Hialeah Heat

by Carol Storm

  “Ow!” Instead she got a hard slap on the behind. But Kick knew better than to turn around or to voice any kind of complaint. She just waited for orders, quivering with desire.

  “Good girl. You may lie down on the bed now. Keep your eyes closed until I come.”

  Kick moaned, but a second swat across her rump sent her scurrying to the safety of the adjoining room. Diving into the huge bed, she inhaled the fragrance of lavender-scented sheets. Kick hugged the pillows, careful to position herself with her buttocks high in the air.

  SMACK! Kick howled with abandon as the Master landed a smack on her upturned butt. With her face in the pillows, she couldn’t have looked up at him if she wanted. All she could do was whimper and bite her lip and listen to the heavy breathing of the Master.

  “All right, you’ve had enough. Lights out.”

  Kick moaned shamelessly as the black satin blindfold slipped over her eyes. Making love in the dark was romantic, but when she was blindfolded there was the uncertain tingle of fear, as well. What if the Master slipped away and left her waiting and yearning on the bed? But then there was the most blissful sensation when her lover put a bit of cooling cream on his broad fingers and spread the lotion gently and smoothly across her still burning buttocks. The soothing strokes had the strange effect of adding still more heat to the need inside her. All of her defenses had crumbled, and she was entirely helpless. Kick was crazy for it, wanting the Master’s hard cock right now. She had to have it or she would go insane!

  “Do you know who I am?” The deep voice matched the soothing coolness of his fingers. So sure, so completely in command of her trembling need.

  “Yes, Master. You are my Master, and I am your slave. Please make love to me now!”

  Kenny’s blood surged as the girl begged for it. He had made her wear a blindfold so that for once he could see her in the daylight while he made love to her. These meetings were getting more and more dangerous, more out of hand. But just one time he wanted to see the whiteness of her skin, the smoothness of her long, lithe legs. He turned her gently onto her back and slid into her smoothly, his cock hard and aching for his haughty, tender little slave.

  Kick gasped, surprised it began so smoothly, almost sweetly. But the rhythm grew into something wild and mesmerizing, unpredictable yet deeply satisfying. She screamed as he bit her neck, the pain piercing her soul. He was riding her, owning her, his body covering hers.

  Kick needed more. She needed the long length of him sliding in and out to continue longer and longer still, ‘til it all spun out of control. She was climbing wave after wave of shuddering excitement towards an unimaginable summit of fulfillment. Kick found herself howling for more, please more, until she reached heaven. But it was all too much, too rich. She reached the peak but he kept on going, refusing the final push, tantalizing her instead with each smooth, slick slow withdrawal, then filling her up all over again with luscious heat.

  Kick just couldn’t take any more. The rhythm of lazy pleasure grew into a drumming. The insistent beat demanded that she lose herself to everything but her own cry for release. Yet all the time they made love she was exploring the Master’s lean, tanned body with her slim white hands, unconsciously groping for clues. She felt the hard muscles of his chest, the crisp hair, the ridges of his lower back. All of it told her that her Master was young, strong, and rich enough to work out as often as he liked. No wonder he got tired of driving down to Coral Gables in a panel truck! But then the Master, in mid-thrust, pinned her wrists to the bed. Kick stiffened, unable to see through her blindfold and filled with terror that he would get up and leave her all alone. Instead, he continued his skilled gyrations, making pleasure blaze into an all-consuming fire. Kick shuddered, aware that she had missed her chance. Then the fire consumed her, as well.

  * * * *

  “Can we count on you? I know we can count on you. Joe Sullivan stands for change. My father stands for a better future. Yes, I remember your daughter from St. Ann’s. Yes, I’ll put you down for fifty thousand. Give Stacy my love! Can we count on you? I know we can count on you…”

  Although she normally supervised her father’s campaign at a much higher level, Kick still enjoyed making fund-raising calls. It gave her a chance to relax and collect her thoughts. While she was chatting away in a green Chanel suit, sitting back in a leather chair with her high heels propped up on her father’s desk, Kick pictured her latest submission to the Master. It wasn’t the image of her own submission that bothered her, but the fear she felt when he stopped her from exploring him with her hands. By now Kick was almost hooked on the sex, needing it more each time they met. She couldn’t control her addiction, and she couldn’t afford to ruin things with schoolgirl snooping. She just had to keep things cool, under control.

