His Only Hope: The Mission Chronicles, Book 2

by Skylar Kade

  “Okay, baby, I was just checking.” He clipped her wrists to the waiting eye hooks and she gave an experimental tug. Neither the cross nor her cuffs budged. “Careful, sweetheart, don’t chafe your wrists.”

  He reached up to rub her leather-covered skin and her heart swelled with his thoughtfulness, so different from Master Joseph. She sank into the moment, resting her head against one arm of the X. “Thank you, Sir.”

  Gabe smiled at her in the mirror before kissing her shoulder and neck. The kisses sent shivers ricocheting through her body and she squirmed against her bonds.

  And then he bit down on the sensitized juncture of her shoulder and neck, and she came undone.

  “Good grief, Sir, not fair!” she managed between waves of tingles.

  She reached to pull his head closer, to keep him there, but she was cuffed, dammit.

  His wicked laugh taunted her and led into a panty-melting whisper in her ear. “Oh, this is just the beginning, cara.” He pressed her to the X and continued, “First, I’m going to get you all hot and bothered, using only my hands and tongue. And then you’ll get your choice of toys for me to use—crop,” she let out a helpless moan, “flogger,” and another moan, “or paddle.”

  Beneath the sanity-wrecking swirl of lust and love, Hope realized her love for Gabe added another dimension of pleasure to their play. Her heart didn’t just race from his touch anymore. Her mind didn’t float off into nothing—it floated off into his presence.

  God, she was beginning to sound like one of those sappy romance heroines.

  A sharp pinch to her ass brought her back to reality before she could get any sappier.

  “Oh no you don’t, baby. I saw those eyes glazing over. There’ll be plenty of time to sink into subspace later. Besides, you haven’t heard yet what the rest of my plans entail.”

  She gaped at his reflection. “I get more? What, is it my birthday?”

  “No, it’s not, and yes, I still remember when your birthday is.” He’d known exactly what she was thinking, damn him. He met her gaze in the stripe of mirrors. “Don’t give me that look. You’re an open book for me, baby. From the way your pupils dilate when I do this,” he nibbled her ear and Hope sagged against her bonds, “to the taut skin of your neck and cheeks,” he trailed his hands down to cup her hips, squeezed, before one hand dipped to her wetness, “to this.” Her throat went tight with emotion. “Yes, this sweet, tight, hot cunt that I’m going to sink into once you’re crazed from my touch.”

  A whimper escaped from her throat and she lolled her head back to rest on his shoulder. He shifted to capture her mouth with his, kissing her with such passion and skill that she was glad for the cuffs keeping her upright.

  Gabe pulled away and took a step back. She laid her head against her arm and used the narrow mirrored band to figure out what he was doing. Was he just staring at her?

  Fine, she could stare back. He looked dangerous in the dim light, tattoos running up both arms, firm jaw clenched, a nose that had been broken a time or two. And all that before she got to his eyes. Focused, relentless and dark as hell. She shivered, loving the contradiction between the tender way he treated her and his bad-boy appearance.

  “Hope, you are so beautiful.” Strong hands rubbed her scalp, down to her neck and shoulders, until she was a puddle of sated goo. “Your hair…”

  She saw him lean in and inhale.

  “Every time I smell lavender, I think of you. And your collarbone is so sexy, and your shoulders, too, all soft lines and pale skin. So perfect, delicate and flawless.”

  The man really was an artist, whether using his hands or his words to create something of beauty. Hope was both awed and jealous because she lacked his facility with sweet words.

  Awe won by a mile.

  Strong hands drifted up and down her ribs, his fingers brushing along the sides of her breasts. Long sweeps of his calloused fingers, which only amped up the eroticism, teased the flesh inches from her hardened, anxious nipples.

  “Please, Sir, touch me!”

  At his rumbling laugh, her pussy clenched. God, had he classically conditioned her like one of Pavlov’s dogs? All he had to do was be and she got turned on.

  “I thought I was touching you, pet. Should I stop?”

  “No!” She tried wiggling into his hands, her aching nipples begging for relief, but he pinned her hips to the X with his own, restricting her movements and pressing an insistent erection against her ass.

  “No? And without giving a specific request? You know better, baby. That’ll be two spankings.”

