by Maren Smith
Throughout the entire dinner, he’d been so hard he could have bench pressed weights with his dick, and he wasn’t sure whom he’d tortured more with the edging; her or himself. The sight of her losing control at the dinner table had almost unmanned him.
The moment they’d left the Master’s Table and entered the elevator, he’d all but slammed her against the wall and dry humped her for the duration of the ride up, drinking her sweet cries, sliding his hands through her silky hair, not letting her come up for air until the little ding had sounded their arrival on the top floor.
She brought something primal out in him, something that even he found almost impossible to control.
“This place is amazing,” she said, moving into his bathroom. “A Jacuzzi! Oh, wow!”
He bit back a smile at her almost childlike wonder and recalled her reaction to his threat about naughty girls being spanked by their daddies. The look in her eyes had been unmistakable—and she’d had the same one when he’d fed her the cake.
“Are you into age-play?” he asked idly. Part of him wanted to throw her on the bed, tear off her dress and fuck her into next week, but another part of him knew he’d probably lose control, and he wanted at least a little time to compose himself.
Might as well use that time to find out more about her.
“Into what?”
He could tell she was stalling for time. “Age-play.” He followed her into the bathroom and leaned against the door jamb, folding his arms. Deceptively casual.
“I… Um. You mean, like the Nursery?”
“And the School. The Castle caters to Littles of all ages.”
She was chewing on her thumbnail now. “Not really.” If her glowing cheeks were any indication, she was lying through her teeth.
“Then what is your thing?” he probed further.
She looked at him, that brown velvet gaze almost pleading. “Do you think we could have some coffee?”
“Sure.” He turned and headed toward the kitchenette. “Impact play? Edge play? Medical? Electrical? Breath play? A nice, plain old-fashioned spanking? What’s your poison?” he called over his shoulder.
“What do you like?” she retorted, obviously trying to regain the upper hand as she stalked toward the breakfast bar and sat down on one of the two stools.
He was unable to prevent a chuckle. “I’m a Dungeon Master, sweetheart. Doesn’t that give you any clues?”
She shrugged. “So you like dishing out pain, I guess.”
“I suppose that’s one way of describing it. Yes, I’m a sadist. But while I enjoy more types of play than most, even I have my favorites.” He pushed the button on the machine and the aroma of fresh coffee began to permeate the air.
“Like?”
“I asked you first.” He’d allowed just the tiniest edge to creep into his voice and turned to study her reaction.
He wasn’t disappointed. There was a flicker of something—guilt?—in her eyes before she lowered them. Then, almost immediately, she lifted her chin and met his gaze head-on. “Isn’t the onus on you to find that out, Sir?” she challenged him.
They stared defiantly at one another for a long moment before she said, “Coffee’s running over.”
“Shit.” He spun back to the machine and hit the switch before yanking out the paper towels. The damn thing had been on the fritz for weeks now, he really needed to get it fixed—or, preferably, replaced.
His mind racing, he mopped up the spilled coffee, trying desperately to work out his next move. His hard-on hadn’t abated in the slightest. It was almost as if she was goading him, and the more he suspected her of dishonesty, the more he wanted to throttle her.
And fuck her until she screamed.
He tossed the used paper towels into the trash and slid his hand into his pocket, flicking the switch on the remote control straight up to high.
Her reaction was immediate. She let out a yelp and clutched the breakfast bar, her expression pleading.
“You like that, don’t you?” he growled, turning back to the coffee machine. Pouring some of the hot liquid out of the mug, he added some milk. “Sugar?”
Tasha squeaked.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” A moment later, he set it down in front of her. “Here you go.”
“Please.” Her jaw was clenched. Was it anger? Frustration? An attempt to maintain self-control? He didn’t know. Nor did he care.
“Please what?”
“Turn it off. Please.”
“You like edging. You like orgasm control. I think we established that this evening, at least.”
She closed her eyes and bit her lip.
He prowled around to her side of the bar and reached for the hair at the base of her neck, yanking her head back. “Say it. Tell me what you like.”
“I l-like… orgasm c-control,” she stammered.
“And you like it when I do this, don’t you?” He tugged harder.
“Yes!”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Sir!”
Her long lashes, inky black against her flushed skin, fluttered. “Open your eyes,” he said.
With visible effort, she obeyed.
“Look at me.” He waited until her gaze met his before continuing. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to sit here on this stool and drink your coffee. Then you’re going to go use the bathroom and get undressed. Completely. I’ll help you with the gown if you need it. After that, you’re going to kneel at the foot of the bed and wait for me. Got it?”
Still gripping her hair, he felt the tug when she tried, unsuccessfully, to nod. “Yes, Sir,” she whispered at length.
“Good girl.” He let go and stalked back into the kitchenette, took a beer from the fridge, popped it open and leaned back against the counter, watching her intently.
She reached for her mug with a trembling hand.
“If you don’t want the coffee after all, that’s fine,” he said. “We can go straight to the undressing.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got anything stronger?” She eyed the can in his hand.