  “Can we count on you? I know we can count on you. Oh yes, I remember Courtney!”

  Keeping things cool meant accepting things as they were. But Kick couldn’t stop going over the meager clues, trying to solve the mystery. The Master had to be rich, and he had to be someone who was used to giving orders and being in control. He was probably from one of those proud old Cuban families who lived up on Flamingo Way. Kick knew from chatting with girls like Theresa that they were very wealthy, conservative people. They still called her family “those wild Irish Sullivans.” But the Master didn’t mind her wildness. Something told her he didn’t mind being in the public spotlight, either. The reason he kept his face hidden was probably because she would recognize him right away. The man was probably protecting a very successful career in some high-profile profession. Kick knew it was wrong to violate his privacy. They had both signed written agreements when they began their relationship, going through a very discreet and expensive online service.

  Why couldn’t she keep her word?

  Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone?

  In a way, Kick was more ashamed of her need to see the Master’s face than she was of needing such fabulous sex. After all, if she were really the submissive she pretended to be, obedience would come naturally to her. Instead, she kept battling the urge to force the Master to reveal himself. Her mother had trained her to take charge when other people were weak. Maybe the Master was turned off by that. Maybe he was turned off by her!

  The inside line jangled just then, jarring her out of her private thoughts. Annoyed, Kick picked up the phone, her irritation increasing when she heard her father’s weak pleading.

  “Baby, can you come down here for a minute? I’ve got a vital campaign decision to make, and no one here is making any sense. We really need you!”

  Kick was a hard-headed girl when it came to politics. She knew the score on her dad. Joe Sullivan had oodles of charm, but when it came to decisions he was short on backbone.

  When she got to the posh conference room, it was the same scene as usual – her father at the head of the long table, bald and sweating, with advisors shouting at him from both sides.

  “What’s the problem, Red?” Kick focused her intense, green-eyed gaze on her father’s veteran campaign manager, Red Kelly. Unlike her father, Red was never the type to panic over a minor situation. A beat-up veteran of mean big-city politics, Kelly knew all the dirty tricks.

  “This is the problem.” Red clicked on the video monitor that stood at the center of the table. There was a handsome dark man in a suit, making a speech to a noisy, cheering throng.

  “We’ll make them listen!” The man was shouting.

  “What does he want?” Kick asked. The crowd was going crazy, like it was a game show. The tall, dark man with the microphone had more than just looks and a fancy suit. Magnetism, that’s what they called it. Kick was intensely aware of being drawn to the man.

  “Too much,” her father groaned. “New hospitals, new schools, every damn thing I promised them six years ago!”

  “That’s Kenny Marigold,” Kelly explained. “He’s a city councilman in Hialeah.”

  “Hialeah?” Kick felt a prickle of awareness, the fine hai
rs rising at the back of her neck.

  “It’s north of Miami. Mostly Cubans live there,” Kelly explained.

  “I know where it is, Red.” Kick’s father had always counted on the upscale Cuban vote. They were only now sending out teams to win over the Haitians. But if a Hialeah councilman ran, stealing the Cubans and reaching out to the Haitians at the same time, it could be trouble. “He can’t win,” Kick said, half to herself. “We’ve got a hundred times the money he’s got.”

  “He doesn’t want to win,” Kelly grunted. “He hasn’t even announced yet. But rumors are bad enough. He wants to knock your father out, split the Cuban vote so we lose.”

  “But why?” Kick watched the video screen, feeling hypnotized by raw male charisma. Kenny Marigold was good. His natural warmth and charm made it easy to forget that he was her father’s worst nightmare. Kick noticed the sincere way he listened, then bent down to kiss an elderly, crying woman in the audience. He was talking about medical care for the poor, but . . .

