A French Whipping

by Nicole Camden

  His lips tightened and he stopped stroking her nipple. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Closing her eyes, she whispered, “No, not tonight.”

  Nick sat up, unable to lie still, and removed the condom deftly.

  “Be right back,” he murmured and went into the kitchen to dispose of the condom and drink an entire glass of water.

  She hadn’t moved when he returned. He bent and picked up the hand that dangled from her hip, kissed her knuckles, before adjusting his grip and tugging on her hand to pull her upward.

  She groaned, but let him pull her up, and the rope that had been loosely gathered around her knees fell to the floor. He held her against him for a moment, just for a moment, before he swatted her butt lightly.

  “Come on, gorgeous, how does a shower sound?”

  “Like too much work,” she said against his shoulder.

  “I’ll do all the work. You just have to stand there.”

  “In that case, a shower sounds awesome.”

  He chuckled. “Well, if I’m the first nonrelationship sex you’ve ever had, I want to give you the full treatment. Shower, back massage, and another deep dicking before sneaking out on you in the morning. I promise to leave a note and cab fare.”

  She lifted her head and gave him a disgruntled look. “I can’t believe you just said ‘deep dicking.’ ”

  He chuckled, and took the opportunity to pull her toward his bedroom. She followed willingly, her smooth limbs gleaming in the low light. “That’s what bothers you?”

  She yawned as they walked down a short hall to another set of tall double doors. “I know what ungodly hour you like to leave in the morning. I’ll take sleeping in, a few cups of your coffee, and cab fare over getting woken up at the crack of dawn. Bet your ass.”

  Smiling a little, he made a mental note to leave breakfast for her. It wasn’t exactly a nonrelationship-sex thing to do, but she was his friend. He doubted she was inclined to make herself a smoothie every morning the way he did, and he didn’t want her to be hungry. He opened the doors and gestured for her to precede him inside. “You’ll like how I wake you up.”

  She laughed. “Damn, Nick. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  He stopped and pulled her into him for a kiss. “Had what in me?”

  Patting his cheek, she kissed him in return. “This lusty side. I figured you’d be super-serious and intense.”

  You have no idea, Nick thought.

  He ushered her through his darkened bedroom and into his bathroom, hoping she didn’t notice his lack of response. He flicked on the bathroom light and she stopped dead in front of him.

  “Oh, man.” She sighed. “I always forget how nice this shower is. It’s not fair that you have this bathroom.”

  She’d only been in his bathroom once that he knew about, but he’d asked for her opinion when the apartment was being built. He stepped inside the glass-enclosed shower and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature on the digital display.

  “Don’t turn it down on my account,” Blake murmured. “I like my showers hot.”

  Yeah, he’d guessed that about her. “I’m turning it up.”

  “Tell me you don’t take cold showers.”

  He looked at her. She was standing with her hands on her hips, her breasts proudly thrust out, long legs gleaming in the bright light of the bathroom. In the mirrors to her left, he could see the smooth cheeks of her ass, and he felt his cock stir. He’d taken cool showers ever since Dr. Jensen had suggested they were good for enhancing calm and control.

  “Not cold,” he said absently, stroking himself.

  Her eyes widened as she followed the motion. “I have to say, Nick, I love your cock.”

  She was smiling at him. Blake, naked in his bathroom, smiling at him and telling him she loved his cock. He had to be dreaming.

  He continued to stroke himself, enjoying the way her nipples tightened as she watched, how she wet her lips.

  Steam began to rise in the shower, surrounding him. “Come on.” He held out his hand. She took it, her slender fingers sliding into his, and he held on to her as he stepped inside. The shower’s design hadn’t been his idea; if it had been up to him, he would have chosen something water-efficient and utilitarian, but the designer and architect he’d hired to renovate the building had insisted that a penthouse required the absolute best of everything. Blake had agreed.

  Seeing Blake enjoy the waterfall-like pour from the massive showerhead above made him glad he’d conceded to their taste.

  He stood back a little and admired the view as she closed her eyes and let the warm water cascade over her face and breasts, streaming from her nipples, in rivulets over her belly, and down between her legs.

  She stepped forward and wiped a hand over her face to clear the water from her eyes.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Immensely.”

  She smiled and lifted her chin to indicate a shelf above his head where the maid had laid out fresh towels.

  “I was promised a personal washing service.”

  Nick reached back without looking and plucked a washcloth from a small stack. His body wash and shampoo were neatly arranged in a nearby nook built into the wall.

  “Is that the soap I told you to buy last Christmas?”

  It was. “I have no idea.”

  She breathed in deeply. “Smells like it. Mmmm. Crisp. Clean. I can’t ever remember the name of it.”

  L’eau Serge Lutens. He’d added it to a spreadsheet he kept with a list of her other favorite things. She’d also liked the Clive Christian cologne that he’d purchased at the same time. Christmas shopping wasn’t his forte, so he recruited Blake for help each year. She always managed to convince him to buy a few things for himself.

  “I’m going to smell like you.”

  She was. Pleasure coursed through him at the thought. Blake would go through her day smelling like him, thinking of him, maybe thinking about how it felt to take his cock.

