Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  “One,” she said as his cock arched into her and hit the most delicious spot, dragged back inch by inch until his head teased her opening. His cockhead then slipped back in, along the topside of her passage.

  “Oh, God. Two.”

  She tried to time her breath with the next eight but found the rhythm only brought her closer to her peak. Concentrating on her inhalations didn’t help. Neither did sending her focus to his hands, clutching at her hips, reminding her of his control and possession.

  The more she thought about not coming, the more she wanted to release.

  “Oh,” she moaned. “You’re too good.”

  He chortled. “Flattery won’t lessen your punishment, Christiana. Now, be good . . . for me.”

  She wanted to be—good and bad and feel like this, always. She clenched her inner muscles in hopes of causing her orgasm to retreat. A prick of perspiration across her forehead gave her something else to think of for about one second. Then it was back to Jonathan’s cock drawing through her cream.

  At twenty-three, her throat released cries each time he sunk into her. Her legs quivered in their silk prisons.

  Jonathan growled behind her, making his strokes longer, sending his pelvis to join her behind.

  “Twenty-nine. Please, please. I really can’t.”

  The wicked man sped up his pace. “Yes, you can, and you will.” His breathing labored like a marathon runner. He seized her hipbones, raising her up. He rocked her slightly forward, her nipples grazing the silk underneath. “Count,” he growled.

  “Thirty.”

  The distance between relief and his relentless jackhammering grew longer, not shorter.

  “Thirty-one.”

  She couldn’t swallow, just pant. She gripped the fabric in her hands, now dank from her clammy palms. A wet stain must be spreading near her cheek on the coverlet. “I’m going—”

  Jonathan grabbed her hair and pulled her head up slightly. “You will not.”

  “I-I won’t,” she breathed.

  Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty.

  “You’ll come with me, Christiana.” He slammed forward. “With me.” He sent his cock crashing into her swollen, desperate insides.

  “Forty-one.” Her raw voice gave out, her number barely audible.

  He thrust one final time. “Now,” he grated between his teeth.

  She released a hoarse cry. Sparks flew down her legs. Streaks of light obscured everything, but the convulsions that shattered her consciousness. Her contractions milked Jonathan’s cock, hilted inside her. Pulsing, sporadic jerks of his cock prolonged her orgasm. She let go and rode the sensation down a seemingly endless mountainside. She landed at the bottom, spent, sated and filled.

  Bit by bit, her skin tuned into the drapes encasing her and Jonathan’s hands clutching her hips.

  Her blindfold disappeared, and she blinked in the low red lighting. He lay down next to her on his back and stared up at the ceiling. His nostrils flared in time with his chest rising and falling. He placed one large hand on her shoulder, connecting with her skin. Her body instantly silenced, tremors from her orgasm stopping under his touch.

  They both panted, wordlessly, for some minutes. Christiana didn’t move—couldn’t move—even when Jonathan’s fluids leaked between her legs to the bed cover. The heat from their lovemaking faded, and a chill ran over her damp skin.

  “Forty-two might be my new favorite number,” he said.

  She snickered. It certainly would remain hers.

  Jonathan unwound each leg from their silk bindings, slowly, deliberately.

  Her head hung down fully, neck muscles elongating deliciously in the stretch. When he ripped the thick black straps from around her middle, she took in a large, opening breath.

  Jonathan rubbed her shoulders and sent a trail of kisses down her back. Each movement, slow and cautious, combined with his whispers, solidified his lesson: Patience came with great rewards. When he lifted her off the suspension bench, a small tremor rumbled through her core.

  He untied her wrists, and only when he held out his hand did she release the panties into his open palm.

  19

  Christiana leaned against the warmed shower tile walls and let his touches mix with the water streaming down her torso. Jonathan ran his fingers through her hair. Sparks erupted within her scalp.

  They stood cocooned in the shower. Steam clouded the glass until the trees through the corner window walls lost all detail and morphed into blots of dark, waving masses. She wished she and Jonathan could never leave.