He immediately felt like an ass for not offering her a drink. While guests were on a strict one drink per twenty-four hours rule, staff who lived on site were permitted their own stock for evenings off, or to be imbibed at their own discretion, as long as they were sensible about it. “Do you like beer?”
“Not really.”
“Let me see what else I have.” He yanked open a cupboard. It was disappointingly bare. He wasn’t much of a drinker. “Brandy or whiskey.”
“Brandy, please.”
He sloshed some into a glass and set it down in front of her.
“Thanks.” She took a huge gulp, almost downing it in one go.
“How’s your clit?” he couldn’t resist asking. After her initial reaction, she was taking the relentless stimulation of the vibrating panties stoically—unless the batteries had died.
“Throbbing,” she muttered and blushed.
“Good. I want you nice and wet before I fuck you.” He took a sip of beer, enjoying the way she flushed even deeper at his comment. “Although, on second thought, maybe I’ll skip your pussy and go straight to your ass instead. Do you like anal?”
Closing her eyes, she drained her brandy. “I’m not sure,” she said at length. “Whenever I’ve tried it, it’s either been uncomfortable or downright painful.”
A sudden flash of jealousy pierced him at the thought of another man’s cock in her plump ass. Clenching his jaw, he fought it back. After all, he had asked. “Must not have done it right, then,” he said as coolly as he could.
“I-I guess not.” She was staring at her hands now, clenched in her lap. “Maybe…” She cleared her throat. “Maybe I should go back to the dorm. I’m not sure what the protocol is. I don’t want to get into trouble if I should be there and I’m… I’m not…”
“You won’t get into trouble, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He had to fight to keep his tone casual.
“But you’re welcome to go back to the dorm if you’d prefer.”
There was a long, interminably tense silence. As much as Eamon wanted to leap over the bar and drag her to bed, he didn’t do non-consent. If she didn’t want to stay, he wouldn’t force her.
“No,” she whispered eventually. “If you promise I won’t get into trouble with Mrs. Hardwick or Master Grimsley.”
“I promise,” he said. “If either of them asks, direct them to me.”
“Okay.”
“Are your panties still vibrating?”
“Yes.”
“Have you gone numb?” He was only half-kidding. He knew that could happen from over-stimulation.
She shook her head and the corners of her full lips lifted. “I’m just concentrating on other things.”
Brat. He had to fight back his own smile at her frank admission. “Well then, let’s help you refocus.” He switched the vibrations off, gratified by her little mewl of disappointment. “Stand up, take them off, and give them to me.”
Her eyes flicked up, wide with shock. “Don’t you… I mean, shouldn’t I—”
“Now,” he interrupted her in the voice he used when he meant business.
She did as she was told, getting rather unsteadily to her feet. A moment later, she was holding them out to him across the breakfast bar.
“Thank you.” He took them from her, his eyes never leaving hers. “Fuck, you weren’t kidding. You must be soaked.” He couldn’t help himself. He loved tormenting her, loved making her blush. She seemed so innocent, so naïve. Unwilling to follow that particular train of thought, he shrugged off his suit jacket. “You know where the bathroom is,” he said. “Off you go.”
As soon as she turned to leave, he took a deep breath and ran a hand over his face. His gut instinct, which he’d always relied on, was telling him to send her back to the dorm. Not to get involved beyond what had already happened. Go directly to Marshall in the morning and ask to see her paperwork.
But her hips swayed invitingly as she made her way to the ensuite, and he felt a jolt of lust at the mere thought of the plump, full buttocks hiding under that long skirt.
He couldn’t help himself. He had to have her again.
Chapter 8
Tasha was shivering but it wasn’t cold. She couldn’t quite work out what it was—lust? Apprehension? Fear? No, she decided, not fear. Eamon could be scary as hell when he wanted to be but deep down, she still felt somehow safe with him. He clearly knew what he was doing.
Especially in the bedroom.
Which was why, when he’d given her the choice, she’d decided to stay. She’d suggested returning to the Little Maids’ dorm in a moment of panic, half hoping he’d tell her to leave, half hoping he’d ask her to stay. His probing questions had been getting too intense, and she was terrified of him finding out the truth about why she was there at the Castle—and how little she knew about the lifestyle.
But the things he’d done to her at dinner… and then afterward, in the elevator. She had spent hours wet and aching for him, and in the end, her desire had outweighed everything else.
Which was why she was now kneeling naked at the foot of his bed.
And, she was forced to admit, she was getting a kick out of it. The anticipation was a heady aphrodisiac, the knowledge that in a moment, he would join her and once again do things to her body that drove her damn near out of her mind.
“Look at me.”
She’d been so lost in thought, she hadn’t even noticed he’d come to stand right in front of her. He’d taken off his suit jacket, bow tie and shirt, exposing that amazing, vast, finely hewn chest which never failed to make her mouth go dry. She suddenly longed to trace her fingertips over every line and contour, memorizing his tattoos, every ridge, every bulge. Eventually she forced herself to meet his eyes.
“You look fucking beautiful like that, naked, kneeling at my feet. Almost as if you belong there,” he said.
She didn’t know how to respond so she remained silent, watching. Waiting.