  He knew what he’d be thinking about all day.

  “Get over here,” she murmured.

  He did, lathering up the washcloth with his soap as he approached her. She was standing so the main force of the shower hit her back.

  “Turn around,” he told her. If he started washing those magnificent breasts first, he’d never finish before he pinned her against the wall and fucked her.

  She did. The skin of her back and butt was red from the heat of the water. He stepped closer, catching her hip with his left hand to hold her steady as he ran the washcloth over her shoulders and down her spine. He paid attention to every nook and cranny, sliding the cloth gently under her arms and down between the cheeks of her ass.

  She moaned and shifted a little. “You’re going to torture me again, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he agreed as he knelt behind her and washed the backs of her knees down to her ankles. While he had her, he would do everything he’d always dreamed about. “Turn around.”

  She did, even while he still knelt at her feet, water spiraling into the drain in the center of the floor beneath him. Her breasts and belly were bright pink, her nipples taut from the force of the water beating down on them. He straightened, meeting her eyes as he cupped the back of her neck in one hand and began to gently wash her scarred neck with the other. She swallowed, water making her already thick lashes look dark and spiky.

  Her collarbones followed and then her left breast. He rubbed the cloth in gentle circles over her nipple.

  “God, that feels good.” She put her hands on his shoulders to brace herself as he lathered up the cloth again and began washing her right breast. The smell of clean linen and something citrusy rose with the steam. Her breasts were slick and slippery with soap, the nipples rosy and abraded, soapy bubbles clinging to t
he tips.

  He eased her back, just a little, enough that water cascaded over her shoulder and down her breasts, rinsing her, before bringing her back toward him. He bent his head and began to suckle her left nipple, enjoying her sweet taste, the rough texture against his tongue. Her hips jerked toward him.

  Releasing her, he moved to the other nipple, lapping at droplets of water falling from the tip before taking it in his mouth as well.

  “Harder,” she gasped, holding his head to her chest. He obeyed, suckling harder, letting the edges of his teeth ever so slightly abrade her taut pink flesh. He didn’t release her nipple until she’d pressed herself fully against him, hips writhing.

  She made a noise in protest, but he hushed her, dragging the cloth over her flat belly and her hips.

  “Open your legs,” he ordered. She obeyed, still clutching his shoulders.

  “Good,” he murmured and ran the cloth over her left thigh first, starting at the top and sliding inside, letting his knuckles brush the hair between her legs as if by accident.

  Going all the way to his knees, ignoring the pain as the tile bit into an old scar, he meticulously washed both her legs and feet, pretending not to hear her begging cries as she asked him to touch her, take her, fuck her.

  When he was finished, he spread the lips of her sweet pussy with his left hand, exposing her clit, and drew the washcloth over the swollen flesh. She came immediately, crying out and jerking so hard that he dropped the washcloth and caught her against him, lifting her and pinning her to the back wall of the shower with his body.

  Spreading her legs and wrapping them around his hips, he guided his cock into her entrance and worked his way inside, forcing himself roughly past her body’s initial resistance, losing himself in the tight heat of her.

  God, she was amazing—her nubile body writhing and tightening around him, breasts pressed hard against his chest as he slid in and out, in and out. More, God. Nothing had ever felt so good in his life. And he wasn’t wearing a condom. With a curse he pulled out and his cock immediately began pulsing, sending jets of come streaming over her belly.

  He bent his head toward hers, breath still heaving, his hands still gripping her hips.

  They stood that way for several minutes, her legs and arms wrapped around him in an exhausted hug.

  When she finally tilted her head back and regarded him, her eyes were laughing.

  “Looks like you’re going to have to wash me again.”

  Blake lay quietly in Nick’s bed, enjoying the soft linen sheets and the slow whirl of the ceiling fan overhead. She didn’t remember ever feeling this safe, this protected, or this relaxed. She couldn’t sleep, though. Turning her head to the side, she admired the way Nick looked in the soft glow of light coming from the windows, his muscular arm curled beneath his pillow as he slept on his stomach.

  His hair was tangled in unruly waves, his mouth slack as he slept the sleep of the truly exhausted. After their shower, he’d dried her gently with a towel so soft she’d wanted to wear it like a blanket and tucked her into his bed. He’d disappeared for a few minutes after that—Blake thought he’d mentioned turning off the fire.

  Blake smiled faintly. She’d never had a man so dedicated to pleasuring her. She hadn’t even sucked his cock yet. She wanted to—she very much wanted to—but she thought he might appreciate some sleep at the moment, and she was a little too sore for another go-round.

  Nick Cord was her lover. A fantastic one. She’d never have guessed it when she first met him. He’d been quiet and intense, watching her and everyone else with a calculating gaze that seemed to read every flaw, measure every glance or gesture for a threat. There was no reveling in hedonistic pleasures for Nick. He ate food that fueled his body. He drove a practical car. He worked. He studied. He liked his life simple. He would have made a good monk, she thought wryly.

