by Donya Lynne
She hadn’t been Gideon’s true mate, but she’d fallen in love with him as if she were. Then she’d pretended they’d mated one another anyway. And he’d played along, wishing his body would spark to hers as much as she did.
But . . . oh, snap! That spark had fired for someone else. And when it did, neither her love nor her breaking heart mattered. Gideon was gone. And she’d transformed into an unfeeling, broken, emotional mess, never to feel physical touch again.
Until now.
Trace had crashed into her world and awakened not just her ability to feel, but everything she’d tried for so long to forget.
As she’d done a hundred times in the last two-and-a-half weeks, she mulled over what Trace’s influence on her sense of touch could mean as she shoved open the door and marched back out into the pouring rain, leaving the guards and cleanup crew behind to deal with the mess Micah had made.
She couldn’t allow Trace in. If she did, and he didn’t mate her . . .
Oh, God, she couldn’t even bear to think about the repercussions.
She’d fallen for Gideon, and when he didn’t bond to her, she lost one of her senses. If she fell for Trace and he didn’t bond to her, either, she could lose her life. Because there was only so much hurt and pain one heart could take before it stopped giving a fuck and shut down.
Which was why, no matter how magnetic and exciting Trace was, she couldn’t let her guard down and allow him in.
Besides, Trace had Sam and Micah. He didn’t need her.
The thought was enough to put a fire under her ass. Maybe Trace didn’t need her, and maybe she refused to give in to the way her heart beat a little harder at the idea of feeling all that coiled power inside her as he pinned her to the mattress—or the wall, the floor, the kitchen table, or wherever—and fucked her senseless, but the fact that Micah had taken him without her consent demanded retribution, right decision or not.
At least the excuse sounded good in her head. And she welcomed any excuse to expend some of the frustration coursing through her veins.
Yanking the door of her Range Rover open, she hoisted herself into the driver’s seat, which was covered with a pink and blue blanket she’d pulled from a plastic crate in the back to keep it dry, and cranked the engine.
Next stop, Micah’s house.
* * *
Micah gazed down at Trace’s back and bare ass. He was lying on the massage table, which was covered with a dark-blue sheet. The dark color would hide the wax stains better, which was more aesthetically pleasing in his dungeon. Another sheet covered the floor. To his right, his specially modified potpourri Crock-Pot was filled with melted wax, and several variously colored wide-based Japanese candles burned, their wells filling with hot wax.
“Have you ever engaged in wax play?” he said quietly, taking a velvet blindfold from the table.
“No, Master.” Trace’s voice was muffled as he spoke against the thin pillow.
Surprising. All those years as a sub, and Trace had never been waxed.
“Lift your head.” He secured the blindfold over Trace’s eyes. The velvet-lined mask performed a dual purpose. Not only would it protect Trace’s eyes, but it would also heighten his anticipation and sensory response.
Micah retrieved a length of rope from a hook and looped it through a ring on the wall directly in front of the table.
“Lift your arms over your head.” Micah knotted the rope around his wrists, pulled out the slack, and anchored the end to the wall so Trace’s arms hung parallel to the floor.
“Is that comfortable?” Micah gently caressed the back of Trace’s shoulders.
“Yes, Master.”
“I’m going to begin soon.” Micah set his waxing brush in the pot so the residual wax could melt off the bristles. “I’m going to give you a safeword. One that I know you’ll never use unless I’ve truly gone too far. If you need me to stop, you will say your safeword, and I will stop immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Your safeword is . . . Cordray.”
Trace tensed.
“Say it so I know you understand.”
“Cordray.” Trace’s voice practically growled the two syllables.
Micah ran the fingers of his left hand along the muscular ridge down the center of Trace’s back.
“I chose this safeword because I know how you feel about her, and I know you would never purposely say her name unless I’ve indeed gone too far. Is my choice of safeword acceptable to you?” He kept his voice quiet, yet stern.
“Yes, Master. Your choice is acceptable.”
