Slave To Love (sizzling erotic thriller noir - full length)

by Black, Nikita

  Mick lifted a negligent shoulder, and flicked her clit again. “I enjoy an audience.”

  “Sir,” she whimpered, wriggling. She tried to turn away from the ring of men surrounding them with avid faces. But he held her fast where she was, then started dragging her leash back and forth across her nipples. Her pulse pounded as her body reacted. She was helpless against Mick’s relentlessly skilled fingers. And he knew it so well.

  She wanted to mutiny. But didn’t.

  Just be his slave.

  “Take her through her paces, then,” Smythe said, draping his arms around Lauren and Rebecca. “And we’ll watch.”

  For a long, tantalizing moment, Mick rubbed and circled the burning center of Caro’s need. She moaned in pleasure, spread her legs wider, any embarrassment at her role vanishing in the sharpening sensations between her legs. Smythe’s eyes glazed over with lust and a glimmer of covetousness.

  Suddenly Mick’s fingers ceased their torment. “Maybe later,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “Come on,” he told her. “Let’s go to the bar.”

  She gasped with equal parts surprise and frustration—the same mix as on Smythe’s face. “Y-yes, Sir.”

  He tugged her leash and led her off to the library.

  “What are you up to?” she asked nervously, taking the glass of champagne he fetched from a bar slave and put in her hand.

  “Trying to frustrate a killer.”

  She gave a moue. “Not just me, then?”

  He smiled his wicked smile, and said, “Maybe you should act more humiliated by what I do to you.”

  “But I’m not humiliated.”

  The smile softened. “I know. And that’s one of the many reasons I love you. You enjoy our games as much as I do.”

  For a second she was so stunned at his casual confession of love she couldn’t put a single thought together.

  “But it might turn our man on if you felt humiliated,” he said. “Maybe that’s his trigger.”

  Tipping his glass, he dribbled champagne down her breasts. Then he leaned over and lapped it up. She sucked in a breath of surprise. His tongue was hot, tensile velvet, gently insistent on her flesh. He got every drop, concentrating heavily on the sensitive tips.

  It felt blazingly erotic. And she loved knowing the crowd was there in the dimness, following the path of his tongue with avid eyes. How innocent she had been that first time at Brimstone!

  “Should I pretend I don’t like this?” she whispered as he reached up for a kiss from her lips.

  “Possibly. We need to push the killer’s buttons. Get him angry and frustrated.”

  “So he lets down his guard and makes a mistake.”

  “It’s the only way he’ll be caught.”

  Mick spilled more of the bubbly down her torso. A thought suddenly came to her. “What brand is this champagne?”

  “Coeur de Diable.”

  A shiver traced itself down her spine. The same brand as the other victims. Things were coming together in a terrible kind of symmetry. Suddenly what was once theoretical was becoming all too real. At the same time, reality was metamorphosing into something unrecognizable.

  Mick’s lips glided over her, melding the two.

  It was impossible to deny her enjoyment, even to trap their suspect. She shuddered, and held Mick’s head to her breasts, drizzling more from her own glass when he ran out.

  Once again, he withdrew.

  “Don’t stop,” she pleaded, along with murmurs from their onlookers.

  “Shall I make you lie on your back and spread your legs, pour Coeur de Diable on your pussy and lick it off? Right here in front of everyone?”

  The idea made her whole body rush with excitement.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, voice wavering. Realizing she wanted him to do it more than anything. “But you better not. The reports—”

  “Did I tell you how much I like you shaved all smooth and soft?” he interrupted.

  “You said I looked like a harlot.”

  “A sensual, tantalizing harlot. A courtesan for my pleasure.”

  “Not a little girl?”

  He looked momentarily shocked. “I’m not your preacher man, Caro. I like grown women, not girls.”

  “But—”

  “Men are turned on by seeing a woman’s body. Especially the secret, hidden parts. It has nothing to do with age, but about revealing the forbidden.” He caressed her bareness with a kind of tactile awe. “Stripping a woman down to her ultimate nakedness for the pleasure of her man’s gaze.”

