Two Strikes

by Holley Trent

  Something tickled the inside of Giselle’s legs, and she stifled a moan as he worked it up to her sex.

  The end of his crop, probably. He fluttered it ever so gently across her thrumming clit and pressed his free hand against the small of her back.

  She startled, but only a bit. It’d been so long since she’d played with Max that she’d forgotten his habits. He knew her limits and always skirted right up to the edges before backing off, but he always did his best not to frighten her.

  Fear wasn’t one of her kinks.

  “Do you see how relaxed she is? How docile?” he asked the woman.

  She must have nodded, because he pressed his hands against Giselle’s waist and turned her, gently, one hundred and eighty degrees so her ass faced the sub.

  Hope you’re enjoying the view, girlie.

  What was Max up to this time?

  “Queen G knows I’ll take immaculate care of her. She’ll want for nothing, but if she begs…”

  He gave her ass a light pat with the crop, and her pussy clenched. She’d never thought she’d like a little sting to go with her pleasure until she’d said yes to Max that second time they’d run into each other at The Den. He could turn her ass and thighs into a patchwork of welts, and then quickly make her forget the pain with the aid of his tongue and cock.

  “She mustn’t beg. Begging means I’m not anticipating her needs. Isn’t that right, Queen G?”

  She drew in some air and fought the urge to cross her legs at the ankles. Goddamnit, she was wet already, lubricating her own thighs, and when Max inhaled, she suspected he knew his effects on her.

  “Yes, Maximus,” she said, fighting to remain perfectly still, perfectly relaxed, but fuck if it wasn’t hard.

  “Two strikes for hesitating. Would you like my crop or my hand to heat your ass?”

  Great. He was going to do that reverse psychology shit on her and do the exact opposite of what she expected. What she wanted was irrelevant, because she could never predict how her response would spur him. His mind was like a hedge maze, and if you tried to enter it and map it out, you’d find yourself even dizzier and disoriented than when you started. Going with the flow was easiest with all things concerning “Maximus”—the man ladies often referred to in whispers as the dark dom. Giselle didn’t think it was his sexual proclivities so much as all that nearly-black hair falling over his shoulders. An unusual look for a man who was more or less a high-paid cop.

  “Shall I make it three?” he asked, and his voice near her ear was practically a purr.

  If she had the ability of sight at the moment, she’d probably look down to see a bulge forming in his leather pants. She’d get so hot, so ready for him, and he’d hold himself back until she was ready to give up.

  Well, he only had forty minutes. He wouldn’t be holding out all that long.

  “Punish me as you see fit, Maximus. I deserve either the snap of your crop or the crack of your hand,” she said, and tried her damndest to keep the amused smirk off her face.

  Hand, please.

  If he used a hand, he’d not only spank her, but also rub her when he was done. Knead her rear and delve his fingers into her cleft. He’d make it seem like it was all part of his dominance, but the truth was, he loved her ass, and on the rare occasion she let him take her there, he’d whispered a thank-you for it.

  Quiet filled the room for a long moment, and then there was a loud smack. She heard the sound of his palm’s strike before she felt the sting of his bare hand.

  “One. Two. Three,” he counted, and then his strong hands gripped her ass, parting her cheeks.

  With his fingers so close to her pussy, he could probably feel her wetness now.

  She could hear his swallow close to her ear, and then his naked chest pressed against her back. “Yes?” he whispered.

  “No,” she whispered back. She needed to be able to walk. She had a four-hour shift left, and hobbling down the halls with that cart and nursing a sore ass didn’t sound like her idea of a good time.

  “Pity,” he said. He eased away. “Come here. What’s your name?” He addressed the other woman.

  Giselle rolled her eyes behind her blindfold. He knew damn well what that woman’s name was. Ms. Gibson would have briefed him thoroughly before he accepted the woman’s companionship for the weekend.

  “Dawna,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Giselle clamped her teeth and suppressed a sigh.