Micah heard the contemptuous undertones in Trace’s voice, indicating he would never willingly say Cordray’s name unless he was forced to. Good. Keep that bitch out of their lives.
He lifted the brush from the wax and held it over his own wrist to let a drop fall to his skin. It burned, but it wasn’t too hot. He wouldn’t hit Trace with heat too high this first time. If Trace tolerated it well, he would make the wax hotter next time.
“I’m going to apply the first coat of wax now.” He guided Trace into the scene. After all, anticipation was as much a part of wax play as the application itself.
As the brush touched Trace’s shoulder, he hissed, tensed, and then relaxed as Micah painted a strip of red from shoulder to spine. He waited about twenty seconds to let the full force of the heat transfer seep into Trace’s skin as the wax hardened, and then he applied another strip of red from his spine to the opposite shoulder. Trace’s muscles clenched again, and he moaned softly in his throat. Not so much from pain, and not quite from pleasure. The sound was somewhere in between.
Taking his time and milking the heat application as much as he could, Micah repeated the pattern until he reached the middle of Trace’s back. Luckily, Trace had very little body hair other than on his head and face. Otherwise, this could have gotten tricky.
Once he reached the lower half of Trace’s back, the reactions became more intense, which wasn’t uncommon. Most people were more sensitive in their lower back than their upper. And even more sensitive on the front of their bodies, which was why Micah had wanted to start on Trace’s back. Being his first time, this was safer.
Trace might have been an experienced sub, but that didn’t mean his reaction to wax play would be in line with how he reacted to flogging, physical torture, or humiliation, which seemed to be what most of his previous Doms had put him through.
With Micah, Trace would experience so much more. Wax play, mindfucks, knife play, fire play, whipping—not to be confused with flogging—and all manner of edge play. Trace had only just touched the surface of Micah’s capabilities.
Trace shuddered and groaned as Micah stroked another swath of red wax across the small of his back.
“You’re doing well,” Micah said. “So good. You should see your back. It’s beautiful. Are you still doing okay?”
Trace nodded slowly against the circular pillow.
“Answer me with your voice, Trace. That way I’ll know you’re lucid.”
“Y-yes, Master.” Trace’s deep voice sounded dreamy, as if he were floating in his happy place. Subspace.
Micah knew the feeling. He was in his happy place, too. He loved seeing his artwork on a sub’s back. Micah picked up a black candle.
“I’m going to apply more wax,” he said. “This will be hotter.”
He tipped the candle and black wax streamed down like black blood over the layer of red. Some splattered onto bare skin while a trail dripped down his side.
Trace no longer reacted except for an almost imperceptible flinch. He was completely absorbed in the heat transferal from the wax to his body, and the pain of the burn seemed to no longer bother him.
After waiting fifteen seconds, Micah dribbled wax from another black candle so that black dots, streaks, and blotches like Rorschach inkblots formed against the red background.
He lost track of time as he continued, checking in with Trace every few minutes. Trac
e was flying but aware, and that was good. If Trace went so deep that he could no longer respond, playtime would be over.
Once Trace’s back was covered in a thick layer of red and black wax that looked like a miniature Jackson Pollock painting, Micah began to close the scene. Trace had lasted longer than he had expected.
He picked up one of his Japanese candles, tipped it over Trace’s ass, and let a trail of heat rain down over fresh skin.
Trace shuddered and groaned long, low, and deep as his hips flexed and his glutes tightened.
He grabbed another candle and held it over Trace’s other cheek. As a thin stream of black wax trickled over Trace’s ass, Micah eased his free hand between Trace’s legs. Trace’s entire body seemed to pull in on itself as his thighs parted, allowing Micah’s fingers to find the heavy sac pulled up tight at his groin. Micah pushed his hand up farther, cupped him, and squeezed as more wax splattered Trace’s skin.