  She watched his eyes as he touched her, desire burning in their depths. “I didn’t know,” she said breathlessly.

  She could feel every nuance of his touch against her tender exposed flesh, the rough pads of his fingers, the scrape of his neatly trimmed nails. She imagined his lips and tongue taking their place, and nearly lay down right there.

  He sent her a devilishly knowing look, and murmured in her ear, “And now, I think we should go upstairs.”

  ***

  Caro followed Mick to the foyer to retrieve his kit bag, then they headed for the play rooms on the second floor.

  Again he told her to empty her mind of everything else and just follow his lead. Bobby and Cody were tag-teaming Smythe, and would let them know if he started acting peculiar or let anything slip in reaction to their performance. Or if he decided to target someone else. Her job was simply to obey Mick’s commands, and with any luck the rest would fall into place.

  Trust him.

  He must have seen her trepidation, for on the way upstairs he quietly repeated his earlier admonition.

  “Just be my slave, Caro. Bobby and Cody will take care of everything else. I’ll take care of you.”

  She was so far out of her league on this case, so tangled up in her own personal fallout, so distracted by her relationship with Mick, by her nudity, by the unbridled sex all around them, that she was relieved he didn’t expect her to think. She was grateful just to be the bait, the prize the killer sought to win. She trusted Mick and Bobby and Cody to do the rest and to keep her safe.

  Climbing the stairway, they passed a slave buckled into a shoulder-yoke, carrying a drink in each of her tethered hands. She smiled as she let them go by, graced with an expression of happy servitude. She must be one of those total power exchange slaves Tim had talked about.

  Amazing. A week ago Caro had no idea the practice of voluntary slavery existed in this country, let alone be able to distinguish the different types. Or fathom that she might choose such a path herself. That she would find incredible enjoyment in delivering herself, body and soul, into the hands of a man, to be used for his pleasure.

  True, not just any man.

  Only Mick. The Iceman.

  He urged her into one of the dozen or so upstairs rooms, telling her that each room was set up as a different themed play scene.

  In this one she found herself standing in a doctor’s exam room with three examination tables, complete with stirrups and metal trays to hold participants’ gear. Women were strapped to two of the tables, feet held high in the stirrups, being examined by a handful of lab-coated “doctors” who were testing and probing them with a variety of instruments, including their own bodies.

  Her shock must have showed. Mick pressed her into a wall by the door and dropped his kit on the floor. “You okay?”

  She tore her gaze from the women writhing on the exam tables, but couldn’t avoid hearing their moans of ecstasy.

  He wouldn’t.

  “Yes.” Her voice squeaked. “I’m fine.”

  His brows rose as he studied her. “Doesn’t sound like it. Feeling poorly, perhaps?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “Not a bit. Healthy as a horse.”

  “Horses are probably in one of the rooms down the hall, if you prefer that,” he said, a wry tilt to his mouth.

  “Huh?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind. Never did get that appeal
.”

  She had no clue, and was somehow glad she didn’t. “I don’t recall Forensics finding any trace of horses,” she murmured. “Or anything else weird,” she added for good measure.

  “Don’t worry,” Mick said, leaning down close to her ear. “Power is my turn-on. Not kink. And from the evidence, that’s what attracts our guy, too. Male power and lots of sex.”

  “Mmm,” she agreed as he kissed her neck. “He’s not the only one.”

  He painted up her throat with a wet tongue. “Too bad he’s not into licking. I feel like putting you in that exam chair and having at you with my tongue. Maybe I will anyway.”

  He was the very devil at teasing her. Threatening, but not acting. Leaving her in an agony of uncertainty as to whether he would or not. Making her ache for him to act out his erotic suggestions on her all-too-willing body. She knew he did it deliberately, to whet her appetite, to drive her to a frenzy of need so she was willing to submit to whatever he eventually demanded, regardless of what it was.

