by Liz Crowe
“Oh that was no mercy fuck, Gordon. I wanted it. You wanted it. Now go home and don’t call me, because if you do I’ll think you might be falling for me. And we can’t have that, now can we? Oh, if you call me Peaches again I’m gonna pound you.” She shot him a look he figured out later was one of remorse and walked away without a backward glance.
He watched her until her small frame was absorbed by a crowd of fellow students headed to the library. Gulping back the strong urge to yell out, to beg her to come with him, he climbed into his truck and turned the key. Something in him knew she could handle Gordon Senior and the whole fucking mess better than he could, knew she would be The One, if he let her be.
By the time he got home, his grandmother was dead. He stuck around for the week. Attended her funeral, the hollow feeling never leaving him, especially as he gazed down at her still somehow stern and judgmental face.
He was introduced to his father’s new wife, a brittle-looking chick who managed a bank or something. Jack didn’t really absorb it. They endured an awkward dinner together, Jack drinking glass after glass of wine until the room wobbled, and he felt like he could handle it all. The next morning he kissed Mo goodbye and drove back, eager to see Suzanne and sick over the fact that he wouldn’t.
When he did lay eyes on her again, she was hanging off the arm of some tool he didn’t know from a different fraternity. She smiled at him briefly. Then turned to wrap herself around the other guy, bringing a sharp stab of fury to Jack’s brain. One that he suppressed by giving Freitag the high sign that he’d found a couple of girls willing to have a little private party with them. As he dove between the legs of yet another nameless, faceless female, he realized it was mainly so he could forget Suzanne and what she might have been for him.
By the time he hit the final summer of college with an acceptance letter to Northwestern Law School in hand, he anticipated a few months of hard work and nothing more. Looking back, Jack realized it was a pivotal set of weeks for many reasons.
Having worked his way up to job foreman for his father’s construction company, he was in the best physical shape of his life. Never more than a single phone call from getting laid—and two calls from a threesome if he wanted it. As he settled into his room in the house on Church Street in May he truly should have been on top of the world. But something remained just out of his grasp, an elusive…not-quite-there-thing that made him antsier and more prone to bouts of temper than ever before.
His body thrummed with residual energy. No matter what he did—no matter how many hours of work he put in, how many miles he ran, or how strong he got, he still felt his own restlessness choking him. Even after the first weekend of parties that ended with the usual tangle of naked bodies, he got up and would swear he could fuck a thousand women, right then and there. He could by God bench press them after that and then run a marathon. It was maddening. Making him a pain in the ass to be around, he knew for a fact.
“You are a pain in the ass, Gordon,” Brandis confirmed for him that first Sunday afternoon. “Truly, what the fuck is your issue?” They were washing cars in the bright sunlight of a warm Michigan summer day and had nearly come to blows over who had left a few empty beer cans rolling around on the kitchen floor. Jack frowned and concentrated on the rainbow reflected in the spray against the bright red of Brandis’ car door.
“I know. Sorry,” he muttered, tossing the thing down and flopping into a ratty lawn chair. His head pounded, while the rest of him seemed to shimmer with a sort of barely repressed anxiety. He felt as if his control was slipping. The more wild sex he had, the more he required. It was either exercise, push himself to exhaustion at work, fuck his goddamned brains out, or go bat-shit insane.
After stumbling inside to grab a couple of beers for them, he waited for his eyes to adjust. They found a scrap of paper one of the girls had left last night—one who had been especially amenable to his preference for rougher play, he recalled with a grin.
He wouldn’t deny that going hard, tugging hair, smacking asses was something that truly revved his engine. Any girl who encouraged it usually got the benefit of an actual phone call the morning after, if he thought he could get a little more from her. He ran his finger over the phone number and address she’d left. It was a downtown Detroit one, new to him, but suddenly he remembered what she’d said.
“Baby, you need to come to this club. I could show you how real men play with girls like me.”
He shivered, his entire body breaking into chills at the memory. Gulping down a few slugs of the beer, he sat, held onto the phone a moment, then dialed her number.
The moment was one Jack would never forget. The sights, sounds, smells of the place would forever be imprinted on him, drawing him back to that exact space and time.
His body was on fire, heart pounding, pulse racing. A strange buzzing sound rose in his ears, deafening him, lending a yet more surreal cast to the scene. He stood and watched, ever more amazed that he’d discovered such a perfect outlet.
The woman was bound to a sort of “X” or cross. She was naked but for a blindfold. Her perfect body was spread-eagled and she exuded a calm vibe that he misinterpreted at first to be resignation. He’d later come to realize it for what it was—the sensory rabbit hole of “sub space.”
She was in it already, put there by the show he’d watched that had made him hornier than he’d ever been in his life. But there was more to it than just a visceral need to connect, to put his cock in something, to gain release. No, he had a role here, a purpose. And that fact hit him hard in his chest.
He was needed. And that was more of a turn-on than anything he had ever experienced. This woman required something specific of him — more than a simple fuck. He got to his feet, beckoned by the leather-clad dude who’d been teasing the bound girl, bringing her to the brink of orgasm while demanding that she not allow herself to come. Then using a whip, some candle wax and a set of evil-looking nipple clamps to rev her up all over again.
