Going Under

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “Now what?” she asked, in that throaty voice that came from screams of pleasure. Her gaze wandered over the bed, the plumped pillows and the colorful duvet, turned down invitingly. “Sleep?”

  “It’s late. I thought you might be tired.”

  She shook her head, a slight smile on her pink lips. He had a flash of how they’d looked wrapped around his cock and his balls tightened inside the silk boxers he’d pulled on. It hurt a little, a reminder that he wasn’t twenty anymore. Five times in twenty-four hours was pretty much hitting his limit. Not like the insatiable Emily. Women had all the luck that way. But then, he had Emily, and wringing multiple orgasms from her brought its own infinite rewards.

  “I’m not, though,” she said and he had to reel his mind in to focus on the present. She hesitated, searching for words and he suspected he knew what was coming next. “I’m kind of thinking I should go home. I know I promised you all night, but...”

  “What are you so afraid of, Emily?” Blunt, yes, but he was growing tired of her retreats.

  “I’m not running,” She shoved her hands in the robe pockets and hunched her shoulders. Irritation burned away some of the soft edges blurred by sex. “The truth is—” She sighed and came to sit next to him on the bed. Tendrils of dark, wisping curls escaped the loose knot of her hair and clung to the moist skin at her temples. He touched one, moving it from the satiny skin, and coaxing it to coil around his finger. She leaned into the caress, awareness humming between them. “It’s Anansi,” she confided. “Last night he destroyed the kitchen. I put the garbage in the hall closet this time, even though there’s not much in it, but he’s not used to me being gone so much. Lord knows what he’s gotten into now.”

  She chewed on her full lower lip and he stopped her by giving her a kiss. A reward for telling him a true thing, no matter how prosaic. Her mouth opened to him in a way she hadn’t before, unguarded and differently flavored, without her particular level of skepticism, as if she’d expected not to enjoy it very much. Her hand moved to the back of his neck, slim fingers toying with the short hairs there, in that newly tender way of hers that excited him beyond reason.

  Sliding his hand inside the robe, he cupped her naked breast, warm and dewy soft from the shower. She breathed a moan into his mouth and he knew he had to have her once more, against the freshly mounded pillows, his cock astonishingly rising to the occasion.

  With a sense of reverence, he peeled open his robe, which looked remarkably seductive on her lithe body. Like a gift from God, her tits came into view, perfect white globes, almost obscenely large on her delicate frame, with sweetly pink nipples that transformed them into something angelic. He kissed them, hands spanning her ribcage, tasting the rose-scented salve he’d rubbed into her sore tissues and savoring her soft sounds of passion. The clamps had hurt her, but the pain also worked for her. In that way, they were the same, needing something more to enable them to truly let go.

  She thought no one understood her, but he did. And would.

  He lowered her onto the pillows and opened the robe the rest of the way, so the black satin would frame her long white body. Tunneling his hands in her hair, he loosened the knot and spread the damp tendrils over the white cotton. She let him, following his lead with languid acceptance, her gray eyes misty, spreading her lovely white thighs for him once he’d shed himself of the boxers and sheathed himself with a condom. He slid into her welcoming flesh, shivering as her tight muscles seemed to pull him in.

  Hand in glove. Like coming home.

  All the clichés ran through his head. And their skin touched, making him forget the words and only drown in her, the scent of her, the silky feel of her body clasping him, the music of her moans and soft cries. When it finally came, his orgasm burned, stinging through his balls and making him gasp aloud, unexpectedly thrashing while her short nails held him tight. He shuddered through it, through the aftershocks of her climax, ignoring the vague sense of foreboding, that only pain awaited him in the end.

  * * *

  He walked her home, though she insisted he didn’t need to. Though he couldn’t recall the last time a lover left his bed in the middle of the night—excepting sessions purely for sex, when no one had planned on sharing sleep afterward—it seemed ungentlemanly to let her walk home alone. Akin to leaving cash on the dresser.

  It didn’t pay to contemplate that it would be his dresser and she leaving a tip for services rendered.

  They held hands as they walked through the dark neighborhood streets. For once it wasn’t raining, or even misting, and an owl called in the distant night. They hadn’t spoken much since that last, truly stunning lovemaking. Totally vanilla, without any edge or fancy sprinkles. And now he walked her home, as he had his teenage girlfriend and first love, pretty blonde Bailey Jones, after they had sex on a blanket by the lake, with much the same innocent earnestness. Odd that she came to mind right then.

  He even kissed Emily at the door, her back against the wooden frame and her delicate fingers on his neck, her supple mouth and body offered up for him to enjoy at leisure. Until she went inside and left him in the cold.

  “Maybe I should come in with you.” He brushed a kiss under her earlobe, which always made her shiver a little. “Help you clean up whatever mess Anansi has made.”

  “No, Fox.” She pulled away and looked him square in the eye, hers impenetrably dark in the shadows of her porch. “Line in the sand. I don’t want anyone in my house.”

