfect excuse without being too obvious about her need to see him again.
* * * *
Five hours later, Peyton stood on Pedro’s doorstep, nervously balancing her cake box and bag of brownies. Maybe he wasn’t in after all. Scarlett had said he would be once she’d stopped laughing, when Peyton had said she was baking for him.
“Why is that so funny?” she’d asked, and Scarlett had grown serious.
“It’s not, sweet thing, it’s just…well, Pedro and birthdays are a touchy subject. You go ahead though. I’m sure you’r
e just what he needs. Good luck.”
Scarlett had given her Pedro’s address and hung up laughing.
So, here she stood, nervous as hell and about to ring the doorbell for the third time, when the door was yanked open and a furious-looking Pedro growled at her.
“What is the damn hurry? If I don’t answer the door, then…oh.”
He looked dumbstruck for all of a second, and then a slow smile spread across his face and he stepped to the side.
“Forgive me, pequeña. I thought you were one of those damn sales people that can’t take no for an answer, and I was in the middle of a work out. Come in.”
Peyton nodded, utterly incapable of getting her voice box to form any coherent sentence as the sight of a half-naked, sweaty Pedro stood in front of her. Rivulets of sweat ran down his pectorals and droplets caught in his chest hair. She followed their path over his washboard abs down to the baggy exercise shorts he wore, and she hastily wrenched her gaze up back to his face, when Pedro laughed.
“If you keep looking at me like that, pequeña, all bets will be off.”
His voice dropped an octave as he spoke and her stomach tightened in need. Yes, that voice alone sent shivers of pure need down her spine and moistened her knickers. His warm hand grasped her elbow and steered her inside his hallway, and the front door shut with a quiet thud.
“So, what brings you here, pequeña, and perhaps more importantly, how did you get Scarlett to give you my address?”
Peyton had a hard time keeping her gaze on his face, and his usually so harsh features softened, and he steered her further into the house. Peyton got a brief impression of a spacious hallway with luxury carpeting that her feet sank into, and then they were in the kitchen. Taking up the entire length of the house, it had a rustic, lived-in feel to it, and Peyton knew her mouth fell open in surprise.
Decorated in warm, earthy tones, it was a far cry from what she would have imagined. Then again, maybe she shouldn’t be surprised. Judging by the area he lived in, and the new midrange car on his drive, Pedro was, if not rich, certainly well-off.
He took the cake box from her and shut her mouth with just one long finger. Renewed heat climbed into Peyton’s cheeks as he chuckled. He put the box on the worktop, and then turned around to study her. Arms crossed over his bare chest, one eyebrow raised, he waited for her answer.
“Oh, right, Scarlett, yes, well, she didn’t want to, but I made her.”
Another eyebrow shot up.
“You made Scarlett tell you? How?” Pedro asked, and Peyton barely resisted the urge to fidget.
“Well, I felt bad that I never acknowledged your birthday yesterday, so…errr.” Her voice faltered as he frowned, but she got this far so she might as well get it all out. “So, I baked you a cake and some brownies. Here.” She shoved the bag of brownies she still clutched in her hand at his chest, and after a moment’s hesitation, he took it off her.
“You baked me a cake?” She nodded, her stomach in twists as she remembered Scarlett’s warning. He shook his head, put the brownies next to the cake, and opened up the cake box. Scarlett held her breath as she waited for his reaction.
“You baked this? For me?” There was such a curious undertone to his voice that Peyton took a step closer to him to peer inside the box. Yep, the cake was still intact. Several layers of chocolate with the icing spelling, Happy Birthday Master Pedro.
“Is something wrong? Should I have just put Pedro, or Sir? What should I call you?”
Pedro ran a hand through his hair, and a lock of his dark brown hair fell over his eye. Her fingers itched to reach up and swipe it away for him, but he was in such a curious mood that she didn’t dare.
He looked at the cake again and then her, and finally smiled. Pedro reached across to tuck an errant strand of her hair behind her ear, and he let his fingers linger.
“You can call me whatever you want, pequeña, when we’re not in a scene. I would prefer you call me Sir, but I shan’t insist on it, unless we’re at the club.” He ran his fingers lightly across her jaw, leaving delicious tingles behind. “You really baked this cake, from scratch?”
At her nod, he swore softly in Spanish.
“You’re something else, Peyton King. Stay here and put the coffee on, while I grab a quick shower. We can’t have cake without coffee, can we?”