  Max would be on the hunt for a submissive again by Monday. He’d liked them a bit inexperienced because they’d come to him with fewer bad habits he’d have to correct, but first-timers drained him. Dawna was either really that timid, which wasn’t always a bad thing depending on the dominant, or she was behaving the way she thought Max liked his women. Giselle understood the temptation. Max was gorgeous with that dark hair and those blue-green eyes, and he had a reputation for rocking women’s worlds…assuming they could hang in there long enough. They were always too impatient for him—just wanted the sex without all the lead-up, and Max told Giselle he could always tell. Furthermore, Max liked a little undercurrent of spunk. He liked controlling that sass and cheek inside his playroom, but out in the real world, he found it endearing.

  Max always said he needed someone like Giselle, but Giselle wasn’t willing to put up with his erratic schedule and the cloak-and-dagger nature of his job. She wanted to go home to someone every night and wake up in a tangle of limbs. She didn’t want to open her eyes at sunrise and wonder if her lover had come home safe from work. The thought of worrying constantly if Max’s radio silence meant he’d gotten shot again and that he was laid up in some hospital didn’t appeal to her. She worried enough as it was.

  She and Max were good for each other in a lot of ways, but they couldn’t be together.

  Footsteps padded across the polished cement floor, and Giselle could feel the other woman hovering nearby.

  “Queen G’s nipples are quite sensitive.” Max dragged the end of his crop around her right areola, and then flicked the tender nipple with his fingers.

  She squeaked and couldn’t help it, although she had expected his touch.

  He was right. Thirty seconds of nipple torture, and she’d be begging him to bend her over and fuck her soundly.

  If he heard her mewling noise, he didn’t address it.

  She drew up onto her tiptoes as first her left nipple squeezed inside a clamp, and then the other.

  Max skimmed his fingers down between her breasts, and suddenly there was a light pull of both nipples inside their clamps.

  She cried out.

  Damn him.

  At least he hadn’t added weights this time.

  “Tell her, Queen G. Does that hurt you?”

  “Yes,” she said honestly. Truth was important, because without truth, a good dominant couldn’t learn how far to push.

  “Why do you let me hurt you?” he asked.

  “Because the pain will give way to pleasure.”

  Indescribable pleasure, because Max knew what the fuck he was doing, and she trusted him to do it. That was the rub. Without the trust, there’d be no room for pleasure.

  “Spread your legs for me.”

  He nudged each foot a bit farther outward and sucked in a bracing breath.

  The sound of that sharp inhale worried Giselle. Where was his typically exquisite self-control, today, and what was he going to do to her this time? Use the vibrating wand on her clit and not allow her to move an inch or else risk his discipline again? Bring her to the brink repeatedly only to walk away, leaving her unsatisfied until he saw fit to finish? She’d never been good at holding back her orgasms, and he knew it.

  “Grab the rope, Queen G,” he said, and the sound of an unfurling of a zipper made Giselle’s skin tingle with anticipation.

  She fisted the rope overhead with both hands, and suddenly his hands were on the backs of her thighs. He picked her up as if she were light as a feather. The tension in her shoulders from her holding h
er arms overhead eased a bit now that she was a bit higher, her legs around his hips. He spun her back around, and carried her back a few feet to press her spine to the wall. His cock teased at her slit, and even if Dawna didn’t hear Max’s hiss, Giselle did.

  Max was becoming unhinged. Odd.

  What would he be saying to Giselle had Dawna not been in the room?

  “Stand nearby, Dawna. Right there at the side. I want you to watch. To see what you won’t be getting tonight because you don’t want to please me, do you?”

  “I do want to please you, I—”

  Max must have shot his dark dom look at her, because she quieted.

  “We have a lot of work to do with you, Dawna. It’ll be a long while before you get a reward. Are you willing to wait for your reward?”

  He plunged into Giselle without warning, filling her up and tantalizing her with the pleasure-pain of friction.

  She drew her bottom lip between her teeth and squeezed the rope overhead tighter.

  “Yes!” Dawna said, and her voice was lusty and low. She sounded confident now, but only time would tell if she’d be Max’s right fit, or if she was yet another woman with high hopes and misaligned expectations.

