A French Whipping

by Nicole Camden

  “Damn, what’s that look for?” she asked. She’d turned back to him and put her hands on her hips, accentuating the curve of her waist and the abundant breasts that trembled above her bra.

  He shook his head. “I hate that he did this to you. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to come after you if all he wants is the software.”

  “I’m sure taunting me is just a bonus,” she said darkly. “If you think about it, he probably believes that he can use me to get the software, since his first attempt failed. He’s used me before. Besides, there’s always revenge for getting away from him.” Blake shivered. Keenan had waited an entire year to get revenge on a man he’d thought had disrespected him in the bar. He could be patient. Deadly. And without conscience.

  Nick thought about it. It was possible. Back when he, Milton, and Roland had created their first software game, Blake had stolen it, but she’d regretted it, and she’d called the three of them, telling them what she’d done. They’d arrived at Keenan’s apartment in time to see him wrap a rope around her neck and start strangling her.

  They’d distracted Keenan enough that she’d been able to hit him in the balls, but the asshole had escaped, fleeing the scene. They’d called the police and rushed Blake to the hospital because she was having trouble breathing, but they hadn’t been able to catch him. Later, they found that he’d sold the software as his own.

  “I wonder if someone hired him to steal it, or if he wants it for some reason of his own.”

  “Either way, he’s not getting it from me,” she said firmly. “I am not that stupid girl.”

  Nick wasn’t convinced that Keenan intended Blake to steal anything—not that she could, there were security measures in place to keep even someone they trusted, like Blake, from accessing the software. No, Nick thought that Keenan had a different plan in mind, one that involved him.

  He knows I’d do anything for her.

  “Enough,” she demanded, marching toward him in all her wrapped and buckled glory. “I don’t want to talk about Keenan, or think about Keenan—” She sat down in his lap and turned to look at him over her shoulder. “I want you. I thought about you all afternoon, about how you looked in that chair, how you touched me last night. How could I have spent so many years as your friend and not known I could feel like this?”

  He didn’t know. He’d always felt it and it had always terrified him, how much he wanted her. He stroked the skin of her shoulder with one hand, then ran his hands over the satiny straps that bound her hips. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Touch you however you want.”

  She met his gaze and licked her lips. “I want you to shove everything off this table and put me facedown on top of it, and then spread my legs and fuck me.”

  Nick felt his nostrils flare as his dick hardened to a full erection. He reached around her for the buckle on the front of her panties, but she stopped him with a hand over his.

  “You don’t need to do that,” she whispered. “It’s designed to be left on.”

  So it was one of those. Nick half stood, holding her against him with one hand on her hip, and cleared the table with a swipe of his other hand, sending dishes crashing to the floor. He laid her on the table and spread her legs, not surprised to see that the bandagelike design had an opening in the most convenient place. He dipped his fingers inside and found her wet and wanting.

  “Such a bad girl,” he told her, pulling his fingers from her slick flesh and stroking them over the taut globe of her ass. “Have you been touching yourself while I’ve been gone?”

  He didn’t like the idea. He wanted to be the one to give her pleasure.

  “No,” she gasped.

  He smacked her ass, just a light smack, enough to sting a little. He didn’t want to actually hurt or scare her. “But you thought about it?”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I did. I thought about it.”

  “I should punish you.” He leaned down to whisper, “Is this okay? Tell me if you want me to stop.”

  She opened one eye and glared. “If you stop, I’ll strangle you.”

  Good enough for him. He smacked her again, harder this time, watching as an imprint of his hand rose red against her white flesh. She lifted her hips, inviting more of the delicious punishment, so he smacked her again, this time between her legs with his fingers pointed downward, so she felt the impact on her swollen lips and the taut, tiny rose of her ass.

  She whimpered, and he used two hands to rip the satin fabric she was wearing farther apart, giving him a better view of the ripe, juicy pussy that wept for him. He dipped his fingers inside again, eager to feel her excitement, and slid his fingers up to another entrance, one he’d yet to touch or taste.

  He stroked her, wetting her with the slick moisture from her own body, and then he slowly penetrated her with his finger. She moaned and ground herself against the table. So she liked that. He’d have to push her a little further each time, until she let him go inside, let him work his dick in her that way.

  “You want this cock, don’t you?” he asked her, stroking himself with his other hand, rubbing the head of it between her legs and over her clit while he worked his finger inside her ass.

  “Filthy man. Of course I want it.”

  He laughed and removed his finger, bracing himself with the table on either side of her. “Then you got it.” He pushed inside her slick opening, slowing for a moment at her body’s initial resistance before continuing until he was seated all the way inside, the thick veins at the base of his cock pulsing as the rim of her sex tightened around him. It just felt so . . . fucking . . . good.

  He pounded her, sending his flesh deep, feeling like every thought he’d ever had about her sparked like magnesium lit by flame, and he was burning out of control. His balls tightened, drawing close to his body, and he gritted his teeth, trying to hold on until she came. When she did, she came with her whole body, shuddering and crying out, her flesh squeezing around him. He let himself go, releasing his fear and anger as he released his seed, slaking his thirst for her even as he knew, with deep and terrible certainty, that it would return stronger than before.