  Somber thoughts invaded from corners of her mind. She could feel their weight squeezing out the euphoria she’d felt from the last few hours.

  “You’re conflicted.” His whispered voice echoed against the glass and tile.

  “Very.” She exhaled heavily, releasing the strangeness that had settled within her after being so delicately unwrapped from Jonathan’s sex cradle. “Suspension bench” wasn’t close to how it made her feel, though time did suspend. Now unbound, her logical side made an ugly reappearance.

  Her father, Avery, the Churchills, all of them peered down at her from some unnamed plane, faces stamped with disdain for allowing such blatantly wanton behavior as she’d displayed in the last twenty-four hours. Hell, the last few weeks. She could have said “No” to Jonathan. She should have said “No.” It would have been the correct thing to do.

  The weekend’s events bore witness to what she’d always suspected. Her life had never been normal, perhaps because she wasn’t normal. Regular nineteen-year-old college girls went to football games and flirted with frat boys or their twenty-something bosses during internships. They didn’t sneak around with famous people doing . . . what had they been doing?

  Jonathan turned her and drew her into his arms.

  “Tell me.” His voice reverberated from his torso and into hers, held captive by the muscled planes of his chest. She couldn’t deny she loved being like this, so close to his strength. His words moved through her whole body. His power was never so evident as when he spoke.

  “It feels, oh, I don’t know.” Of course, she didn’t have the words to match, as usual.

  He pulled back a little. “Deviant?” The corner of his mouth quirked up.

  She nodded.

  “Remember what I said. Never be ashamed about how you like to be pleasured,” he said.

  Christiana laid her head against him. She wasn’t in the mood to talk, her black thoughts sapping any remaining good mood.

  “Talk to me, Christiana.”

  Talking. Always talking. “I don’t know what to say. It’s just—”

  “What, lovely?”

  “I’m neglecting things at home . . . work . . . I really should be . . . .” She actually didn’t know. “Can we change the subject?”

  Jonathan stroked her hair and placed a kiss on the top of her head. “Okay, tell me how you got that scar across your forehead.”

  No way. She’d never tell the perfect Jonathan Brond about her damaged childhood. No words could describe what happened that day anyway—or any of the other days.

  “I don’t remember. I know it’s ugly.”

  “Nothing on you is ugly. I worry about your headaches.” He put his hands alongside her cheeks and lifted her face. The kindness in his eyes cracked her humiliation.

  “I was really young. All kids have accidents.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Didn’t you ever get into trouble as a kid?” she teased.

  “Repeatedly.”

  “Tell me something about when you were little.” Christiana hugged his middle tighter. If she could stay here for the rest of her life, she would. Forget about dishwashers and measuring the liquor in her father’s bottle and even feeling abnormal. He had a way of calming her quickly, even if he did try to extract things better left buried.

  “I’m afraid that’s classified,” he said.

  “Oh, please? Your stories have to be more interesting than mine. Where�
�d you get this?” She rubbed her finger over a small crescent shaped scar on his abdomen. It was so light it was barely visible.

  “When I was twelve, I got into a fight with some other kids. They were stoning a bird – a blue-jay that had broken its wing. That’s why my father calls me ‘jay.’ He told that story for years, though the number grew from two bullies to fourteen over the years.” He chuckled.

  “Your dad sounds like he’s really proud of you.”

  Jonathan frowned. “There is something I’d like to talk to you about. Your father.”

  “You didn’t bring up his FBI file?”

  He smirked. “I was far more interested in yours.”

  “Oh, yeah, a best seller. Waitress, college student, designated driver.” She ran her fingers along his pecs and then over his arms, touching the blond hairs and enjoying the definition of muscle. His strength amazed her, given his life was filled with so much talking and paperwork.

  “You must work out all the time,” she said.

  “Mark works me out pretty hard.”

  “Mark? Your assistant?”