  Somehow his fiery black eyes and rich, deep voice awakened Kick’s purely sexual side. Kenny Marigold reminded her of the Master. They were both Cubans, of course. But they could hardly be the same man. The Master was all about control. This guy was a soft touch, almost crying himself while he listened to the old woman talk about her medical bills.

  “Baby, we’ve got to stop him!” Kick’s father gave her a pleading look. “I know you don’t like dirty pool, but this is old-time politics. Maybe Red should take charge. He’s gotten me out of plenty of tight fixes before.”

  Kick glared at the two older men, both relics from an earlier political age. When things were going fine, they talked the modern talk of equality and respect. But at the first sign of trouble they were ready to throw her under the bus. It made Kick realize just how precarious her position was. One slip on her part, one sign of weakness, and it would be Red’s campaign. The little girl in her wanted to stamp her foot and cry out that it wasn’t fair. But her ice-cold mother had taught her self-control at all times.

  “Let’s not start lopping off heads just yet, Dad. What’s on your mind, Red?”

  “We can ruin him,” Kelly suggested. “We can dig for dirt. The guy is hot, but he’s not married. Never dates in public. He must have a girl somewhere. Or a guy.”

  “No!” Kick glared at her one-time mentor. “Red, you taught me and Sean a long time ago never to start something you can’t finish. Never expose an enemy’s weakness if it means exposing yourself, as well.”

  “Sean never had anything to hide,” Red countered. “Do you?”

  Kick resisted the urge to say something that would hurt Red very badly. “Everyone has something to hide, Red. Look at you, Dad, always sneaking dates with flight attendants.”

  “Those are lies,” Joe Sullivan said feebly. “I never loved anyone but your mother.”

  “Mother is gone,” Kick told her father bluntly. “Look, politics is all about making deals. If I go to Kenny Marigold and tell him we’re committed, but that things are tight right now, he’ll listen. I can offer him a sweet deal if he’ll stay out of the race.”

  “How sweet?” Red Kelly asked.

  “Don’t promise him too much!” her father cried.

  “I won’t,” Kick said sharply. “I’ll treat him rough and make him like it. Just like you or Red.” She marched to the door then paused, giving her pale father a worried look. “You know Dad, you really ought to watch it with those droopy peter pills. That blonde flight attendant from Australia, the one with the boobs, she said you practically had a heart attack!”

  * * * *

  Kenny had been expecting the call. One of Joe Sullivan’s people was requesting a private meeting. The young Cuban challenger demanded they meet on his territory, in a stuffy little office without air conditioning deep in Hialeah. But then Sullivan’s aide arrived. Kenny’s dark eyes went wide with astonishment the moment he saw the woman’s pale, fine-boned face.

  “You!” His cock throbbed at the sight of the slim, raven-haired Irish beauty in the sensible dark green suit. But lust quickly gave way to suspicion. Was this a trap? A set up?

  “Me? What do you mean, me?” The girl frowned, clearly not making the connection. Her sexy green eyes met his in open challenge, daring him not to respect her as a professional. Those eyes were strikingly beautiful, but they were also very observant, taking in everything. “I’m Kathleen Sullivan, from Joe Sullivan’s office. I’m here to talk to you about the campaign and the Cuban community. And I want – want – oh God, no! This cannot be happening!”

  “It’s happening, all right.” Kenny watched impassively as the green-eyed girl in the suit and pearls finally made the connection. First she just stared. Then she dropped her skinny butt into a battered chair, burying her pale face in her hands. Kenny hated to see such a pretty girl in such distress. Part of him wanted to comfort her, to hold her in his arms. But he wasn’t a beast. He couldn’t just take advantage of his secret role as the Master.

  “Look,” he said, keeping his voice calm even as his own hard cock was driving him wild. “This is a situation both of us have tried to prevent. It’s terribly embarrassing, and I apologize. But in all fairness to you, Miss Sullivan, I think we should cancel the meeting and just reschedule with someone else. Your father must have someone, a man, who could come.”

