Infamous

by Nicole Camden

  “Why did Carl say to use the whip?” he questioned against the back of her neck, where small hairs curled, ticking his lips and catching in his beard.

  She gasped. “I—”

  “Planned to have yer way with me again, did ye?”

  She didn’t answer, so he squeezed her hip, enjoying its firmness and resiliency.

  “No, just to call attention to the store.”

  He thought about that as he unzipped her skirt. So she’d brought a whip and a girl with a camera to call attention to the store. She’s moving forward quickly, making the store hers, he thought with a flash of anger, but he doubted she would see it through. She’d come here to cause a scene, to get attention. Well, now she had his.

  He shoved her skirt down, and she stepped out of it; now she was wearing only her undergarments. Max felt the anger drain out of him as he took in the sight of Lille Marceau in a black garter belt and fishnet hose—a black thong the only thing keeping him from the creamy depths of her pussy.

  He stroked the backs of her thighs, brushing his knuckles against the cheeks of her ass, barely grazing, making her wonder.

  He stepped away from her. “Go to my desk and bend over.”

  She froze, then slowly did as he said, her movements as stiff as if she were waging a war within herself.

  He met her eyes as she moved in front of his chair; she widened her stance so her legs were spread wide, and bent forward at the waist, her eyes on his the whole time, reaching forward to grip the top edge of the desk. The sight of her, breasts pushed up toward her chin, her ass tilted up and back, ready and waiting for him to fuck her, had him dropping his hand to grip his dick and apply a little pressure, just to ground himself.

  Lille watched him, wondering why she was allowing this, why it thrilled her to allow this, with Max. She kept her eyes on him, tempted to disobey, tempted to take back the control she’d handed over, just to see if he’d let her. She thought he might, but she didn’t want it back, not yet, not until she’d seen what he would do.

  Turning away, he bent and rifled through her purse, finding the whip right away. It had a wrapped leather handle, six inches long, and short suede tails with a knot at each end. He stroked the tails through his half-closed palm, and then wrapped them in his fist and squeezed.

  Lille felt the muscles between her legs contract, and a wave of warmth ran over her. She felt vulnerable; it was strange and a little frightening. Her thighs quivered as she thought about his squeezing her, trailing the whip over her body.

  “What made you come back here with me, then? I thought you were of a mind to put on a show?” he wondered aloud, releasing the tails as he approached her, letting them swing and hit his denim-covered crotch, torturing himself just a little.

  “I—” she began, but he stepped behind her, flicking the short whip gently, so that the tails struck her lightly on the shoulder, then trailed down across her back to her hip.

  “Never mind,” he growled. “I don’t give a fuck.” He undid his jeans and shoved them partway down his thighs. His cock sprang free.

  He leaned forward, rubbing himself against her spread legs, letting her feel how hard he was, how much he wanted her.

  Lille gasped, pushing back against him, wanting to feel that hardness inside her, wanting him to spear her quickly, thickly, to take her until she could do nothing but accept.

  Max heard her gasp, felt her push against him, but he wasn’t going to fuck her yet, not till he’d gotten even for the torture she’d put him through the night they’d first slept together. He stepped back and to the side, so he had room to swing.

  The first serious stroke had her crying out and jerking, but she stayed where she was as he landed another.

  He stopped, bent close to her, and drew a strand of hair away from her face. “Lille?”

  “Yes.” She sounded far away, as if she were struggling to hear him in a fog.

  He brushed his hand gently over her ass, touching gently where he knew her flesh stung and throbbed.

  “Shall I do it again, then?” he whispered, stroking a little lower, down that perfect, tight little ass, to the deliciously hidden little pussy that was wet and begging for him to fuck it.

  Lille had never wanted anything more in her life. She was wet, her clit throbbing, her entire being focused on the big hand that was sliding and dipping inside her wet heat.

  He whipped her again, aiming between her legs. She arched and jerked, calling out his name. “Max.”

