by Harte, Roxy
With a heavy sigh, I join him on the seat, watching as he zips, snaps and refastens his belt. He doesn’t tuck or button, leaving his shirt open. As soon as the limo pulls up beside the curb, he opens the door, not waiting for the chauffer.
He helps me climb out but prevents me from dropping to my knees to crawl. “I want you. Now.”
I imagine having sex with him in the luxurious lobby, the receptionist and doorman looking on, but that isn’t what happens. We hurry to the elevator and as soon as the doors close, giving us privacy, we are kissing like sex-starved teenagers. His fingers lace into my hair and he controls the kiss, letting it spiral out of control but then reining it back in with a tug, only to let it spiral again.
“I need you, Master,” I whisper against his mouth, the kiss not stopping even for the words to fully form.
His hands slide down my back to cup my bare ass. “You do?”
“Yes.”
His fingers move lower, prodding as his hands pull apart my ass cheeks to give him access. He finds my slit. “You’re very wet, Kitten.”
As much as I want him to, he doesn’t stop the elevator. We ride all the way up to the penthouse level. Picking me up, he carries me down the short hall to our door and once inside we don’t make it to the bedroom. He lays me gently on the sofa, commanding, “Roll onto all fours.”
I roll over and position myself on knees and elbows. I automatically drop my head, pressing my cheek to the cushion. I arch my back and lift my ass. Behind me I can hear him unbuckling and unzipping. I wonder if he will come to me still wearing his clothes or whether he will take the time to undress. The question is answered by the sound of his dropping pants, the belt still in the loops. His jacket falls beside the sofa and I see he slid out of his shirt and jacket at the same time because the sleeves of both are tangled together.
He slides his fingers down my spine, making me shiver.
“Cold?”
“No, Master.”
He slips his fingers along my crack, the sensation makes me sigh. He finds the slippery slide of my arousal, pushing one finger into me easily.
“Wet?”
“For your pleasure, Master.”
He withdraws his finger only to push in again, this time using two fingers. He teases, pumping his fingers in and out of me. I press back, wanting more. Harder, faster.
He lightly swats my behind. “Hold your position.”
God, oh God. His voice is like warm, smooth bourbon, holding me in place when I would have rather moved. The command pushes through me, making my body react to him in ways it reacts only when he uses his Master voice. I close my eyes, wanting desperately to move my hips back and forth, but for him I hold still and it is pure, torturous agony as I wait…he pumping me slow and rhythmically…me wanting him to force his fingers deep.
He slides his fingers all the way out and when he pushes them back in I know he has added a third. He keeps the push and pull aggravatingly slow. I growl with frustration and squeeze my pussy tight, trying to hold his fingers in, trying to force them out, trying, trying, to get what I want.
He smacks my hip again, lightly, but there is a slight sting. “That is still considered moving. Relax for me completely. Submit to my will, Kitten.”
I force myself to focus on my breath, trying to relax every muscle, but as my focus shifts from what he is doing to my pussy every muscle is tightened. He keeps pushing his fingers into and out of me, slow, slow, slow. I want to scream with frustration, but he’s given me a job—relax. I start with my shoulders, commanding them to relax, following the line of tension down my biceps, relaxing, relaxing. I allow the tension in my upper body to ease out completely, sagging with the relief it gives me, and then I turn my attention to my ass and thighs, allowing them to stop clenching.
“Very good, Kitten, but don’t lose the arch.” The hand he isn’t pumping me with taps my spine where he wants it to drop.
I lift my hips and pull the arch tight, every muscle in my lower back straining to hold the position. Need shoots through my womb white-hot. I feel like my spine orgasms the sensation is so great. “God.”
“That’s good, Kitten. Very good. Hold that for me.”
I cry out, the need too great, the pleasure too great. I. Need. To. Move.
