Dr. Bad Boy

by Ainsley Booth

  Unfocused and through a lust-heavy haze, I watch him settle on the armless chair across from me.

  “Naked, Violet. I’ve been waiting to spank you since July. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

  I scramble to my feet, dumping my sweater on the couch behind me. I peel my top off first, then strip out of my yoga pants. There’s no slick way to do that, so I go for quick instead.

  Before I can move any closer, he clears his throat. “Naked does not mean wearing beautiful lingerie, although you do have excellent taste. At some point, I’ll make you keep it on until you’re begging to be bare. Right now, though, naked means naked. I want access to all that you have kept from me. Every inch of your skin. Your breasts. Your pussy. And that delectable ass. Understood?”

  I nod, my legs shaking I’m so wound up with desire—to please, to be punished, to simply be Max’s again. I fumble with my bra clasp, then it falls free, and I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my panties.

  “Slowly with those,” he says roughly, and when I jerk my attention to his face, I see his gaze is locked on my hands.

  I inhale deeply, confidence flooding back as I grab on to that little reminder that I’m not the only one desperate here. I’m not the only one who’s been longing and aching and needing this.

  I can’t breathe as I finally bare myself for him, and the heat in my apartment ratchets up a billion degrees. His eyes darken and his throat works as he silently swallows, and still I’m waiting for his next instruction.

  He takes his time, flexing his thighs and widening his stance before he nods. “On your knees first.”

  I drop between his legs and force myself to wait, holding still, even though the heat radiating off his body is killing me. I want to lean against him, lean into him, and the erection straining at his fly right in front of me is very distracting.

  “You see what you do to me?” he asks, his voice low and gruff.

  I nod.

  “You don’t get that just yet.” He groans as my gaze flies up to his face. My disappointment turns him on, maybe, because he takes my hand and lets me cup him.

  So hard. And all for me…but not right now?

  “That’s just mean,” I whisper.

  He just lifts his eyebrows, a muscle flexing in his cheek as he gives me a serious look that reminds me, yeah, that’s the game here, remember?

  “Do you want me any other way?” he asks, and I shake my head.

  No, I don’t.

  He drags my palm up and down his erection again, but he doesn’t open his zipper. Tension is written all over his face, like he’s fighting for control, and after a moment, he wraps his fingers around my wrist and tugs me up to stand. “Over my lap. Now.”

  I’ve only done this a couple of times before, and it never felt quite right.

  With Max, it feels perfect. He knows where to put me, with confidence, and his legs slide to the exact width to balance my weight.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  I laugh at the unexpected question. “Do you want me to be?”

  He settles his hand on the back of my thigh. “Yes. This time.”

  I nod. “Then yes, I am. Thank you.”

  He pinches me there, about midway up my upper leg, and I jerk at the surprise, but then wriggle against him because that warmth is nice.

  “This is what we’re going to do, Violet.” The way he says my name makes me shiver, and he traces his fingers over the goose bumps on my legs. “I’m not really in a punishing mood today. I want to carry you to your room and fuck you silly. Would you like that?”

  I nod. Between my legs, I’m getting wet enough that I can feel it on the insides of my thighs, slippery and slick.

  “But you made me wait for that.” He tsks and pinches me again.

  I exhale and hold as still as I can. Each biting press of his fingers is a release. Each warm spread of sensation when he lets go of my flesh a wave that carries us forward into a new dynamic.

  “And I probably owe you an apology as well, kitten.” His voice is silky now. “But that’s not really in my nature.”

  I groan, dying in a swirling mix of anticipation and fear for what Max does instead of apologizing.

  His palm connects to my ass, sharp and fast. A warning shot, and the first spanking I’ve ever received that has felt like I’ve read about, like I’ve wanted for far too long.

  I nearly sob out loud from the relief. Oh yes. More, please. But I don’t cry out, I don’t make a sound. I force myself to relax and to take it, and the next strike is better for it.