  “No way!” Kick rejected the idea, her green eyes flashing. Red wouldn’t back down, and neither would she. “This is politics, Mr. Marigold. We’re both adults, and we both know the difference between real life and make believe. Why don’t you listen to what I have to say?”

  “All right, shoot.” Kenny sank back in his chair, glad that the cluttered desk concealed his pounding need. Kathleen Sullivan had real cojones, for sure. Apparently she was more than just a Coral Gables rich girl who liked to play decadent games with tall, dark strangers.

  “And so, if you campaign for us, and not against us, in the long run the whole community will benefit.” Kick finished her speech with a sigh of relief. Kenny’s office was hot and stuffy. It wasn’t easy to keep her mind on the facts. The man she was dealing with made her come just by slapping her fanny or tweaking her nipples with his long, brown fingers.

  “That’s not going to cut it,” Kenny said crisply. “We’ve heard those promises before. Look, what can you promise us in terms of real dollars and cents?” A burst of triumphant music came from the restaurant next door, a steady beat that grew louder and more insistent.

  They began to bargain, talking government contracts and pork barrel projects. Kick was not at her best. She tried to ignore the hypnotic demands of the Afro-Cuban beat, just the way she ignored the stifling heat and Kenny’s dark good looks. He really was quite distinguished looking, especially in that nicely tailored dark blue Armani suit. “We can cut you in for this much,” she said, giving Kenny a number far higher than she had intended.

  “Not enough.”

  “All right.” Kick tried another approach, offering a long list of city government jobs for Kenny and his supporters. She had to juggle a lot of facts and figures in her head, calculating the risk to the campaign plus the number of favors owed. It was all mental effort, but as tiring as hiking the jungle trail at Everglades Safari Park. By the time she was finished, her head was pounding just like a set of Cuban drums. Sweat trickled down from her hairline to her temples.

  “Not enough.”

  “Damn it, Master, you know you can’t beat us! What do you want?” Kick nearly groaned aloud at the revealing mistake. She was used to tough negotiations, but not with the noonday heat and the pulsing Cuban music making her feel both languid and quite sexed up. Kenny looked as cool as ever, like a man equally ready for high-level deals or high-octane sex. Kick could picture the sex, and she fought the temptation to give in quickly just to please the Master. She wanted to prove herself, but at the moment she really needed a cold shower!

  “You don’t have to call me Master, Miss Sullivan. Not here in my office. As I said
before, maybe we ought to cut things short for today. Would you like a cool drink?”

  Kick glared at him. “You know that was just a slip of the tongue. You aren’t my Master in the real world. You’re an underdog, and you haven’t got the money to win.” The trouble was, Kenny didn’t look like an underdog. He looked as rich and tempting as dark chocolate in that expensive suit. Kenny Marigold had coolly rejected all Kick’s offers of support from higher up. Now he started talking about all the little ways he could raise money on his own.

  “Oh, I know we can’t win without big money from the top,” the devastatingly handsome Cuban politician was saying. His eyes were hypnotic, not soft brown but a midnight black. There was a regal quality to his face, the broad, high cheekbones and chiseled jaw suggesting coiled energy and power. He was dressed in constricting business attire, just like Kick. But unlike her, he didn’t seem to feel the Hialeah heat. “But you see, we don’t have to win. We just have to try. And after your father loses, maybe the next big politician will get the message.”

  “What about what your people need now?” Kick straightened up in her seat, hating the way her sweat-soaked blouse clung heavily to her damp skin. Kenny had to be sweating, too, but he sure didn’t show it. Kick kept gazing at his handsome face, amazed that this was her Master. She hadn’t expected such chiseled good looks. Fighting the pull of raw desire took all her energy. “We can give you enough to renovate the Hialeah hospital,” she said tiredly. “That will help people now. How can you ignore what people need right now?”