I feel the cushions shift as his knees press into them. He is straddling my legs, one knee on the sofa, the other foot still on the ground. I think he will finally give me what I need, I think he will finally thrust into me. I am left disappointed. He slides the fingers out and on the next press in, pushes in all four fingers.
I lose my battle of self-control, pushing back against him. I want more, I need more. I am sharply reprimanded, “Kitten! Do not move.”
Oh God, oh God, oh God. I still, it’s hard to do, but I do it.
“Do you want me to bind you? Force you to my will?”
We both know it is an empty threat. Until I have the babies there will be no bondage. No real floggings or canings, or even good old-fashioned spanking.
I relax, letting him pump me with four fingers. I float on the sensation, knowing I will rise no higher, knowing I will not climax. I savor this simple pleasure, because it is what my Master wants me to enjoy.
I drift so well, I do not even realize when he eases the four fingers out and slides his penis in—until he chooses to push deep—deeper than mere fingers can go. My eyes fly open and I gasp, the sensation lifting me up as high as I can go and crashing me back to the earth in one fell swoop.
Grabbing my hips, he thrusts deep again, as deeply as he can thrust. It is still slow and easy, not forceful, just deep. My body responds with the same life-altering climb and plummet.
“God!” I shriek, growl. Primal emotion wraps my chest and squeezes.
He withdraws as my orgasm eases, and with slow, methodical pressure fills me again, pushing deeper and deeper. He hits the wall of my insides and something breaks within me, not physically, but emotionally, spiritually. It is like the first night we were together. Exactly like the first night he owned me.
“God! God! God!”
Am I praying for grace?
Am I praying for release?
There is no release. There is only my orgasm, wrapping me, lifting me, dropping me, again and again, at my Master’s whim.
“There are quiet victories and struggles, great sacrifices of self, and noble acts of heroism in it—even in many of its apparent lightnesses and contradictions.”
Charles Dickens, The Battle of Life
Chapter Two
Thomas
Washington, DC
A wintery mix of rain, sleet and snow falls simultaneously, my welcome to the capital city. I’m not sure how I managed to land in the taxi with a driver who is capable of cursing in three languages simultaneously, but it’s actually comforting he does. Of course traffic is a nightmare, adding further to my tardiness, and if not for the weather I would walk and get to my destination quicker.
Washington, DC, is a far cry from San Francisco, or more specifically Lewd Larry’s, the BDSM fetish fantasy nightclub that has been my home away from home for more than a decade as I’ve stayed hidden from those who wanted me dead. I’m still hiding, though now I hide in plain sight. Spy. Secret agent. Black ops soldier. Assassin. That’s who I am, not what I do, and yesterday that truth dawned very clear in my mind as I left Garrett and Celia, the two I love more than life itself, behind for the call of duty. I cut off my shoulder-length hair and shaved my goatee, put on the black suit, tie and bright-white shirt that will be my uniform for the next—God only knows how many—months, years.
I don’t recognize myself in my reflection. Lex Karros. My latest alias seems ridiculously contrived, like a Hollywood actor, but is actually more agreeable to my ear than Thomas Stephanopoulos, the name I used in San Francisco. The name my wife knew me by, my children, my lovers…
All except Celia…
Her eyes were closed, her head sagged so that her face rested heavily in my palms and
her tears dripped into my hands. I kissed the top of her head, trying to console her. “I’m sorry I’ve caused you difficulty with Garrett,” I said, but she didn’t respond. “I don’t know how to fix this. I need your loyalty, I need to know that I can count on you and trust you, but I don’t want to ruin things between the two of you.” Still no reaction and I was feeling so frustrated. I was failing her. “No one ever promised you it would be easy serving two Masters.”
Finally she opened her eyes and met my gaze. She said, “Tell me what to do.”
“Be good to Garrett. Love him while you’re waiting for me.” I kissed her, filling her mouth with my tongue, claiming her. Her tears left both our faces drenched. “I. Love. You. With. All. My. Heart. And. All. My. Soul.”