  Max stoked Giselle’s craving for him while extinguishing her skin hunger. He gripped her ass as if it were some precious thing, while pounding into her with abandon.

  She tamped down the torrent of pleasure, pushing it aside in her mind as if it were some inconsequential thing like her grocery list. Unlike when she played with her toys or with other boys, this time she had to wait for permission, and Max was always disinclined to give it until he’d had his fill.

  “On your knees. Right there,” Max said with a hiss, and Giselle vaguely registered the other body in the room moving nearby. “Turn your back to me and wait on all-fours.”

  She must have done it, but Giselle couldn’t say for sure. The next thing she knew, Max’s teeth set into her shoulder, and she gasped as he licked up her shoulder and kissed across her jaw to her mouth.

  He’d never done that before.

  * * *

  Max treated every rendezvous with Giselle as if it could be the last time. Some day, she’d find a man who’d meet her needs, and she wouldn’t be around to stoke Max’s confidence or offer him the treat of her body.

  When his mouth found hers, she pressed her lips together tight even as he continued his brazen assault on her sex.

  They didn’t ever kiss, not really. There were the platonic pecks on the cheeks on the rare occasion they ran into each other in public. In private, they generally jumped right to the main event.

  For him, seeing her nude—all lithe and with her flawless skin catching the light just so—did more for him than any touch, any taste. If he ever met another woman who took his breath away the same way, he’d do almost anything to pin her down…short of quitting his job. That he couldn’t do. His work was important to him, part of him, so whoever was willing to be his partner in all things would have to be accommodating of disruptions.

  For now, he wanted to memorize Giselle’s taste and the feel of her lush lips, because it could be his only chance.

  Her lips parted, slowly, and he worked his tongue into her mouth, teasing her as her muscles clenched his dick.

  Unusual for him, but he’d started losing his rhythm right as his tongue alighted on her lips.

  A symphony of sensation and emotion, and all too much for him.

  This was why he always held himself back from his lovers. He refused to enmesh himself needlessly, and being the dominant allowed him control. His Maximus façade was his shield and kept him from becoming entangled. Distracted. He didn’t open up unless he wanted to.

  He wanted to for once, and couldn’t.

  Giselle deserved better than him, and before he left, he’d see to it that she got it.

  She began to quake in his arms. She was trying to hard to hold it back, and normally he would have kept stoking, pushing her until tears filled her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. But now, it was him who wouldn’t be able to hold back. Not with the way her tongue gently chased his, and the sound of her little feminine grunts of pleasure.

  “Come now, Queen G,” he said, and his voice was strong and clear, even though his head was so fucked up he didn’t know if he were coming or going. He freed one of his arms, reached between their sweat-slicked torsos, and released her nipple clamps.

  She tipped her head back and gasped for air before screaming out her orgasm.

  Her scream made him grin as he righted his rhythm and concentrated on the fire in his core and his tightening nuts.

  He didn’t know if the scream was for Dawna’s benefit or if he actually affected her that way, but when he glanced at his newbie submissive, he found her stealing a look over her shoulder at them.

  Her cheeks were flushed and lips parted. She looked away, and he chuckled. She’d get it for that. She didn’t have permission to watch.

  At the thought of wielding his crop over virgin skin, he gripped Giselle’s ass tighter before spilling into her.

  Yes. That’d be just what the doctor ordered—a new distraction. Someone he could be detached from. A catharsis.

  He set down Giselle’s legs one at a time and nudged her blindfold from her eyes.

  He watched the pupils of her brown eyes constrict, adjusting to the soft light in the room, and he put on a smile for her.

  Red bloomed in her cheeks, and he kissed her again. This time, just a bare pressing of lips, but enough to say Thank you in a way she’d understand better than anyone.

  Her returning smile was you’re welcome.

  “Up on your toes,” he said.

  She obliged.

  He unhooked her wrists, then undid his careful rope work.

  He chafed his hands up and down her slim wrists, willing the marks to go away. The long sleeves of her uniform shirt would cover them, but the aftercare to him was an important part of the relationships he had with his submissive. Except, Giselle wasn’t really one of them. She wouldn’t be Giselle if she were.