  He liked hearing her say that, liked this golden goddess calling out his name, begging him as he’d begged her for relief that night.

  He stepped back so that he was behind her, and changed his grip on the whip so that he held the tails and just a small piece of the base, trailing the thick handle down the bumps in her spine, mimicking what he’d done earlier, only this time he stroked all the way down to the base of her spine and beyond, trailing it over the sweet crevice that he definitely wanted to explore further, until he was spreading her legs even wider and tugging aside the thin sliver of fabric that separated her wet depths from his marauding.

  He probed with the base of the whip, using it to spread her moisture, working the base of the whip deeper into her with slow, wide circles, the braided leather undoubtedly rough against her sleek, swollen tissues. When it was all the way inside her, he slowly began to pull it out; but her body released it reluctantly, the leather rubbing against the inside of her channel and making her groan and writhe.

  “Shh . . .” he hushed her, and slid the base of the whip in again, harder this time and deep enough that his lip curled as he imagined how it would feel when he did it, when he pounded inside her over and over again.

  “Max, I want you inside me,” she ordered, and it was so nice to hear his name on her lips, to hear that she wanted him, that he removed the whip and cast it aside, then hurriedly reached for his right-hand desk drawer and yanked it open. He located one of the foil-wrapped condoms he kept there and ripped it open with his teeth, then rolled it on with a curse. Just touching his damn dick made him feel as if he was about to come—he was that close.

  “Max.” He saw her knuckles whiten where she gripped the top of his desk as he moved behind her and positioned her hips, canting them up and back. He guided himself with one hand while moving her thong to one side with the other, letting his fingers play a bit before putting his dick against the soft wet entrance to her body and pushing inexorably inside. He thrust quickly past the natural resistance of her body, feeling her channel squeeze him as he shoved deeper, deeper, until he was all the way inside; they groaned in unison, grinding against each other because nothing had ever felt so fucking good.

  Lille gasped. He felt perfect, his thick length filling her at just the right angle. She felt as if she was already coming, but the pleasure was suspended, just waiting to fall.

  Max couldn’t not move. He wanted her to come, but he had to move, had to slide in and out of her quickly, ramming himself into and over her, wishing he could go even deeper, shove himself through her skin and into her soul. He moved even farther on top of her, hammering her, wondering if he was hurting her, but he wasn’t; he wasn’t; she was arching her back, meeting his thrusts, her breath hitching and dry, until she was crying out and that tight pussy was squeezing him, making him roar and come so hard that his hips jerked.

  When he was done, he collapsed, catching himself on his hands before he could fall on her completely, fall for her completely.

  That thought had him straightening and moving back, pulling out of her in the process. His knees caught his leather chair, and he sat down abruptly—dizzy and out of breath.

  Part of him, the part of him that still retained some sanity, wondered what the hell had just happened.

  CHAPTER Eighteen

  Max moved off her, his breathing labored.

  Lille stayed where she was,
just for a few seconds longer, her body throbbing, both from the mild stings left by the whip and from the force of her orgasm.

  The desk beneath her was hard enough that she would have bruises on the tops of her thighs from the relentless pounding—what she’d enjoyed while it was happening now hurt a little, as did her pride. She’d just let him take her and fuck her. She hadn’t thought much about it while it was happening—she’d felt overwhelmed by him, by her desire for him, but now she was wary. Would he use her surrender against her? She’d never given herself like this before. She felt vulnerable and lost, as if she’d lost her script. She hated it; she didn’t want to feel this way.

  She straightened slowly, wincing, and glanced reluctantly behind her, expecting to see smug triumph, but he just looked a bit bewildered, and very relaxed, the intensity of his personality muted a bit, his eyes calm and almost . . . thoughtful.

  “That was . . . unexpected,” he said finally, removing the condom and throwing it in the trash. Chore complete, he patted himself absently. Looking for his cigarettes, she thought.