Pedro tapped her nose and then left her alone to stare after him in wonder. What was all the fuss about? It was only a cake. He acted as though no one had ever baked him a cake before. Having put the coffee on, Peyton couldn’t resist a peek around the downstairs.
The hallway led to a spacious living room. Dominated by a well-worn leather seating arrangement, and with one wall entirely taken up by an enormous book case, the other by a massive flat screen, this certainly looked more like she imagined his place would look like. The big arch led through to a formal dining room. More bookcases lined the walls, and she whistled through her teeth at his extensive DVD collection. All the classics were there, as well as several new action movies and a surprisingly large number of musicals.
An old-fashioned record player sat on top of an antique table, and Peyton smiled as she went through the neatly indexed vinyl collection. Jazz, blues, and what looked like the entire collection of Frank Sinatra songs.
Pedro certainly was full of surprises. One old photograph hung on the wall. It showed a much younger-looking Pedro proudly holding some sort of trophy in his hand. What she presumed must be a younger brother looked up at him adoringly, and the middle-aged couple in the background beamed at the unseen photographer. There was no mistaking the family resemblance. The man in the picture was the spitting image of Pedro now, or how he would look with a few more years under his belt.
This was clearly a picture of his family, but why was this the only one, and where the birthday cards? A man with Pedro’s standing would surely have lots of cards? A noise from upstairs made her hurry back into the kitchen. The last thing she wanted was to be found snooping.
Instead, Peyton busied herself, hunting down some plates and a knife, and she proceeded to cut up the cake and lay the dishes out over the breakfast bar.
Her Sir wanted coffee and cake, and that’s what he was going to get.
* * * *
Pedro stood under the hot spray and let the water wash the tension in his shoulders away. Never in a million years would he have expected to see Peyton standing on his doorstep today. Not least because Scarlett knew that he never took a sub to his place. So why then had she given Peyton his address? That Domme was up to something, that’s for sure.
When he’d yanked the door open to find Peyton standing there, nervously shifting from one trainer-clad foot to the next, he hadn’t known how to react at first. What he should have done is simply shut the door, talk to her, and arrange to meet up in the club, but her sultry scent had wrapped itself around him. It was such a contrast to her simple blue jeans and white T-shirt that had made up the rest of the outfit.
His pequeña hadn’t dressed to impress him. Far from it. The high neckline of her T-shirt would have done any nun proud, and her face had been bare, bar a touch of shiny lip gloss that he’d wanted to lick off her full lips.
No, she’d looked like the proverbial fish out of water. Clutching the cake box to her like some sort of shield, she had been so utterly flustered by his appearance that his cock had jerked to attention straightaway, as though he was some randy teenager rather than an experienced man. Thank fuck for his baggy exercise shorts, which had hidden his body’s immediate reaction to her. His damn dick still stood to attention, and Pedro took a firm hold of his shaft and pumped his erection. Closing his eyes, he imagined Peyton’s lips stretched around his girth. He knew just what needy little sounds she would be making as she knelt naked in front of him and with his hands fisted in her hair as he fucked her mouth.
With a grunt of satisfaction, Pedro came in record time and shot thick ropes of his cum into the stream of water to swirl down the plughole.
&
nbsp; Having dried himself off and chucked on a pair of joggers and a vest top, he made his way back downstairs barefoot. It was quiet, too quiet in fact. Had she got cold feet after all and left? The spit of the coffee machine was the only sound in the kitchen when he entered, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he found her sat at the breakfast bar, a small piece of cake in front of her. A considerably larger piece sat opposite her. He still couldn’t quite believe that she’d gone through the trouble of baking him a cake. No one had done that since his mother had died, when he was still a snotty-nosed kid.
He never would have pegged the career-focused reporter Peyton King usually presented to the world for the young woman lost in thought sat in his kitchen. The very one who baked and submitted so beautifully, a man could get addicted to her.
She hadn’t noticed him yet, sat sideways as she was and staring out into his garden. She looked incredibly young sat there like that, and Pedro suddenly felt all of his forty years. Her loose ponytail was coming further undone and she took out the hairband and gathered her hair to put it up again.
“Leave it loose, pequeña. I like to see it tumble down your back.”
Peyton startled and her bright blue gaze sought his. Her mouth parted slightly when he crossed the distance between them and she dropped her hands from her hair and twisted them in front of her.
Pedro slid in the chair opposite from her and put one hand over her twitching ones.
“Relax. Why so nervous?”
Peyton pulled her hands away and jumped off her chair.
“I’ll get the coffee.”