  She gathered up her clothes and strode toward the attached bathroom. All of the black playrooms had them, but Max had never availed himself of them. He’d just as soon go up to his suite, but now he admitted they were darn useful.

  He turned his left wrist over and stared at his watch face.

  Giselle would be back to work with time to spare. He should have drawn it out. Took his time.

  She winked at him through the gap that same way she had in ninth grade as she pulled the bathroom door closed.

  He winked back, and spun his crop between his fingers.

  Focus, Max.

  He had a naughty submissive that needed a lesson on permission, and he was going to lose himself in dispensing it.

  THE END

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of THREE STRIKES – available now.

  FROM THREE STRIKES

  To say that Giselle Burke and Max Fletcher’s relationship is “complicated” would be an understatement. He’s one of New Orleans’s most intriguing Doms, and she won’t give him the time of day. They’ve been friends since age fourteen, and although she’s loved him almost as long, she doesn’t want to be with him…at least, for no longer than a night.

  As an employee of the Hotel Beaudelaire, Giselle has never been a guest during its Den of Sin events, but Max knows it’s the perfect venue for seduction. He’s convinced that if he can get his “Queen G” to let down her guard for a weekend, he can soften her heart. And if he has to tuck into his bag of tricks to remind her of just how compelling he can be…so be it.

  Chapter One

  “Oh my God.”

  Giselle Burke leaned against the ice sculpture’s base and closed her eyes tight. She tightened her grip around the cold cylinder in her gloved right hand as the nebulous memories of the past few minutes congealed.

  Her heart pounded. Blood rushed to her head, and suddenly, she felt as though her brain was spinning around
like a roulette wheel.

  Shit. She hadn’t even made a bet.

  Her knees wobbled. She slid down the base to the floor and buried her face against her knees. Round and around her mind spun, and instead of the little ball in her imagination landing on black or red, it settled onto a brand new memory she’d just as soon keep repressed.

  Her thumb slipped over the rounded end of the rod she held, and she opened her eyes to confirm the truth.

  “Oh, fuck.”

  She let the ice dick fall to the marble floor, and it didn’t even have the decency to shatter. Maybe it would have if it’d been larger.

  She giggled a bit manically at the thought. The Hotel Beaudelaire’s Den of Sin events were known in part for their lavish seasonal décor, and the owner, Henri Beaudeliare, spared no expense when it came to finishing touches. Given the clout the man had in New Orleans’ hospitality industry, vendors bent over backwards—and would probably take it up the ass—to please him. But with this, he’d fucked up.

  He should have been more specific. A life-size, Michelangelo-esque ice sculpture at The Den should have come with a really magnificent cock. She couldn’t even chill a soda with the two-inch ice bullet on the floor.

  She sighed and tipped her head back to look at the deformed man. The returning memory lined up with the evidence. Ice Man’s hands, gesturing toward the empty ballroom, were missing several fingers. Ice Man had a gash where his mouth had been.

  She leaned just so and discovered that Ice Man also had a knife in his back.

  That was her knife. Her grandmamma had given it to her when Giselle turned fifteen. Usually, she kept it in her purse for protection during those late walks home. She didn’t want to think too hard about how it’d ended up in an ice nude. The rest of the memory would probably come back to her soon enough, just like all the others.

  “This is going to be my third strike for sure,” she mused. She’d have plenty of time for quiet introspection now. Her job situation had been precarious even before today. She was a goddamned misanthrope on the best of days, and yet she worked in room service with all the chipper rays of sunshine who spoke in exclamation points and personified the department’s service with a smile mantra to a T. She figured the only reason her tips were on par with theirs was because she had a nice rack and the male Den guests tended to tolerate abuse more than average. Masochists. If she had a dollar for every time a guest had asked to motorboat her, she could buy herself a pair of Lucite hooker heels and some pasties. She’d need them in her next job, anyway. No way was she getting a good reference on her way out after what she’d done.