  Lille didn’t want to talk about what had just happened. She didn’t want to think about what she’d just done . . . or how good it had felt.

  “Yes,” she agreed, straightening her garter belt and thong, which he watched with lazy interest.

  She moved around the desk, avoiding looking at him as he sprawled in his chair, his pants still around his ankles.

  She found her skirt and stepped into it, reaching behind her to zip up the back. Her blouse was more difficult. She slid it on but couldn’t zip it by herself. Walking back over to him, she turned, holding her hair off her neck.

  “Zip me up,” she said shortly.

  The touch of his rough fingers made her shiver, but he made short work of the zipper, tugging it up as far as he could without standing. Lille didn’t want him to stand, didn’t want him to do anything else.

  “That’s fine.” She released her hair so it covered her upper back and stepped away from him again, in a hurry to get away, to gather herself, to remember who she was and what she wanted.

  Snatching up her bag, her hand was on the knob of his door when he spoke. “Lille?”

  She pretended not to hear the question he’d made of her name. “See ya around, Max,” she tossed over her shoulder, and made her escape.

  Kim caught Lille as she came back into the bar. The denizens clapped and whistled as Lille emerged, her hair down around her shoulders, her blouse loose around her breasts, and her look undeniably that of a woman who’d just been thoroughly screwed.

  For a moment, Kim thought that Lille was going to duck her head and leave quickly, embarrassed, but then the woman seemed to gather herself; when her head lifted, there was a confident gleam in her green eyes and her chin was held at an arrogant angle. Her shoulders straightened, and her walk elongated.

  Ignoring Kim, Lille made her way smoothly over to Carl and turned so that he could fix her zipper.

  He did, whistling softly at whatever he saw.

  Ignoring the whistle, Lille turned around, looking past Carl to meet the wide eyes of the bartender.

  “Vodka and Seven. Squeeze of lemon,” she ordered.

  The boy, Kim had heard his name was Kyle, didn’t comment; he just brought the shot.

  He didn’t even ask her to pay for it. Hot girl discount, Kim thought snidely, but she acknowledged that it may have had something to do with the fact that his boss had just fucked Lille in the back room while a dozen people sat around his bar.

  Carl ordered another round, for everyone this time, but Kim tugged on Jordan’s arm. He hadn’t had anything to drink but water so far.

  He looked at her with alacrity, his eyes wide at her touch.

  She pulled away quickly, not wanting him to get the wrong idea. “You’re driving, right?”

  He nodded, so she took her shot and his, watching him from the corner of one eye as she did so, the camera held at her side.

  She sucked on the lemon when she was finished, watching him watch her mouth. Then, when he wasn’t expecting it, when he’d lost all hope of getting it, she leaned forward and bussed his mouth quickly.

  It was over before it began, but her lips tingled. She licked them, tasting lemon, and he watched her, his lips parted.

  “Now we’re even,” she told him flatly, and moved away, wondering what other excitement she could capture tonight.

  An hour later, Max emerged to find his bar empty except for Kyle, who was wiping glasses dry, then hanging them from the slots behind the bar. Max told himself that he’d known she’d be gone, that she’d been in too big a hurry to leave, but he’d hoped.

  He tapped a cigarette out of his pack and put it in his mouth, then dug in his pockets for his lighter. “Where’s ev’ryone?” he muttered around the cigarette, which he couldn’t light in the damn bar anyway, so he didn’t know why he even had the fucking thing in his mouth.

  “The beach.”

  Max’s mouth fell open, and his cigarette dropped on the floor.

  “The beach?” He bent and picked it up, breaking it in half with one snap.

  Kyle shrugged. “It was the blonde’s idea.”

  “Her name’s Lille,” he snapped at Kyle. Why in God’s name he didn’t know, but the lad’s calling her “the blonde” had irritated him.

  “Okay.” Kyle hung the glass in his hand, and gave Max a measured look. “You all right, boss?”