Jack ran a hand through his hair. His body was on super high alert, but his brain was quiet, free of the incessant clamoring he’d been experiencing for the past weeks and months. This…this must be what he required. He would rise to this occasion and be all he could for the woman who trusted him enough to allow him to take over from the older, more experienced guy.
He held out a hand, and palmed the well-worn handle of a leather flogger. Grinning and ready to jump out of his own skin, yet at the same time sensing a familiar lick of power he nestled down in it, owned it, and at that moment found peace.
Chapter Nine
“Law school sucks,” the girl claimed as she flopped onto the couch nearby. Jack glanced up from his perusal of that very fact via mounds of torts and other random legal bullshit.
His shoulders ached as he stretched his arms up, not really paying that much attention to her. He allowed that that he may well have met his limit: being a full-time law school student at a premiere school and trying to fulfill his every sexual fantasy at a club he’d been invited to join not that far from the center of downtown Chicago.
The house he’d rented was a rattletrap piece of shit. The one roommate he’d found had bailed, and he was fast realizing something else important about himself—he did not like living alone.
He was lonely. And a little intimidated by how deep into the BDSM scene he seemed to be going. Plus flat out exhausted by all the flipping bookwork he had to do just to get through his classes.
Law school had occurred to him almost as a whim during his junior year at Michigan State. His roommate and new buddy, Rob, had been headed to medical school. As was Suzanne, whom he had managed to avoid more than he liked for the last years of undergrad.
He had no real idea what he wanted to do but was not about to join the “be a doctor” bandwagon, no way. Way too much blood and guts involved there. He could get his M.B.A., as he would be emerging with a Bachelor of Science in Business, but that sounded like more boring theory and stats.
&n
bsp; He’d been messing around with a girl then who’d been preparing for the LSAT. One morning while she slept off an epic fuck session, he picked up her study guide and settled down with it. By the time she woke up and booted him out of her place, he was convinced that should be his next step. The act of “practicing law” was not the draw but rather the challenge of taking that damn test. His interest was piqued so he got his own prep books and, in typical fashion, devoted hours to the goal.
Now, here he was at a very expensive school of The Law, while Rob had tossed his med school admissions letters and was in France, studying to be a chef. Suzanne had headed south and the last he heard had a serious future-doctor boyfriend to go with her own M.D.
After stumbling inside to grab a couple of beers for them, he waited for his eyes to adjust. No, he just was not the kind of guy who found isolation enjoyable. He liked waking up and having someone to talk to over coffee or to share a beer with while he studied.
The girl he’d been ignoring made a funny, exasperated sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh, breaking his reverie. He glanced at her again and did a double take.
She was curled up on the crappy student lounge couch in a corner of the main law building basement—a place he’d found and scoped out as his own for getting some work done between classes a few weeks ago.
“Yeah,” he said, raking his gaze over her near-perfect form. She had big tits, which were a bonus, but since he was an ass and legs man he waited her out. His newfound inner radar started pinging the second her dark blue eyes met his. “I’m Jack.”
“Hi, Jack. Jenna.” She proceeded to ignore him for a solid hour, and he let her. Because he had already figured something out about Jenna. And knew she’d stick around and chat some more. He smiled when he sensed her nearby, hovering over him. “Um, can you make heads or tails of this?” She pointed to an open passage in her book.
“Maybe. I think I need coffee first. Join me?” He got to his feet and gathered all of his papers. She watched, her eyes widening, then met his smile with one of her own.
“Yeah, sure, Jack,” she said, lingering over his name in a way that made him gulp as she stuffed her book in her backpack and shouldered it. The look on her face confused him some, but her body was sending clear signals that he intercepted and translated.
They walked, chatting about nothing in particular, and Jack got his first full look at her. She was about five foot four in flat shoes, with a curvy form, packed into nondescript dark denim jeans and red sweater that dipped into her impressive cleavage nicely. Her dark brown hair tumbled around her shoulders and her laugh was low, sexy. It rumbled around in his libido in a way that he recognized.
He’d spent last summer learning something about himself that shocked him at first. Then had settled into his new reality as a sexual Dom with an eagerness that made that first girl who’d invited him to club a very happy camper.
The owner of the small place in downtown Detroit was an older guy, good-looking still, and content to show him the ropes…and the handcuffs…the floggers… the whips and ball gags. He’d made a project of Jack actually, grooming him, he claimed, for greatness.
He grinned and took a step closer to the alluring, sexy Jenna as they stood in line for coffee. He could smell it on her like lingering smoke—her plain-as-day willingness to submit to him. She looked up and met his gaze.
The moment that should have been awkward made his cock slam into the back of his zipper. He smiled at the sensation. A corner of her full lips tilted up in a way he thought he understood. He figured that was the final sign. He was no expert yet but well on his way. While sensing the sexual energy of every female in a room was sometimes tiring, now that he could channel it, figure out which of them would actually provide him the outlet he required, it seemed that it all led him to this precise moment. And to Jenna.