“I love you, Lord Fyre. Thomas.”
I cringed inwardly. I didn’t want the woman I loved so deeply to call me a name I detested so much. I wiped her tears away with my thumbs as I still cradled her face in my hands, and I told her a truth few knew. “Ari. My real name is Demetres Aristotle Velouchiotis. In private I’d like you to call me Ari.”
She repeated my name, “Ari,” and made my heart soar.
I don’t regret trusting her. Even if someday that trust could get me killed. Hearing her say, “I love you, Ari,” was worth everything to me. Taking a deep breath, I linger in the back of the taxi a moment longer and watch ice chips clink against the window.
“Sir?” the driver asks.
“Drive around the block a time or two.”
She’d sobbed against my mouth as I caught her lips. She’d begged, “Please don’t say goodbye.”
I couldn’t believe she was still professing doubt after I’d revealed my soul to her. “You carry my child and I have just professed the depth of my love to you, I will never ever tell you goodbye. You are my heart. I could not live if I didn’t have your strength to hold me together.”
It was the night I’d learned she carries my twins, and now I’ve left her.
As the taxi pulls back into traffic, I allow myself the luxury of a daydream. I imagine Garrett and Celia still sleeping and wrapped in each other’s arms. I doubt that is the truth of it. More likely Celia was so distraught over my leaving, Garrett had to restrain her. Under normal circumstances I would think she might be locked in a body-conforming cage she finds most comforting but since her pregnancy there is not enough room to contain her belly.
I expect Garrett to hold together the pieces until I return, knowing it may be years before I am able to. The question worrying me is whether I will be welcomed back into their arms when I do come home to them.
I know they can’t understand. They couldn’t possibly. I think only another soldier could understand the things that make me tick—danger, duty, honor, loyalty. And though the duty I rushed across the country to fulfill has little challenge and only a miniscule amount of danger, it does have everything to do with loyalty and honor.
I trust Garrett to honor our ménage. To keep both his and her love for me alive while I am away and to raise my sons to know me even though they may have to wait years to meet me.
I called them from the airport to let them know I arrived safely, and Garrett assured me they would be fine. I reassured him I would keep in touch and didn’t ask to talk to Celia. I know my strengths. I know my weaknesses and for Celia I would turn my back on everything else. My sense of duty is strong but my loyalty to family is stronger and so I dare not tempt myself with the possibility that there could be any escape from this assignment. There is too much at stake.
A glance through the window proves snow is now falling in earnest, large flakes that are quickly covering the pavement and sidewalks. It is easy to understand my driver’s irritation with my refusal to exit.
The storm that is blanketing most of the nation east of the Rockies delayed my arrival by several hours. So much for being in the office by seven, seeing that local time is 9:00 a.m. Lucky for me it won’t be my new boss’s first impression of me.
No, I am very well-acquainted with the woman to whom I am very shortly to be in complete servitude. Glorianna. Not her real name of course, rather her agency name as director of the Guardians, a US-supported covert organization. A decade ago she found me when I was a burned agent on the run. With over a dozen countries preferring me dead rather than alive, I’d faked my death and left my then agency support, the WODC based in Paris, to hide. She found me and offered me a fresh start. By becoming a guardian of US interests, a safekeeper of her interests, I would have her protection.
I glance down at the damp newspaper gripped tightly in my hand. The headlines make the nightmare real.
SAN FRANCISCO. Senator Abigail Wainwright-Fuller of California announced her bid for president Saturday, a single woman hoping to unite the nation and a Republican portraying herself as being singularly dedicated to the task. A widow for over twenty years, she has chosen to dedicate her life to public service and if elected would be the fourth president to enter the White House single, following James Buchanan, Grover Cleveland and Chester Arthur.
The Republican party may be embracing her, but there are many who do not want to see her elected based solely on the fact that she is female. That she is also a single woman is salt in the wound. I am here to be Glorianna’s…Abigail’s…personal aide, protector and secret lover since she dare take no other, the reality of the situation being that she will be under intense scrutiny. A woman with many secrets, safeguarding the fact that we will be having kinky sex will be the easiest of my tasks.