  “He’s many things. No one could ask for a more loyal associate and friend. I let him order me around at the gym four times a week for putting up with me.”

  “You’re close to him, I can tell. He knows about . . . this?” She hadn’t a clue how to label what they’d been doing.

  “Yes.”

  “You said seven people know about this place, including you. You only mentioned six.”

  He smirked. “Well, you’ve proven you can count—twice today.”

  She angled her arms against his chest, so she could keep his eyes. “Did you ever bring Mrs. DeCord here? Was she the seventh?”

  He sighed heavily. “The seventh person is my sister.”

  Hearing he had a sister, one he was obviously close to, quashed the second of pride she’d felt from hearing she’d been invited where Mrs. DeCord had not. “I didn’t know you had a sister. I always wanted one.”

  “I’ll bet you did.” Seriousness colored his eyes.

  More dangerous waters. She needed a distraction. Christiana trailed her hands down the ridges on his stomach to the soft triangle of damp hair. She pushed her pelvis into his semi-hard cock. His response was immediate and welcomed.

  Jonathan kissed her neck, his free hand claiming her breast. He hardened when she arched into the tug on her nipple. He stepped back and leaned against the opposite wall and appraised her. Mischief danced in his eyes. A wordless understanding passed between them, a faint whisper of what was expected.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Christiana?”

  “May I do something for you?”

  His lips twitched into a smile. “On your knees in front of me.”

  She knelt between his feet. She put her small hands on his thighs, corded in muscle and strength. The water cascaded down her back.

  Jonathan lifted his semi-erect penis, holding it heavy in his hands. He ran his thumb along the dark purple vein running on the side.

  “Raise your eyes to me,” he said.

  He didn’t have to say anything more than that. She wanted to serve him—and stop all the serious talk, all thoughts of family and former subs and anyone else who might slip into the steam with them. She ran her tongue over her lips, wetting them in anticipation of encasing the purple mushroom head with her mouth.

  Christiana lifted his soft full length, now curving upward toward her face. She ran her tongue along the crown. She sheathed him, not stopping until she reached the thicker root. She traced that same vein as she pulled him back out.

  “Look up at me, Christiana. I’m going to fuck your mouth,” he growled.

  Her eyes migrated north, capturing the desire tinting his emerald eyes. She dipped her tongue into the salty slit of the head, watching his reaction, then sucked down until her nose touched his low belly. He groaned and fisted her hair in both hands. When he pushed her head back, she encircled himself with one hand.

  “Hand away.” He nudged forward.

  She gagged when he hit the back of her throat. He held her head fast, as she tried to back away. Slowly pulling back, he let her adjust and then pumped half his length between her lips.

  She swirled her tongue as he used her mouth, keeping her gape locked on the feral lust filling his eyes.

  He grew rigid and bucked his hips forward as a shot of liquid burst into her mouth. Jonathan pulled out and wiped the side of her mouth with his thumb.

  “Very nice, lovely.”

  She smiled up at him through the steam.

  “You may stand.” He pulled her up to him.

  He ran his thumbs up and down the crease where her legs met her hips. He studied her face, for what? He looked sad, not like a man who’d just gotten his rocks off.

  “Did I do okay?” she asked.

  His face relaxed, returning him to the in-command man she knew. He switched off the water. “More than okay. Let’s go. I have a reward for you.”

  While Christiana dried her hair, Jonathan headed to his office. One glance and he saw insistent notifications of voice mails awaiting his attention threatening to vibrate his phone off the desk. Before he could even see how many messages had been left, it rang in his hand.

  “Brond.”

  “Where the hell are you? It’s not like a member of Congress to miss a chance to rub shoulders with the Majority Leader.”

  “You always told me scarcity ensures mystique.” Jonathan sat in his chair and looked out at the swaying trees. He didn’t need to be reminded that skipping a party fundraiser that weekend had consequences, but spending time with a certain blond woman was the best way to recharge his flagging spirits from the re-election mayhem.