  “Give me a reason.” He knew it wasn’t fair, using the stern tone, the one she’d trembled to obey in the height of arousal. It affected her even now, he felt it in the yielding of her skin under his hand, where he cupped her naked bottom inside the trench coat.

  “I’m not doing what you tell me to,” she answered with determination. “I’m home and that’s over with.”

  “For tonight.”

  “For tonight,” she conceded. “But making me answer questions is off the table. Permanently.”

  “You still don’t trust me.”

  She laughed, but not her joyful one. More with a sense of irony. “After all I let you do to me? I apparently trust you more than any other human on this planet. Be satisfied with that, Fox.”

  He flexed his hand, digging his fingers into her bottom so she gasped. Her avid pussy would be inches away and he wanted to touch her there again, make her come on her doorstep, under the glow of her porch light. “I don’t know what it will take to satisfy me where you’re concerned, but I’m not there yet.”

  “Me neither.” She kissed him. “There’s always tomorrow night.”

  “Same rules?” They needed rules, he thought, to keep this thing between them in order.

  “No. I want to tell you what to do.”

  “Hmm.” He hedged. Already he was walking precarious ground with her, uncharacteristically out of control. He’d given up control to other lovers, of course, but none he’d fallen so hard for, so fast. Shit. You just have amazing chemistry with Emily, Sparky. Get a grip. Still. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea yet.”

  She lightly scratched the back of his neck. “It’s only fair. And you said we could play it that way.”

  “I’m experienced with it, though.” He tried to sound logical. “You have to learn how to administer pain without causing injury, how to read the other person and know when they can be pushed.”

  She narrowed her eyes, seeing right through him. “But you’ve played it that way. You can teach me.”

  “I can’t instruct you and obey you at the same time.” Which wasn’t really true, but he felt a sense of growing panic at having her act as his mistress. Already her stiletto heel was pressing its point into his heart. At the same time, he couldn’t tell her no. He suspected they both knew it.

  “You’re the writer. Write me a scenario. Tell me what I should do, how you like it. I’m ver
y good at following a story.” She stopped herself. A slip. What had she thought she inadvertently revealed to him?

  And, hell, write out a scenario for her? Already the images were pouring into his head—horribly arousing, tremendously tempting. It might kill him, but he couldn’t resist the potential. Feeling desperately on edge, he gave in and put his hand between her thighs. Hot and wet as ever. And yielding. Opening enough for him to push two fingers into her tight channel and damn any neighbors who might be awake to see. Her eyelids fluttered closed and she hummed under her breath, a fine trembling taking her over. He pushed her up against the door, shielding her from any prying eyes, little as she seemed to care at the moment.

  “All right,” he said, tasting his own downfall in the words. “You win. But I get something in return.”

  She opened her eyes, glazed with rising arousal. “Haven’t you already had it—over and over?”

  “Something else.” He made it a demand, while he still could, pressing the heel of his hand into her clit while he stroked her G-spot insistently, but with not quite enough pressure to make her come immediately.

  “What?” Her hips pumped against his hand and she clung to him. I apparently trust you more than any other human on this planet, she’d said.

  “I’ll write you the story you want.” Of how to master him. To drive him to his knees and destroy what few defenses he had left against her. “And I’ll ask you a question at the end. You promise to answer it. Honestly. You can write it out. Give me a story. Or tell me in person. Just so long as it’s true.”

  “Fox—”

  “My line in the sand, Miss Emily.” He lightened his caresses, leaving her hanging. He might be soft on her, but he hadn’t lost his ruthless edge entirely. “You can say no and then we’ll play my way again. Only this time I’ll tie you to the bed and keep you from coming all night.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would. And you wouldn’t be able to resist me. You know it.” He lessened the pressure even more, withdrawing his fingers to brush the bare edges of her vulva. She made that delicious sound of frustration. If she only knew how that hoarse whimper alone rewarded him for denying her.

  “I could resist you,” she insisted, nails digging into the back of his neck, body straining. “I just don’t want to.”

  “Then you agree to the terms.”

  “Yes. Damn you.” She moved her hips, riding his hand pleadingly.

  “Good girl,” he said and kissed her deeply. “You can come now.”

  He clamped his hand on her willing flesh and she flashed into the climax, crying her release into his mouth, like the breath of life itself.

  * * *

  Fox had never considered himself much of a poet.

  Hell, he was a journalist. A crack investigative one, which meant that words had always been a basic tool. They served as the Ford pickup truck of his career—simple, sturdy, serviceable. Words carried his message, which was the truly valuable piece of what he had to offer.

  Quite the extreme he’d come to, that he found himself waxing eloquent. Over what amounted to his version of a love letter to a girl. His imagination too fired up for sleep, he sat up until early morning at the kitchen table with his laptop and a bottle of wine. Much as he tried to keep it clinical and instructive, the fantasy poured out of him. What she’d be wearing and how she’d treat him. Even the things he didn’t want to reveal ended up sneaking in there.