  She knew all that, but was helpless to withstand his wicked strategy.

  She felt his stiff cock slide between her legs and up, deep inside her. She moaned in surprise.

  He withdrew and thrust back into her, hard. “You know I can’t use protection tonight,” he said into her ear.

  She caught her breath. She’d never thought about that. The victim women’s bodies had all been saturated with their partners’ semen. But they’d also all been on the pill.

  He thrust into her again. “Are you okay with that?”

  She swallowed down a strange feeling, something between panic and elation. “Yeah,” she whispered before she could think about it. “I’m okay.”

  The idea that even now Mick may be planting his child in her womb made her knees turn to liquid. Waves of shock stole through her muscles, filling them with a heavy lethargy and a crazy helplessness. Her thighs fell further apart, like her body was encouraging him in his quest to own her totally. She knew he was exercising the ultimate male dominance over a woman, and it should make her kick and scream in anger, against him and his thick cock deep inside her, and the decisive power it carried within its velvet iron. But all she could do was lean back against the wall and pray he succeeded.

  At least if she got pregnant she’d have something to remember him by if the worst happened.

  “Remember, you’re mine,” he said, each word distinct and heavy with possession as he thrust again. “Mine.”

  “Yes,” she moaned. “All yours.”

  He grunted and gave one last, mighty plunge. She felt him contract and then explode, spewing his hot essence within her. She ground into him, reaching for her own climax, but she’d been distracted and wasn’t there yet.

  She let out a groaned, “No!” of protest when he quickly withdrew. “Mick,” she objected, panting, wriggling against the wall. Biting her lip. “You’re killing me.”

  He just smiled and adjusted his tux. “Let’s go see the other rooms.”

  A hot, liquid trail glided down the inside of her thigh. Her nether regions felt puffy, swollen to full bloom. Her clit was so engorged, if she looked in a mirror she’d surely see it poking out like a fat little stamen from its bed in the flower of her sex. Screaming for Mick’s attention.

  But he ignored it.

  The next room was set up like an office. A conference table and chairs filled one side and men sat “conferring” as two women circled the table handing them files and drinks, being fondled and sucked and pretending to resist being divested of bits of their clothing. On the other side of the room were a desk and a filing cabinet where a woman stripped to her garter belt and bra frantically alphabetized files while her “boss” paddled her reddened bottom.

  Mick tilted his head. “You finish the task force report today?” he asked casually.

  “Don’t even think about it, McGraw,” she said testily. “You know how I feel about that.”

  He tisked. “Sounds like you need to be cured of this unhealthy aversion.”

  She glanced around in alarm. “Oh, no—”

  The leash tugged and she found herself standing at the head of the conference table. The occupants turned to her expectantly.

  “Crawl up on the table,” Mick ordered. “Hands and knees.”

  Caro felt the blood drain from her face. “W-what?”

  “Obey my command, slave.”

  The blood returned in a blaze of heat. Her whole body was on fire.

  Trust him.

  She crawled up onto the top of the polished wood table. Her breasts hung like ripe peaches dangling from a tree. Every eye oozed over them as she waited on shaky hands and knees for Mick’s next order.

  “She says she doesn’t like being paddled,” he announced.

  “Time she learned to like it,” the man sitting to her right said with a leer.

  “Let’s see her ass,” said a man at the far end of the table. “To judge what kind of paddle would be best on her.”

  “All right,” Mick said from behind her. “Crawl to the other end, turn, and crawl back. Slowly, so everyone can see your ass. But she’s not to be touched,” he warned the men. “Only I touch her.”

  She licked her lips, and did as she was told, holding her head high. She knew how much it excited Mick seeing her like this, and knowing every man there would ram his cock into her if he’d let them. It excited her to be his weapon of power; it excited her to make these men’s erections grow and throb, spoiling for a single thrust into her; to own this fantasy for them and know each man would replay it later in his mind, imagining her making this crawl for him alone.