  He pauses after the third spanking and rubs my warm flesh. “You take sharp pain well,” he says, surprise clear in his voice.

  “Thank you.”

  He chuckles. “I’d like to find out what you don't take well.”

  I twist my head and look at him. “Why?” He spanks me again and I gasp. “What was that for?”

  He gives me a look I can only describe as Domly. “For being impertinent.”

  I bit my lip to keep myself from grinning. “How was I—”

  His palm connects on the exact same spot again, stinging harder this time. “I think what you meant to say was, ‘Sorry, Max. May I ask why?’”

  “I'm sorry, Max.” I say it extra breathily because that makes his cock flex beneath my belly. “May I ask why?”

  “Very polite. Yes you may.”

  “And why would you like to find out what I don’t take well?”

  “Because I want to make you cry.”

  “Oh my God.” My nipples are so hard they hurt.

  “Is that a red oh my God?”

  I shake my head. “Very, very green.”

  “Good. That gives us both something to look forward to at a future date.”

  “Not now?”

  He laughs. “No, kitten. Not now.”

  Oh. The mindfucking. Now I see the appeal. My mind is whirring a mile a minute and I bet he can hear it.

  “May I ask what we’re going to do now?”

  He smooths his hand over my bottom, rubbing right across the heated flesh, making my pussy clench. “No, you may not.”

  I press my lips together and close my eyes. Big meanie.

  He lifts his hand high enough for his palm to pull away from my skin, but his fingertips remain. Slowly and steadily, he traces what I can only imagine is a blurry handprint on my ass, then he trails down the fleshy curve, nudging open my legs.

  I bit my lip harder, but I can’t keep my body from arching as if hit by a live current when he slides between my wet folds. Oh, yes. That. The simple erotic touch, so familiar and yet nothing like I’ve had before. His gentle caress now carries with it the memory of the pain he dealt out so easily, so freely, and the promise of much, much more.

  He strokes me until my legs start to shake in their effort not to squirm, then he flips me over and lifts me easily in his arms. “Bedroom.”

  I gesture behind me and he carries me as if I’m a feather, his arms strong and sure around me. He sets me in the middle of the bed and points at me. “Stay.”

  Fuck, that’s stupidly hot. I hold my breath as he strips, tossing a condom on the bed when he takes off his jeans. It’s not like I’d forgotten how good-looking he is—that could never happen. But there’s something different about Max in my bedroom versus a hotel room. Max peeling off casual clothes and putting them on my chair instead of a suit in an anonymous space.

  This is real.

  This isn’t a magical one night thing that’s too good to be true. This is going to happen again and again, because Max is a real guy who really wants me.

  That’s kind of hard to process. I should pinch myself, but I don’t want to wake up.

  If I’m dreaming, so be it. I gobble up the sight of him, those lean hips and long, powerful legs. That heavy cock I’ve dreamed about driving into me, now right in front of me again.

  My mouth waters, but he doesn’t order me to take him into my mouth. He doesn’t order me around at all. In two step
s, he’s on the bed and on top of me. His mouth crashes onto mine as his hands pin my arms down and his legs press my thighs open. He kisses me until I’m breathless, then rears up just long enough to put the condom on.

  When he presses into me again, it’s all of him. His cock slides through my wetness and notches easily against my pussy, into it, and he doesn’t stop. He takes me hard, driving his erection right to where I want it, even though I’m still stretching around him and oh my God, he’s so big.

  He doesn’t give me a chance to catch my breath, his hips jerking back and slamming forward again, rubbing along all the nerve endings that remember him, that have dreamt of him and this, and are oh so greedily happy he’s back.

  Max.

  Fucking me.

  Definitely dreaming.

  He shifts on top of me, his legs spreading mine wider still, then he pumps into me, through me, a wave of sex that rolls back and comes forward again as if he’s a perpetual motion machine. A sex machine, intent on driving me out of my mind, because it feels so good. All of it. The stretching, the thrusting, the heavy nudge when he bottoms out inside me, then drags back.