  He’d had women dominate him before, of course. Men, too, a kick with a different bite. Mostly he’d liked the sense of danger, of putting himself on the edge and letting them have their way with him. As a result, those encounters—none that he’d call relationships, though several had lasted for weeks at a time—had been about their pleasure. Something he’d been comfortable with.

  They’d provided the counterpoint to the often relentless sense of ruthlessness his career demanded. In philosophical moments, he’d say that by giving himself up for someone else to use expiated his sins of using other people’s secrets to line his pockets. Except that he’d never really regarded what he did as wrong. More of a karmic debt, maybe. In truth, anyone who kept secrets deserved to have them dug out.

  Non-philosophically, he’d have to admit that he did it because the sex that way was hot.

  As hot as dominating someone else, just in a different wave pattern. But this, giving the sweetly insidious Emily the keys to his psyche, especially while she kept hers locked away, this was sexual dynamite. It played nicely for him that she’d be a virgin at this. Maybe even making mistakes. His cock thumped as he wrote it all out.

  If she followed the script—and he’d left room for her to improvise—it could be the hottest night of his life.

  Maybe that would purge him of this excessive desire for her. This sense that he’d fallen into a sexual black hole with her, like Labyrinth, which sucked the characters in and then mercilessly reworked them, spitting them back out irrevocably altered.

  His lifeline would be the hook into her. He contemplated what question to ask. What would she answer honestly—despite her promises, he fully expected her to continue to lie if she felt too cornered—but that would also reveal what he needed to know about her.

  Out of energy and ready to sleep, he typed it out and saved the document to review and print later.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  She should be totally worn out, not revved and riding a wave of energized excitement.

  Whatever had drawn her to Fox, that made her break all her own rules and dive into this affair against her better judgment, she congratulated that instinct. She’d climaxed more with him in the past twenty-four hours than she had in her life leading up to it—with other people. And self-induced orgasms didn’t hit that same pinnacle. They were more...therapeutic, sadly.

  Something about Fox, though, with his cheerful enjoyment of all things sexual had lit a flame in her that continued to grow. She imagined glaciers thawing under the effects of her own global climate change, cliffs of ice peeling off and falling away with booming crashes. Each orgasm, from the syrupy ones to the wrenching kind that peeled off the back of her skull, every one signaled a disintegration of this automaton she’d somehow become, her throat sore from screaming out the sound of each explosion.

  Riding the energetic high, she worked for hours on the new module. A journey into the soul for her hapless players. From the closet they’d make choices, dominate or be dominated, with a hefty price for both. Even when he’d punished her, Fox had taken care that the pain only stoked her arousal, instead of killing it. It took a great deal of finesse and attention for him to do all he’d done to her. She had no doubt he’d been quite gentle, in the grand scheme. That was part of why she wanted him to teach her to play that side of the fence. The game would require that those who chose to dominate—and she could just picture the trolls who’d glom onto that—would pay a heavy price for treating their submitting partners with less than perfect care.

  A trap for the worst trolls. Cosmic justice at its best.

  Yes, she wanted to try her hand at turning the tables on Fox, so she could apply it to the game. And because it had truly rattled him.

  That much had been clear as she had gotten much better at reading through his insouciant charm. Gone was the mischievous trickster who’d kissed her foot and jerked off for her. All that had been part of his seduction—which had clearly worked—and had been a sincere offer. Things had changed, however. Sometime between the foyer and the bedroom, when she’d gone from panicking over some rope to bending over and letting him cuff her.

  She’d stopped pretending to be someone else, for starters. Keeping up with Fox’s relentless sensual attention had consumed far too much of her mental and physical energy for that. And his willingness to stop asking her questions and let her exist in the moment had helped too. Without conversation,
she’d given him her honest self and it had been brutally liberating.

  On some deep level, he’d known it and responded. Maybe knowing that she’d try for the same from him. Oh, he played it as if he were Mr. Honesty, with all his “let’s lay the cards on the table” approach. But he had his guarded depths. Like those hidden areas of the game that players only discovered by noticing the absence of clues. The secret chamber behind the featureless wall. The puzzle compartment in the drawer that seemed a bit too shallow for the apparent depth of it.

  That was Fox in a nutshell. He liked to come across as carefree and easygoing to the point of shallowness. But he had depths. Interesting ones made all the more so because he covered them over with a false bottom. As in the best of games, he’d handed her the clue to unlocking him right along with the riddle.

  Was he even now writing out the instructions? The guidance manual to his sexual soul. She liked the sound of that.

  Anansi nosed her. Dawn eased through the mist outside, pink-tinged. This time he’d eaten a pair of boots he’d managed to drag out of her closet and had been sulking over her reaction in the hours since. Apparently his doggie brain had decided that daybreak meant a new beginning for them both, plus a run trumped all arguments and hurts.

  Feeling the tired finally, she nevertheless took him out for the run on the beach, her body deliciously stiff and sore from Fox’s attentions. She ran past his house, but the windows slept dark and featureless in the morning fog. Not surprising. She was the odd man out by not sleeping. After she burned off the last dregs of amazing sex from her body, she’d sleep for a few hours, give the team time to chew over the framework she’d sent.