  Max had no idea. He kind of felt the way he had the night he ate bad clams, or the night he’d found his mother’s bed empty and the front door open, as if someone had kicked him in the stomach.

  “When did they leave?”

  “About thirty minutes ago,” Kyle estimated, continuing with the dishes.

  Max looked at the door. He had a good idea of where Carl would take them, to the beach near Mary’s house, where they could all crash, since Lille lived there now. Max lived next door, though; some of them—or maybe just one of them—could crash at his place.

  “Carl said not to come.”

  Max’s head, which had drifted down as he mentally planned the rest of the night, snapped up.

  “What?”

  “Carl said—”

  “I heard ye.”

  Kyle put his hands up and backed off.

  After a moment Max apologized. “Sorry. He say why, for fuck’s sake?”

  Kyle said, “Tell Max that if he chases after her now, she’ll run.”

  Max had never chased after a woman in his life, not ever. The idea of it offended him on a deep, personal level. He started to tell Kyle so, but the lad was already looking at Max as if he didn’t recognize him, and who could blame him? Max didn’t recognize himself.

  “All right here, are ye? I’m over to the Box to pick up Bambi.”

  “Yeah.” Kyle nodded. “You need me to come in tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow was Monday. Cherry worked on Mondays. Scratch that, Cherry had worked on Mondays.

  “No.” Max shook his head. He needed to keep himself busy anyway. “Close up tonight and head home. I’ll see who I can find for Tuesday’s day shift if you can cover Tuesday night.”

  “Okay, sounds good.”

  Max nodded. Work sounded good. Work sounded just perfect. He’d focus on that. On work. And not think about blondes.

  CHAPTER Nineteen

  Lille woke up in a panic in her room in Mary’s house. For a moment she didn’t recognize it or the girl sleeping next to her. She glanced at the chair across the room and saw the camera—Kim. The girl seemed to be wearing all her clothes, which was good. Lille had had quite enough firsts last night. Looking down at herself, she saw that someone had stripped her and put her in a pair of shorts and a tank top. Mildly upsetting, but she figured it had been Carl, which was all right.

  She sat up, holding her head just to make s
ure it stayed in place. She shouldn’t have let Carl talk her into picking up another bottle of vodka and Slurpees from 7-Eleven, but it had sounded like a good idea at the time.

  “Note to self,” she muttered, “never go out partying with Carl.”

  She stood, and the aches in her body reminded her of another lesson she planned to take away from last night. “Don’t fuck the Irishman.” Calling him the Irishman helped; then he was just the puffed-up arrogant ass who lived next door, not the man who’d made her world kind of tilt and wobble on its axis.

  She located her bag in the corner of her room and pulled out her phone. Her battery was dead. She dug around a little farther and located the charger; as she bent down to plug it in, she grimaced with discomfort.

  Sitting down, she held the phone’s Power button down until the little green man lit up and the phone turned on.

  While she waited for it to come all the way on and populate with her messages, she glanced around the room. I’ve barely been in here an hour, she realized, if she didn’t count last night, which, as far as she was concerned, could be discounted altogether, preferably erased.

  It was a pleasant room, even if it didn’t feel like hers yet, and the warm sunshine coming in through the windows reminded her of San Diego, which she didn’t miss, hadn’t had time to miss. Of course, thinking of San Diego might also have something to do with the sand she felt in her hair and on the back of her neck. She’d been prone to late-night beach adventures when she’d first moved there, a year or so before she’d met Paul.

  Her phone beeped, indicating that her messages had arrived.

  One was from the private investigator, telling her he’d call her to give her an update later that day.

  Mary had sent her a message.

  Jordan said y’all made it home okay. The Fetish Box is closed on Mondays starting today—don’t argue. John and I will be home around eight a.m.

  “Closed?” Lille narrowed her eyes at the idea of closing a retail store, but a day off did sound nice, especially since she had the hangover from hell, and she’d been worried about Jordan at the store alone.