  And here she was, complicating his life. Under normal circumstances, she’d have been happy to ruffle his feathers a bit, but with Keenan involved . . . I should have convinced him that I’d made a mistake.

  She wasn’t sure she could have. Once Nick grew suspicious, it was difficult to sway him from investigating. And now what was she going to tell him when she asked Roland for help staying hidden from Keenan? It would be simple, so simple, to just tell Nick about Keenan and let him protect her. She thought he would insist that she stay with him, especially now that they’d slept together. He was protective as it was. Now he’d probably argue every time she wanted to leave the house.

  She didn’t want to go into hiding. Her life had taken more than a year to get in order; she didn’t want to change it just because Keenan was in town, and Nick didn’t deserve to have her mess front and center in his life. He’d always sworn that he would never live with a woman.

  Looking at him again, she sighed.

  Easing the blankets covering her to the side, she crept barefoot into the living room and located her clothes, noting that she’d left the wine bottle open and sitting on the table. Dressing quickly in everything but her boots, she carried the wine into the kitchen and located one of the stoppers that vacuumed the air from a wine bottle. Sealing it tightly, she tucked it under her arm and went back into the living room. No sense in letting it go to waste.

  She sat down on the couch, not sure exactly what she intended to do. Leave? Just leave Nick in the middle of the night and go home? Like he was some one-night stand she regretted? Far from it. She didn’t want to leave. She was afraid to go home. Damn it. She didn’t want to tell him about Keenan and have him ask her to stay out of some misguided sense of chivalry, either.

  Irritated, she opened the bottle of wine again and took a long drink from the bottle before restoppering it. On the other hand, the sex was fantastic, and the wine wasn’t half bad, either.

  A light snapped on near the hallway and Nick stood there, his face closed, watching her.

  Blake winced. That was his cold face, the face he wore when he didn’t want to feel anything. She’d worn that face in her life. She hated that she was the cause of it now. She didn’t see that she had much choice, though. No matter what she did, Nick was going to find out that Keenan was in town, and the issue was about more than just her fear of getting hurt again. Nick needed to know about Keenan, and if he decided that she should stay, she would stay.

  Patting the seat next to her, she set the bottle aside. “Nick, I have to tell you something.”

  8

  NICK STARED AT his reflection in the blank screen of his display. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he hadn’t turned on his computer the minute he walked into the office.

  Keenan Shy.

  His hands knotted into fists. Blake had explained what Roland had told her, which was more than Roland had bothered to do when he’d called last night. She’d also explained that she’d asked his best friend not to say anything, but that was no excuse. Roland should have told him, a fact that Nick intended to point out to his friend as soon as the jackass came into the office.

  He’d left Blake at his house around six a.m. with orders to stay there, and he’d texted Roland to meet him at Accendo. He didn’t know if Blake would listen. Roland would answer or just show up, depending on his mood.

  Pulling out his phone, Nick opened the app that showed the security logs and camera feeds from his apartment. He didn’t see Blake on any of the cameras, but no one had left since he’d shut the front door this morning. He was under no illusions, however, that she’d listen to him for long. She’d mentioned having a self-defense lesson with her friend from the support group.

  With a growl he stood, picking up a bag with his gym gear from the floor. He couldn’t just sit and wait anymore.

  Ten minutes later, he sat on a weight bench near the big punching bag and taped his hands. He wanted to find Keenan. If he was back in Boston, then someone would recognize the asshole. Nick knew that Rolan
d had been searching for him for the past ten years, but Keenan had always managed to stay a step ahead, changing his name and moving from one nonextradition country to another.

  But now he was back and apparently targeting Accendo, or at least one of their newest security software developments.

  Nick stood and drew on his gloves. He couldn’t tighten them properly without help, but he used his teeth to do the best he could. His reflection in the windows looked like a feral thing, a lethal machine of corded muscles and bone, tensed and ready to fight.

  With a snarl, he pictured Keenan’s face as he delivered an uppercut to the battered red bag.

  Blake was afraid of Keenan. She’d sat on his couch and told him she didn’t want to go back to her apartment. Had some part of her—any part of her—slept with him so that he’d help her? She’d tried to tell him she’d changed her mind. He’d pushed her because he wanted to sleep with her.

  He punched again, harder this time, picturing his fist passing through Keenan’s face. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about her taste, about what it had been like to kiss her, to touch her.

  For like two seconds—even though he’d convinced himself he wouldn’t—he’d started to believe that she was his, really his, and that she wanted him. He punched again—body shot. Jab. Jab. Cross. This was why he’d wanted to keep his distance. To avoid this . . . this feeling clawing at his insides. He wanted to shred the bag in front of him with his bare hands. He delivered a series of quick, lethal punches—smack, smack, smack. The bag swayed and the chain securing it to the ceiling jingled.

  She’d been dressed, sitting in his living room, thinking of leaving him in the middle of the night. Like every woman his father had ever loved.

  With a loud yell, he kicked the bag with the top of his foot, sending it spinning away.

  “I take it you’re upset,” Roland said mildly from the door. He was impeccably dressed in one of his Italian suits, his dark hair still damp from his shower. He held a mug and Nick could smell coffee.