  19

  SHE COULDN’T BREATHE. Blake clawed at her neck, gasping, but he was too strong, she couldn’t pull the rope away from her skin.

  Nick, she screamed inside her head. Nick. Help.

  He wasn’t there.

  Blackness began to grow at the edge of her vision, shrinking like a slowly collapsing tunnel, and she kicked out, trying to get away.

  Nick.

  Untie the knot, she heard him say from somewhere far away. You can do it.

  She ran her hands over the rope at her throat, but there was no rope. It was a chain that cut into her neck, spilling blood over her fingers. Untie the knot.

  Nick!

  “Blake!” a voice shouted, and hands shook her shoulders. “Blake, you’re dreaming, honey. Wake up.”

  For a moment she continued to fight, gasping and choking on nothing but air, but then Blake realized that she could breathe, that it was Nick holding her. “Nick,” she cried and grabbed for him, dragging him to her. “Nick, I was so scared.”

  He held her in return, gathering her close to him in his bed and tucking her against his side. “Shh. It’s okay. It was just a dream, baby.”

  She sobbed against him, letting the old nightmare wash over and through her while he held her, his strong arms gripping her tightly.

  Just a dream. Just a dream. But it hadn’t been, or not entirely.

  A few minutes later, she was able to calm down enough to say, “I thought I was over it.” She reached up to touch the scars at her neck. “I haven’t had that dream in a long time.”

  His chest was hot and warm against her cheek, slightly damp from her tears, but he didn’t seem to mind. No one had ever held her afterward. Carlos would curse and go to another room to sleep most of the
time; Phillip would shake her until she woke up and then he’d find some excuse to punish her the next morning. He’d kiss her afterward and explain to her that the reason he lost his temper was because he hadn’t gotten any sleep.

  Nick just held her, his hands sliding over her as if to guard her, even from herself.

  “I dream about that night sometimes once a week,” he said.

  Blake lifted her head to look at him. “You do?”

  He brushed away her tears with his fingers. “Yeah. It’s the same every time. Roland, Milton, and I are running to the apartment, only you’re not there; you’re somewhere else. We figure it out, but we get lost, again and again, and by the time we find you . . .” He trailed off, looking away from her. “I hate that fucking dream.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, kissing his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  When he said it, it didn’t sound like the rote line spoken by psychologists at the shelter. It sounded like a promise.

  She kissed him again, a soft kiss with lips that trembled against his skin. “I love you,” she whispered, and the words fell and shattered against his suddenly stiff body.

  “As a friend,” he said carefully, easing slightly away from her.

  Blake held on to him. “Shh. Nick, it’s okay. Kiss me.”

  “Blake—”

  She put a finger on his lips. “I need you to kiss me, okay, and hold me, and make me forget. Can you do that for me?”

  He stayed still for a moment, but then his lips found hers, and he kissed her gently, taking care with her, as if she were infinitely precious.

  His open mouth trailed over her face, across her cheeks and her eyes, kissing away the tears even as they continued to flow in the face of such sweetness. His hands caressed her breasts, sliding over the soft skin slowly, as if he were memorizing the texture of her so that he could find her even in the dark. Blake tried to touch him in return, but her limbs felt heavy and weak. She didn’t resist as he pressed them gently to the bed, soothing her.

  He shifted so that he was above her and she was on her back, her head propped on a pillow. Blake sighed as he bent to suckle her breasts, drawing on her slowly, but with a steady, compelling rhythm. Fitting his hands to her sides, he stroked her skin, following the line of her stomach to the curve of her hips and then down her thighs.

  Blake felt dizzy and uncertain, as if she were on a boat that was drifting gently with the current, bearing her along at the whim of the wind and the tides.

  “Nick,” she gasped, alarmed, but he soothed her with soft murmurs, switching to her other breast, and between her legs she felt his fingers gently parting her legs, and then his tongue was there.

  It glided over her, as slippery as a fish in water, testing the salty slickness of her aroused and trembling body, swirling as gently as an eddy, caressing every part of her until she dissolved, trembling, her body awash in love.

  Overhead, the early morning sky glowed pearly gray, and the streets were quiet, not surprising this early on a Sunday morning. Nick ran in silence, letting the steady rhythm of his feet on the pavement be his music. For a few minutes at a time, he would manage to keep his thoughts on that sound, on the warmth in his muscles, but then thoughts of her would eventually intrude, gliding into his mind without him being aware of it.

  Of course she wasn’t actually in love with him. He knew better than to believe that. She was scared and they had great sex. It was natural that she’d be a little confused. He couldn’t trust that she actually meant it. What would that mean?

  If Blake really loved him, he would . . . tell her he loved her in return? Every muscle in his body tensed up at the idea. He’d make her life a nightmare and she would leave. Better just to go on as they had been, and when all this was over . . .

  She would be his friend again.

  Just his friend.

  And eventually she would find the kind of man she deserved, and Nick would go back to his quiet, solitary life.