In exchange for my service she has promised me retirement from the profession that rarely offers an escape other than death. She has offered the same to my twin brother Nikos, who for the last decade was deep undercover, fulfilling my obligations. If for no other reason than to see him free, to give him his life back, I would have taken this assignment.
My driver pulls up to the curb and glances over his shoulder. Reluctantly I pay him and climb out. Lifting my face, I welcome the sting of ice.
As I approach the mountain of concrete steps that lead to her building I know the only way I am going to get through this assignment is to trust Garrett and leave the worries I left in San Francisco behind me because there is no room for error in this town or with the woman I serve.
I run up the steps, making quick work of them, and am not even breathless when I reach the heavy doors marking the entrance to her building. Inside the large foyer, I take off my trench coat and straighten my suit and tie before daring to report to her office. She doesn’t like excuses and she doesn’t accept tardiness. A metal detector and first-line security officers pose further delays and the minutes tick by before I am allowed to even enter the elevators leading to her office.
Exiting onto her floor, I note two bodyguards, a man and a woman, guarding one of many doors. I assume their presence marks her office since in all the time I have known her, I have never known her to be without an entourage of protection.
I should report to the reception desk and allow a secretary to announce my arrival, but I go in without waiting for confirmation. Neither agent confronts me when I pass them and pull open the door. I’m disappointed that I am allowed to stride into her office without challenge.
Glorianna is sitting behind her desk as regally as a queen. With her blonde hair tucked neatly into a French twist she looks the image of Grace Kelly as I once saw her portrayed in a framed portrait hung in a retro shop. Her eyebrows are perfectly arched, her eyelashes incredibly long and her Cupid’s bow-lips perfectly lined. I don’t tell her how beautiful she looks.
I can imagine the world embracing her as England once welcomed Princess Diana but I am not so certain the US is ready for a female president.
“You could be dead right now,” I scold, closing the door behind me. I approach her desk. “I could be anyone, an assassin.”
She stands, scowling at my tone and keeping the desk between us. “Except it is you. The agents wouldn’t have let anyone else come in.”
&nb
sp; I shrug. “You’re the one who believes someone wants to kill you.”
Her eyes widen and her mouth opens to say something but she doesn’t speak, seeming to change her mind. She walks around the desk, leaving a small distance between us. “I have you here to protect me now…even though you are late.”
“Not even I can control the weather.”
“You could have planned for it. Left earlier.”
I close the distance between us but make no move to touch her. Her breath hitches and she licks her lips. How does she ever think we are going to work together? Our relationship has always revolved around pure, unbridled passion.
Looming over her, I can feel the fear she has of me radiating off her. Still. After so many years. “I’m here now.”
“Yes. You are.” She turns away, but I grab her elbow and swing her back around to face me, making her gasp.
“Perhaps we should discuss exactly what my obligations and duties are to be in my role as your personal assistant.”
She tries to keep her tone light as she says, “Manage my schedule. Keep me alive. Make certain absolutely no scandals make the nightly news,” but her voice cracks, shattering the illusion that she is as relaxed and confident as she pretends to be.
I lean closer. “By any method necessary?”
She nods curtly.
“Let’s talk about your schedule, because I won’t brook complaint when it comes to meeting your needs.”
She swallows, sexual tension swelling in the room. It is less my nearness than the chemistry we share. I doubt she understands the need that makes her want me so, nor do I profess to have any mystical insight on why I desire her.
She looks away. “What do you see as my needs?”
“Eight hours of sleep, three regular meals, two hours for sex.”
“You just wiped out half a day.” She chuckles nervously and shuffles through some papers on her desk. “That isn’t feasible on the campaign trail and you know it. I’ll be happy with meals on the run and six hours sleep.”