Trace grunted as his entire body quivered violently. The muscles not obscured by a layer of wax shuddered and quaked. A moment later, the subtle wave rippled down his legs, all the way to his feet, which twitched then sent the shockwave back up his calves and hamstrings. A split second later, the chains securing Trace’s wrists rattled as his arms shivered.
Mmm, so responsive. If only Micah could see inside Trace’s mind and share the journey with him—feel what Trace was feeling—the moment would have been so much better. More powerful. More exquisite.
“Lift your hips.” He spoke quietly, and his tongue peeked out to wet the seam of his mouth.
Trace did as he was told, raising his hips off the table just enough for Micah to push his hand farther underneath and wrap his fist around the base of Trace’s steely cock.
Fuck but his friend was hard. He’d seen Trace aroused before. He’d seen him hard and straining. He’d seen him come during their twisted love-triangle trysts. But never had he been the one to provide the friction to get Trace off. Sam had assisted doing those honors only once, but Micah had never felt for himself how turgid and thick Trace was. And Trace was very thick, his erection’s circumference big enough to hurt someone if he wasn’t careful.
He set down the candle and reached up to grip the back of Trace’s neck as he began working his other hand up and down the length of Trace’s hard-on.
The reaction was instantaneous. Trace’s dick swelled even more, and a powerful, intense shudder jolted his entire body. Then his hips jerked forcefully as a harsh, guttural groan vibrated from deep inside his chest. His cock kicked in Micah’s hand as the muscles in his ass and thighs convulsed.
“Fuuuuuck.” The syllable breathed from Trace’s mouth more like a robust exhale than an expletive as his body continued to forcefully contract and release, his cock grinding against both Micah’s hand and the blanket covering the massage table. He was coming hard as potent convulsions pulsed through his body in time with every vigorous kick of his dick.
For at least thirty seconds, Micah massaged the base of Trace’s cock through his orgasm, which seemed reluctant to end and was one of the most erotic episodes of sexual release Micah had ever witnessed from one of his subs.
Then Trace’s body went limp. He didn’t even seem to care that he was lying on his own spunk.
Micah gently drew his hand from between Trace’s legs, caressed his smooth, wax-speckled ass, and took a few long moments to compose himself as Trace’s body rose and fell as he breathed through the aftereffects of his orgasm. The only thing that would have made the experience better was if Micah could have connected with Trace’s thoughts the way he did with Sam’s when she came. There was nothing like riding out her orgasms with her. He had a feeling sharing Trace’s would be just as good, if not better. Well, maybe not better, but certainly different.
In time. One day, Trace would open to him, and he would have what he wanted. Micah refused to accept this was as close as he would ever get to his friend. His submissive. His last submissive. He already knew he would never take another if Trace ever ceased to be his. From now on, they were linked at least in that respect. But Micah wanted more. He wanted all of Trace. Not just body and soul, but mind, too.
Micah took a deep breath and gathered himself then placed his hand on the back of Trace’s head. Trace purred low and deep within his chest with every exhale.
“Time to clean you up, buddy,” Micah said quietly. Without taking his hand off Trace’s head, he turned and blew out the candles then shut off his small Crock-Pot before unplugging it. “You were amazing, Trace. You did such a good job.” He removed the blindfold and stroked his friend’s head, beginning his aftercare, which was his favorite part of a scene. The tending and caring that came after a session completed the circle and always sparked the deepest emotional response inside him. The love he felt before and during a scene magnified in the crucial steps afterward, when he released his sub, wiped him down, bathed him, held him, and ensured his mental well-being and safety. Any worthy Dom always provided this crucial coming-down phase to ensure his submissive didn’t free fall into darkness and feelings of incompleteness and confusion.
Moving quietly, he stepped in front of the table, untied Trace’s wrists, then gently laid his arms alongside his body.
“You were perfect.” He caressed Trace’s shoulder and arm as he moved back to his bench. “I couldn’t be more pleased with your performance.”
He picked up the knife Sam had set out for him. It was one of his favorites. Not his Bowie, but one made of black steel, with a charcoal-colored handle.