“Get up.”
Clutching the mattress to steady herself, she rose to her feet. To her surprise, he took her hand and placed it over his crotch. She could feel his erection through the fine material of his pants and suddenly longed to stroke the thick shaft—but his hand was still trapping hers in place.
“This is what you do to me,” he said roughly.
Before she could respond, his other hand shot out and pulled her to him. Cupping the back of her head, he bent down and kissed her, his lips caressing her own, his tongue delving into her mouth.
Tasha whimpered as she felt his cock jerk against her palm.
He groaned and pulled her closer, his kiss increasing in force until she was unable to breathe or think—she was surrounded by Master Eamon’s heat, his scent, his hungry lips robbing her of her sanity.
Just when she was certain her knees were going to give way, he reared back, his eyes dark and intense. “Hold out your hands,” he said.
She did as she was told, suppressing a shiver of apprehension as he fastened a black leather cuff around each wrist.
“I’m going to tie you to the bed,” he said matter-of-factly, “and make you come so hard you see stars.”
A renewed flood of liquid desire surged between her thighs at his casual statement.
“Lie down and spread your legs.”
Once she was on her back, he attached the cuffs to strategically affixed rings on the headboard. She tried not to wonder how many times he’d done this before. Or with whom. Unable to escape—not that she wanted to—all she could do was wait helplessly as he slid down over her body, the smooth skin of his chest brushing tantalizingly over her hard nipples, until his head was between her thighs.
“Remember rule number four,” he said with a devastating grin before his huge hands gripped her thighs, spread them even farther apart, and he put his mouth on her aching, swollen pussy.
He started out slowly, lapping his way up and down her labia, probing her, testing her responses, always getting close to but never quite touching her clit.
Tasha shuddered and writhed as much as her restraints and his iron grip allowed, but it was obvious that he was setting the pace, and there was nothing she could do but take it.
“Please,” she whimpered, when she couldn’t take his teasing for one more second.
“Please what?” he said, his lips moving against her slick, sensitive flesh, his voice humming through her very core.
She bit her lip, furious with herself for being too shy to ask for what she wanted.
“If you don’t say it, I won’t do it.”
Fuck! “Please… higher… God, Sir, please lick my clit!”
Not missing a beat, he granted her request, his tongue finally settling on that hard, aching bundle of nerves before licking it languorously in long, steady strokes, up and down, up and down until she let out a scream and felt herself spasm uncontrollably. Wave upon wave of pulsating pleasure rolled through her as she came undone, her pussy clutching at thin air, his relentless, delicious tongue still lapping at her clit until he’d wrung every last drop from her.
Tasha fell back, spent, panting. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m so sorry, Sir. I couldn’t help it.”
To her surprise, he was grinning. His lips glistened with her juice. “You will be,” he said, and smacked her pussy, hard.
She yelped in shock and pain and twisted her hips, trying in vain to close her legs.
“Nuh-uh, don’t you fucking dare,” he growled, resting his arm on one of her thighs, pinning her to the bed. “Keep them open. You broke a rule, and you will face the consequences.”
He did it again, even harder this time, the sound of his firm palm slapping her wet, sensitive flesh echoing around the room.
“Ow!” she howled. “Sir, I’m sorry!”
“I know. Hurts even more when you’ve just come, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” she gasped as the third smack landed. Th
e initial, fierce sting quickly subsided into a low burn, and to her astonishment, she realized the heat was only stoking her desire.
“Now, do I have to put clamps on your nipples to keep you focused, or are you going to be good from now on?”
“Good,” she whispered. How could she possibly be getting aroused again? And from having her pussy slapped, for Christ’s sake?
“All right.” Without warning, he slid a finger inside her and she groaned at the sudden unexpected pleasure.
“You’re fucking soaked,” he said. “You can act all innocent around me but your body will give you away every time.” He added a second finger and began to slide them both in and out.
It felt so good… but she wanted his cock. She’d been aching for it all evening and, as deft as they were, his fingers were a poor substitute.
The problem was, she didn’t dare ask.
He found that place deep inside her that she hadn’t even been aware existed until yesterday and began to stroke it, roughly. His other hand slid to her lower belly and pressed down.
Goosebumps prickled all over her arms and she was vaguely aware that she was yelping. The sensation deep in her core was heavy, overwhelming and inescapable… like a train thundering toward her, she just knew that if he didn’t stop—
“Please!” she keened. “Please may I—”
“Nope,” he said, withdrawing his fingers abruptly and giving her what she could only describe as a devilish grin. “It’s my turn now.”
Before she could even absorb what was happening, he had stripped off his pants and rolled a condom over his proudly jutting cock before once again joining her on the bed. “Hold still,” he commanded, lining the head up with her entrance, “this won’t take long.”
She didn’t have time to work out whether that was a threat or a promise before he was pushing inside her, stretching her, filling her more completely than she’d ever thought possible.
Master Eamon’s lovemaking was a revelation.
She wished he’d unfasten the cuffs, purely so she could run her hands over his back, feel his smooth skin and the rippling muscles beneath it. Instead she wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to draw him deeper.