  “You’ve been a little too scarce lately.”

  “Father, I appreciate your concern—”

  “I’m not concerned. I’m downright panicked.”

  “About what? Shane tells me the numbers—”

  “Are pitiful. You’ve got to get out there. You had your chance on Collins’ show, and all you could talk about was privacy, and during one of the most god-damned financial lows in our nation at that. Privacy! Jesus Christ. Who the fuck cares? You’re going to the July Fourth benefit?”

  “Of course.” Tell me you’re not.

  “Good. Your mother—”

  “Stepmother.”

  “—and I will be there. Do not bring a date. You need to focus on your job, not on some bimbo who’d love to bag a wealthy—”

  “I don’t get involved with bimbos.”

  “Oh, really? How’s The Oak?”

  “I hear the crab cakes are quite good.”

  “Clearly. You’ve been seen frequenting it enough.”

  “I thought I wasn’t seen enough.”

  “Don’t play games. The Bronds always did have a penchant for the ladies.”

  Jonathan fought the queasiness in his stomach. “Father—”

  “I’m just saying you have to choose wisely. You’re going to need a woman who can hold her own, not need a lot of babying. I should know.”

  Anger replaced Jonathan’s nausea. “I’ll see you at the dinner. I have a dozen messages to handle.”

  “About the Blanchard brunch today—”

  “I won’t be there. I have plans.”

  His father sighed heavily into the phone. “Jay, what the hell’s going on? The party is counting on you.”

  “Why?” Jonathan rubbed his forehead. “What is it you’re really worried about?”

  “I’m concerned you’re about to throw away the only thing you’re good at.”

  “Father, I’ll see you next Thursday.” Jonathan didn’t wait for a response before killing the call. His father’s aim was impeccable as always—straight to the gut.

  Jonathan parked his SUV in an inconspicuous corner of the empty parking lot of Saks Fifth Avenue.

  “It looks closed,” Christiana said.

  “We have an appointment.”

  Jo
nathan had declared they were heading back to Washington early, that he had a surprise waiting for her, a reward for her service. She hoped it involved sex. He hadn’t touched her since the shower, and her “morning service” did nothing to abate the bonfire still blazing inside her, ignited by the weekend’s activities. Conflicting as Jonathan’s most recent sexual adventures proved to be, she was helpless in the face of the excitement it brought.

  A stylish young woman in a cream-colored suit waved from an unmarked side door. Jonathan’s face cracked into an ear-splitting grin. He walked up to her and kissed her on both cheeks. “Sarah. Thank you for the off hours.”

  “Of course, Jonathan. Anything for you.”

  Christiana took the smooth, cool hand offered by the polished woman.

  Sarah turned to Jonathan. “You are quite right. She’s lovely.”

  Christiana bristled at the endearment coming from Sarah’s mouth.

  “Christiana, this is my sister, Sarah.”

  She smiled warmly. “Technically step-sister, but I’ll admit he’s a good brother. Come inside.”

  “Hi.” Christiana’s shyness returned in the face of his sister’s diplomacy. She regretted the moment of jealousy she’d conjured seeing Jonathan kiss her cheek.

  Jonathan gripped her hip and led her through the doorway.

  Sarah led them down a hallway, clearly designed for deliveries—garment racks with plastic-encased gowns lined the walls, and wedding veils hung off a series of hooks. She pushed open a door at the far end. Floor to ceiling mirrors lined the large, eight-sided room. Christiana’s image accosted her from every angle.

  Sarah walked to a rack with a variety of dresses, gowns and other garments hanging from the silver rod. “I found everything except the Missoni.” She lifted the skirt of a long navy blue gossamer gown toward Jonathan. “This will be perfect for the July Fourth benefit with your father.” She regarded Christiana with such certainty that it felt like an order.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  Jonathan touched her shoulder. “Yes, I’ve arranged for it. Your father should have received his invitation from Shane by now.”