She leaned closer to him in a way entirely inappropriate for having just met. Yet it was perfect. “I don’t want coffee, really. I’ve been watching you all semester. Let’s go to your place.”
He swallowed hard. Something was off, or shifted to the left, just far enough for him to sense it and hesitate. He looked down into her deep blue eyes. Saw the way her breathing had ramped up. The pulse in her throat caught his gaze, beating, beating. And those lips…dear god they were tempting.
He forced himself to smile in a friendly, non-committal way. “I don’t know, Jenna. Maybe I’m not ready.” He raised an eyebrow. This was his scene. He was not about to let her call the shots.
“Oh I think you are.” She turned just enough to shield her hand, the one she put right on his crotch.
He didn’t move or shift away. He did, however, narrow his eyes at her on purpose, making sure she got the gist of his displeasure. “I’m not sure I said you could touch me yet, Jenna.” He kept his voice low and slow, but his brain was starting to hum with a familiar sense of rightness. She lowered her gaze, tucked the offending hand back into her jacket pocket, and started to step back.
He gripped her arm, loving the way the heat transferred from her to him, and shot down his spine. “Don’t move.” He glanced around then, and put his mouth near her ear, taking in a fresh breath of horny female. “I can sense that you know what I like…Jenna….” Her name felt exotic, unique, on his lips. “But just because you want it does not mean I’m giving it to you. Are we clear?”
Keeping her eyes downcast, she nodded. Then looked up fast, surprising him. Later, he would realize that was the moment he should have known, should have figured out Jenna’s manipulative tendencies. If he had been more mature, more at ease with his powers of perception, or at least in tune with his gut feeling to run away from her as fast as he could, he might have avoided a shit ton of head and heart ache.
Instead he smiled at her boldness, liking it and wanting to tame it—thinking he could, which was mistake number one.
“You don’t have to…Sir,” she whispered, not tearing her gaze from his. Something about her rubbed him both ways—wrong and right. He could not figure it out. Her neediness—that familiar aura he’d come to know and understand those nights at the club that first summer—was tinged with something else, something a little ominous. He ignored it. And let his overwhelming urge to control her shove away the worry.
“I know that. Let’s sit. Have coffee.” He grinned at her exasperated look. Yeah, control this scene, Gordon. Otherwise she would and something told him that would be very bad.
“After you.” He grabbed their cardboard cups and nodded toward an empty table in a sea of students drinking, reading, talking—doing all the normal things. He zeroed in on Jenna and the many subliminal possibilities she was tossing his way.
“So Jenna,” he said stretching his legs out under the table and letting his calf make contact with hers. He sensed her flinch ever so slightly at the touch. “Where are you from?”
She sipped her coffee, kept her gaze on his. “Southern Illinois, little town you’ve never heard of.”
“Okay.” Jack stayed apart, trying to remain objective, but something about her fairly screamed “take me now” so loudly he was surprised everyone around them couldn’t hear it.
He swallowed hard, willed himself back from the edge, and made small-talk with her. It was not comfortable, and the more they sat and the more he tried to make it “just a chat,” the hornier he got. He knew damn good and well she was throwing it, her vibe, just to see if he’d catch it. He did not like being tested. But at the same time wanted to prove he could pass with flying fucking colors.
Finally he stood, slowly, never more unsure and sure of something at the same time in his life. She rose at the same pace, her body drawing his eyes and making him have to bite his tongue not to say something that would tip the scale of power in her favor. Because that is exactly what this was, as they stood and stared at each other across the small, coffee shop table—a power play.
Her hair tumbled around her face. High cheekbones were flushed red, dark blue eyes flashed, the hand
s she put on her hips all tempted. It was as if she were dressed the way he preferred, in a short, easy-access dress and towering high heels, hair done up, all ready for him. When really she just stood there in jeans, a sweater, and little makeup. The minute flowed into two as the world continued to orbit around them.
He frowned, pissed at himself for being so weird. Attaching emotion to something that should contain none, trying to focus on his ability to show her a good time, nothing more or less. It was not until many years later that he understood that keeping himself emotionally aloof from so many for so long had been a mistake and led him to this moment, when he allowed himself an ill-timed moment of vulnerability.
She leaned back then, cocked one hip as if pulling away. He nearly fell forward but caught himself on the table. This was too much. He should bolt, fast, before he did something really dumb.
“C’mon,” he blurted out, his voice gruff. “We need to clear the air.”
She let him put a possessive hand in the small of her back and guide her out without speaking, as if they were already a couple. His house was a ten-minute car ride from campus but he toyed with walking there, to get his head straight.
Then he found himself opening the passenger’s side door and handing her in. She moved in a fluid way like a dancer. Jack couldn’t help but be mesmerized even as she did something as innocuous as get into his truck. The ride was quiet but in an oddly comfortable way, as if they were used to each other’s silences and willing to let them happen.
When he parked in the drive, a sudden feeling of apprehension gripped his gut and gave it a painful twist. She sat, waiting for him to make the first move like a good submissive. He shuddered when the word hit the front of his brain. She was that, to be sure, but his? That was another question and one he was not sure he wanted the answer to, yet.