Turning back toward Trace, he said, “I’m going to remove the wax now. Just lie still and relax.”
Carefully, so as not to cut skin or break the wax canvas, Micah slowly peeled back the thick, hardened sheet. As Micah gently pulled it away, Trace’s mochaccino skin stuck to it, so Micah had to work slowly. He didn’t want to cause Trace any discomfort. Not when he was so relaxed and gliding over invisible clouds.
Once the last corner pulled free, Micah set the entire rectangular sheet on the floor in one glorious piece.
“How you doin’, big guy?” Micah gently brushed his palm over the red skin on Trace’s back as he set the knife down then grabbed the dry shower loofah from the table. “You hanging in there?”
“Yes, Master.” Trace’s voice was barely a whisper.
Micah grinned wickedly to himself. Who said you had to get flogged bloody to have a deep submissive experience. See what a good waxing at the hands of a patient master could do?
Trace groaned and purred again as Micah lightly brushed the loofah up and down his back and bottom, using circular motions to clear away any remaining wax.
Once he was satisfied Trace was clean and clear, he took a damp cloth, walked around to the other side of the table, rolled Trace toward him so Trace’s back was propped against his torso, and carefully wiped away his semen.
Trace’s cock was still hard, and as Micah wiped the damp cloth down the shaft, Trace came again. Out of nowhere, Trace’s body convulsed and a creamy stream shot out onto the dark-blue sheet, followed by several smaller spurts. Trace groaned through each one until his body calmed once more and he took a heavy, cleansing breath.
“Look at you, champ.” Micah glanced up to find Trace’s pale-green eyes watching him. “Twice and I barely even had to try.”
Trace blinked heavily, and the corners of his mouth curled weakly. “You da man.”
Only Trace could crack a joke at a time like this.
Micah chuckled softly then shook his head. “No, buddy. You are.” He stroked his palm over Trace’s hip. “Now, come on. Let’s finish cleaning you up and get you to bed.” Trace had to be tired after not only the scene, but everything else he’d endured over the past two weeks.
Micah tucked his left arm around Trace’s shoulders and his right arm under his knees. Then he lifted Trace off the table. He could clean up the wax-covered sheets tomorrow. Right now, he just wanted to take care of his friend.
* * *
Cordray glared through the rain-splattered windshield at Micah’s house. Lightning streaked the sky as she shot the Range Rover into his driveway. Before the engine completely shut off, she was storming up the walkway toward the front door as thunder rolled.
She pounded and rang the bell as the clouds continued to empty their contents on her. When no one opened the door within two seconds, she pounded her fist on it again then hit the bell three more times.
“Micah, you son of a bitch!” she stepped back and yelled. “Open this goddamn door!”
Racing over here, she’d had time to discard the voice of reason that had told her taking Trace without her there had been the right thing to do. Now, the fact that Micah had broken protocol just pissed her off. Check that. It infuriated her.
She lifted her fist and was about to go Thor’s hammer on the heavy wooden door again when she heard a system of locks disengage inside, and then the door swung open.
“Who the hell . . .?” A striking blonde with boy-short hair and green eyes gathered a peach, floral print robe around her neck as a gust of wind blew across the lawn.
Cordray was briefly taken aback. Samantha was lovelier and taller in person than she had been in Micah’s thoughts during those times when Cordray poked around inside his head.
“You must be Sam,” she said.
“Good guess. Who the hell are you?” Sam glared at her.
Oh, Cordray liked this one. She was feisty. “I’m Cordray. I’m sure you’ve heard my name once or twice.”
From the way Sam’s eyes narrowed and one brow lifted defensively, it was obvious Micah and Trace had no doubt blasphemed her name to hell and back, and she didn’t need to go mind-probe to prove it.
“Do you mind?” Cordray lifted her hands to her sides, catching the rain as she tilted her face skyward and squinted. “Getting wet here.”