  Fuck.

  He ran until his calves ached and his lungs burned. Right now it didn’t matter. She was in his house, making love to him, and she needed him. He’d just explain to her that she wasn’t really in love with him. That it was just a combination of factors influencing her, and when it was all over, they would figure out how to be just friends again after having mind-blowing sex all over his apartment.

  He would have to move. And if that didn’t work, he could always just sail around the world a few times until he forgot what it felt like to hear her say, “I love you.”

  By the time the sun had risen all the way in the sky, Nick had run fifteen miles and convinced himself that he had a solid plan. He’d take her to breakfast and they’d talk. Until then he intended to check the security and see if Roland had heard anything more about Keenan.

  Bells tolled at a nearby church, signaling that it was nearly eight o’clock, and Nick slowed to a walk, drinking from one of the water bottles strapped around his hips. Blake probably wouldn’t wake up for another hour, and he didn’t think he could go home and not want to slide inside her immediately. She loved him?

  He would have to find something else to do for an hour or so, not an easy job, since he was in a fairly commercial section of town that held mostly warehouse buildings, but there was a decent café nearby where he could work on some designs for the software game for the kids and have some coffee. He headed that way, only to be distracted by a noise, coming from between two nearby buildings. It sounded like mewling.

  Stepping around a couple parked cars, he looked down a narrow alley and saw several rusted-out dumpsters. Next to one of them, in a greasy brown box, he found a kitten, no bigger than the palm of his hand. It was white, with a brown patch over one eye and a black patch over the other. The thing looked up at him and cried again, but didn’t seem afraid.

  Nick didn’t remember deciding to do it. One minute he was looking at the undoubtedly flea-infested little beast with indifference, and the next he was picking it up, feeling it tense as it hissed in furious protest. He did remember thinking that Blake would probably like a kitten.

  He carried it back to his apartment, occasionally looking down at it in disbelief—he’d never had a pet in his life—and knew that he had lost his damn mind.

  Blake stretched in the warm sunlight coming through the windows in Nick’s bedroom and smiled contentedly. The nightmare of the night before had dissipated in the wake of Nick’s lovemaking, and all she wanted to do was repeat the experience, preferably several times before the day was over.

  He’d left for a jog early. She remembered him kissing her as he left, outfitted in tiny shorts and a T-shirt that showed off his body, but she’d fallen back asleep pretty quickly. Sitting up, she turned the clock on the nightstand so she could read it. Nearly nine. How long had he been gone?

  As if in answer, she heard the elevator ding and then the front door opening. He was back.

  Tossing aside the covers, Blake climbed out of bed and stole one of Nick’s T-shirts from his dresser drawer. The floors were cold beneath her feet, so she stole some white tube socks as well, and made her way bare-legged into the living room, hoping she could convince him to make her some coffee and take her back to bed.

  She found him in the kitchen, his back to her as he looked at something on his notebook. A strange crying sound seemed to be emanating from somewhere in front of him. Is he watching cat videos? She wouldn’t have pegged him as the type.

  “Good morning,” she said, her voice curious, and he started, turning to look at her. He was wearing his reading glasses and holding a mostly white kitten in his hands, panic on his face.

  “I found it while I was out jogging.”

  Blake stared, her hand going to her chest. Never in her life. Nick Cord had picked up a kitten off the street and brought it home to his beautiful house.
Her lips twitched. The kitten protested even louder, claws extended from tiny paws.

  “I thought you’d like it.” He held it out to her.

  Blake held up her hands in protest. “Oh, no you don’t. I can’t afford a cat.”

  “I’ll pay for it,” he volunteered desperately.

  Blake shook her head. “We can find it a home. There’s plenty of shelters that you can donate money to and they’d be happy to take it off your hands.”

  “Are they open today?”

  “Don’t know.” She shrugged. She liked animals, but she hadn’t even been able to protect herself, much less a helpless thing like this. She hadn’t dared to care about anything this tiny. It was cute. Furious, but cute.

  “I think it’s hungry,” she suggested. “And it needs a bath.” The thing smelled like rotting pizza.

  “I was just trying to figure out what to feed it.”

  Blake doubted the tiny thing ate regular cat food . . . not that Nick had any. “How about some milk?”

  Looking relieved, Nick nodded. “Worth a shot.” He held the cat out again.

  Pointedly ignoring the hint, Blake located a shallow saucer and filled it with milk. She warmed it up in the microwave for a few seconds and then set it on the floor. Nick quickly followed with the kitten, setting it down next to the saucer, and then removed his reading glasses, setting them on the counter next to his laptop.

  The cat immediately stepped on the edge of the saucer, spilling milk on the floor, and began lapping it up enthusiastically. Nick and Blake stood next to each other and stared down at it.

  The little beast ate like it intended to drown itself in milk rather than give up a single drop. Blake could sympathize . . . that’s how she felt about being with Nick. She glanced at him. He was sweaty; his shirt clung wetly to his sculpted chest, and his hair was damp. He was frowning at the kitten as if its presence were offensive.