  He slips his hand between our bodies and his clever fingers on my clit push me higher.

  "Violet." His raspy voice and hot breath on my ear make my belly quiver and my pussy clench. He plunges harder and faster until I'm hurtling into a blinding orgasm where nothing exists but our two bodies, his hard and ruthless, mine nothing but quaking sensation. He thunders to his own release, holding himself deep inside me until my climax finally ripples to an end.

  I’m vaguely aware of Max pulling out and I’m left with a little empty ache.

  “Fuck,” he growls as he rearranges us on the bed. “I missed that.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper, because I know the feeling.

  “Come here.” He pulls me against him.

  I close my eyes and sink into the moment. That had been amazing. Work complications aside, this was good between us.

  I deserve a bit of good sex. Amazing sex, even. As long as Max wants to take out his kink on my ass—and then fuck me into oblivion—I’m game. If he’ll keep us secret, I’m his to do with what he will.

  And I’m going to enjoy every moment of it.

  16

  Max

  After I leave Violet’s apartment late Sunday afternoon, I’m ready to have her all over again.

  But the next time has to be at my house, and I need to finish setting up my dungeon for that. The next business I’m going to invest in is discrete kink contractors, because this DIY stuff is for the birds.

  When Gavin calls me Monday night and I repeat that complaint to him, he points out that I’m on a hockey team full of vetted kinksters who would probably be more than happy to help in exchange for an invite to my first party.

  Since they’re the only people I was going to invite anyway, that seems a plan I could have figured out myself if I wasn’t so damn distracted.

  Tuesday night Lachlan shows up with Corinne, our goalie, a fellow RCMP officer, forty minutes after I issue an invitation to the entire email list.

  Corinne even texted me and asked if I wanted coffee because they were stopping on their way.

  “This feels backwards,” I say as she hands me a latte. “Thank you. But I’ve got beer, too.”

  Lachlan shrugs. “We like to be helpful. Also this way we get a sneak peek at what you’ve got, so we can plan accordingly.”

  Well, excellent.

  I give him a map of the ceiling and where I’d like anchor points inserted. Corinne hops over the cardboard and bubble wrap, zooming right in on the spanking bench in pieces in front of the fireplace.

  “This is gorgeous,” she says, running her hands over the polished wood.

  I grin. “Have at it, if you want. There are assembly instructions in the zipped bag of bolts.”

  “Where is it going?”

  I don’t have immediate plans for it, so I gesture to the opposite wall. “Over there for now.”

  I really want it out of the way so I can stock the toy cabinet which is actually a repurposed armoir. My first night with Violet isn’t going to be complicated, but I want to use some of my favourites on her.

  I start by unpacking the box labelled fishing tackle. It’s full of new, still in the package butt plugs, nipple clamps, bondage tape, and bullet vibrators which I place in the top drawer.

  Next comes my cane bag, which really holds all things hitty—canes, crops, etc. There are hooks on the back of the upper part of the cabinet where they hang.

  The bottom drawer is where I keep restraints and rope, and I lay those out just as I like them.

  Once Lachlan finishes with the anchor points, he helps me move the St. Andrew's Cross pieces, and we assemble that.

  Then the chesterfield can be moved over to make room for the special furniture piece I've found just for Violet. But it's not here yet.

  Corinne efficiently packs up the remaining pieces of cardboard. Once that's taken upstairs to the garage, the space actually looks decent. A bit bare.

  "You need art," Lachlan says to me as we stand side by side, inspecting Ottawa's latest kink dungeon.

  "It needs something," I agree. But that has to be a problem for another day.

  "It looks good," Corinne says as she rejoins us. "When's the first party?"

  I laugh. "Christmas."

  "Pick the date soon. The calendar fills quickly in this town."