  She held Mick’s eyes as she crawled back to him, watched the pride of ownership and the heat of desire gleam in them.

  Which was the more powerful? The weapon itself, or the man who held it?

  Or did their individual power come only when put together?

  She reached the end of the table and waited patiently for his command, trusting that he had no intention of paddling her. He stepped closer and cupped her breasts with his hands, squeezing and rolling the nipples between his fingers the way he knew drove her mad. She groaned.

  “Well?” he asked the men around the table.

  “I say kiss her ass instead,” one said.

  Mick pretended to consider. She knew he’d wanted to get his tongue between her legs all night, though they both knew he wouldn’t risk it.

  “Or fuck her in the ass,” another suggested, and everyone snickered in agreement.

  “I have a better idea,” she murmured, her eyes seeking out his groin. She reached for his zipper.

  Mick’s lip quivered, wavering for a split second. Then he stepped back. “You must learn to obey,” he said sternly. “I decide what you are to do.” He motioned her to turn. “Turn around.”

  After a slight hesitation, she turned.

  “Back up a little and spread your legs,” he said, and she did that, too. “Now lay your cheek on the table.”

  This she wasn’t expecting. She balked, glancing back at him questioningly.

  “Now,” he ordered.

  She quickly dropped her arms onto the tabletop, putting her face to the cool wood. Mick held her hips so she couldn’t lower her bottom. When she was in a position that pleased him, she felt his fingers brush her prickling intimate flesh. She shivered at the electric contact, feeling the voltage clear to her toes.

  “Don’t move,” he admonished her.

  She managed an obedient “Yes, Sir.” What was he going to do to her?

  She heard a zipper’s rasp. But it kept going. Not his pants zipper.

  The kit bag.

  Her pulse shot sky-high.

  She stayed perfectly still as he rubbed his hands together, then spread an icy cold oil over her throbbing bottom and along the hot valley between. It smelled like...mint? Immediately her muscles clenched and tingled. She wriggled, and was rewarded with a sharp smack. She gasped.

  “Don’t move, I said! Or I’ll
get the paddle.”

  She held perfectly still, her insides a mass of sudden confused, churning need, her skin icy and craving the heat of Mick’s touch.

  All at once she spotted Smythe, standing at the very edge of the room, watching her with an unreadable expression on his sweat-gleaming face. She felt Mick’s thumbs spread her folds and his fingers slide over her, pausing to dip deep into her, then out to circle her shivering clit. She gasped, forcing herself to hold still, even when she felt something glide along her crevice. Something that was not Mick.

  Murmurs of approval sounded from the men along the table. Suddenly, she felt something breach her back entry and push into her. She gasped again, contracting her muscles around the object, squeezing her eyes closed in mortification. What had he put into her? In answer, it began to vibrate.

  She whimpered. No. Not that again. Not there.

  She squeezed her eyes harder. She didn’t want to come now. Not in front of Smythe.

  She could feel his predatory gaze watching her body, watching her submission, and in his eyes her humiliation. Her frustration.

  For a second her breath stalled. That could be the key. Frustration. Her obedience and Mick’s withholding. It fit with the absence of oral sex on the victim women. There was ample evidence of the men’s satisfaction, but what of the women’s? That had always been taken for granted.

  Something big slid between her thighs and into her, pressing clear to her womb. Something thick and hard and long. Immediately, it, too, began to vibrate, distracting her from her chaotic inner dialogue.

  She cried out at the dual stimulation, shocked at the vividness of the sensations. Her fingers grasped at the table top, her cheek pressing into the slick wood. “Sir,” she moaned, every nerve in her bottom and cunt alive with electric pleasure. “Please, Sir!”

  What was she pleading for? She wasn’t sure, knew only that Mick was the only man who could give it to her, that illusive thing she craved like air and water.

  His fingers continued to explore her, sliding back and forth lightly over her clit. They teased, provoked, rimmed her throbbing forbidden entry like a flickering butterfly, and in-between reached up to pinch her nipples.