  "Good to know. And listen, thanks for your help today, eh?" I shake first her hand, then Lachlan's. "Much appreciated."

  "Any time," Lachlan says. "See you on the weekend?"

  I think about Violet. "Maybe."

  He lifts his left brow, but doesn't ask for more details. He wouldn't get them, anyway.

  As I'm letting them out the front door, my phone rings. I glance at the screen and wince as I answer. "Lizzie, I've been meaning to call you back…"

  My most famous co-star laughs on the other end of the phone. “You have not. You've forgotten each and every time your delightful young assistant has given you my messages, haven't you?"

  "I've been busy."

  "And how is Ottawa?"

  "Cold."

  "You should've moved to Hollywood," she says with a pout that I know she doesn't mean.

  "Never again."

  "I miss you."

  "No you don't. How's Bernard?"

  "Re-married his first wife."

  "Well that's complicated." I'm in my kitchen now, rooting through my fridge. I've organized a catering company to bring me healthy meals I just need to re-heat. None of them appeal to me tonight.

  She sighs in my ear. "Max, I need some advice."

  "Don't date men twenty-five years your senior."

  "Seriously, Max. If you don't focus, I'm going to fly there so we can have this conversation in person."

  I frown. It's not that I don't want to see Lizzie, but…I don't really want to see Lizzie. Not now. "I'm listening."

  "I've been offered a part in a new film."

  That's hardly news or drama, so I wait for her to give me more information.

  "And Victor Jenkins is the director."

  "No."

  "Hear me out."

  "No, Lizzie, don't do it. I don't care if they're dangling an Oscar in front of you—" Because I already know that's what this is about. Fuck. I hate Hollywood, and I hate the shine of that stupid trophy, like all the others, that make people stupid in its pursuit. I sigh. "It's not worth it. You'll look back and hate yourself for participating in his ego-stroking."

  I nearly choke on the last words, because Victor's ego isn't the only thing that gets stroked on a regular basis. The man is the sickest deviant in California.

  He's also the man who introduced me to kink.

  Not that he meant to. He wasn't even aware that he was doing it. Because for Victor Jenkins, inviting twelve-year-olds to a party where there are slaves led around on leashes is no big fucking deal.

  And
that was just the first night.

  Victor Jenkins is also one of the reasons I left Hollywood, left my parents, left my life.

  He was going to direct my first feature length film, and I just couldn't do it—there was no way I was going to spend three months on a set with him and the personal filth he dragged into his professional life.

  The next year the first rape accusation came out.

  And went away.

  As soon as it did, my parents put the pressure back on for me to return before my star faded away.

  Instead, I filed for formal emancipation and never looked back.

  Fade away?

  I wanted my star to burn out, turn to dust, and be forgotten completely.

  When I went into medicine, one of the big appeals of paediatrics was that none of my patients had ever seen my show. Netflix has changed that now—thanks, fuckers—but it's been more than twenty years. I don't look anything like that bright-eyed kid anymore.

  The beard helps.

  Talking to Lizzie brings it all back, though.

  And on the other end of the phone, she's still silent.

  I groan. "You want to do it."

  "Everyone does a Victor Jenkins film, Max." She sounds genuinely torn, and I get that, I do. She's not wrong. Everyone does. None of the rape accusations have stuck to him, and he's a creative genius.

  If I were an actor, it might be hard to say no to his projects…

  No. No it wouldn't be. I shake my head. I know I hold myself, and everyone else, to a high standard on this point, but he's a monster.

  "Is there something I can do to help?" She's called me for a reason. She wants me to talk her out of this. No, she wants the moral support to make the right call and it still be a good career move. I frown. "Tell me more about the project."

  I grab a dish of chicken curry and stick it in the microwave as she launches into a pitch for the film.

  17

  Violet

  Max told me he wanted to keep me off-kilter, so I don’t let it get to me that I haven’t heard from him by mid-week.