  “Okay, Sir. Sorry.” She tried for contrite but her words came out lust-ridden and ravenous.

  He smirked. “And a third for fudging. You’re not sorry—you love this.” He stepped to her side and the cool air on her inflamed skin was welcome, but a poor trade for the press of Gabe’s body.

  She relaxed against the X and waited patiently for her discipline. Three smacks landed against her right ass cheek, each sharper than the last.

  “Please, Sir, more?”

  “I don’t think so, Hope. You’ll have to earn those. Now to get off to a good start—what did you want me to touch?”

  “My nipples, Sir.”

  He stalked around to the other side of the X so they were face-to-face. A long, deep, wet kiss later and she was panting as if she’d run a marathon.

  “What, these nipples?” He’d cupped her breasts while she regained her bearings. With each squeeze and roll, she keened in pleasure-pain. His rough touch was perfect.

  “My ass, Sir. Sp—” she gasped when he gave one nipple a particularly erotic twist. “Spank me.”

  If he kept that up, there was no way coherence would be possible. And he knew it too, damn him. A grin melted across her face. She loved playing these games with Gabe. But it didn’t feel like a game anymore. Or if it was, the stakes had grown. She’d lose more than just a competition if she lost him again.

  He growled and captured her mouth in a searing kiss. She reached for what she knew would be a tight, hard erection, but her arm only got two inches before being snapped back to the X.

  “Let me touch you,” she managed between breaths. “C’mon, Sir, I’ll lick you and suck you just the way you like.”

  Gabe paused, swayed closer, and she thought she’d won him over, but then he took a step backward. Looked like she got more punishment. Win-win either way.

  “That’ll come later—don’t worry, you demanding wench. And that has earned you another punishment for trying to speed me along.” He stalked behind her, dragging his warm, artist-rough fingers across inch after inch of her back. He branded her flesh as he’d branded her heart.

  She wanted to feel his weight against her again. It made her feel so loved, so protected. His body heat radiated to her and his dark, leathered smell made her swoon.

  Slap after slap landed on her backside until she knew the skin would be red and warm. Pain flooded from her ass to the rest of her body, turning her nerves up to eleven. The stings washed over her, erased everything but that moment. She didn’t feel anything but his hand, care about anything but Gabe and his desires.

  He pressed her body to the cross and his body heat made the wood feel cold. “I fear my patience is in short supply.” His words trickled through her haze of lust, but just barely. “So choose now—crop, flogger or paddle?”

  After a few failed attempts, she managed, “Crop, Sir.” It could redden or bruise with ease and had a stingy touch. She needed the pain—enough would clear her head, and she’d figure out what to do with her new, intense feelings for Gabe.

  She watched his retreating figure in the mirror. Even clothed, his body was unmistakably muscled and powerful.

  With a black leather crop in hand, he returned to her. She wanted to ask how many lashes, but the thought was stolen by his first strike. Fire arced across her right thigh and she sagged against the bonds, needing to rub the tender area but unable to do so. One heartbeat, then two, then three before an
other smack erupted through the room—leather on ass this time.

  The slaps formed their own beat, the baseline to her moans and gasps and squeals. Hope felt as if she were very far away, only the pain reaching her. Time, light, darkness, heat, cold—nothing had meaning except the cadence of being cropped.

  Then it slowed, and her heartbeat along with it. No, more, she wanted to scream, but using her voice seemed too much effort at the moment.

  “How are you doing?” One hand caressed her tender skin, bringing a shadow of the initial pain.

  She struggled for the words, but only managed, “More, Sir.” Through hooded eyes she saw him straighten his shoulders.

  “Are you sure?”

  She was close, so close to breaking. Those tears were essential, necessary, cleansing. She hadn’t cried like this, a soul-deep cry, in far too long. And he wanted to stop now? “No. Please, Sir, more. I need more,” she somehow spoke.

  And as her eyes closed, he picked up the rhythm once again, each smack drawing her closer to the edge. It was like orgasm, only purer. Each blow drew away some of the poison left behind by Master Joseph. Once that was gone, her fears and doubts about Sir melted away too. It was so clean, so good, the tears started rolling down her cheeks. She’d never felt so free of tension. It was beautiful.

  With each blow, Gabe’s heart shrank away from the sound. How could this be helping her? He tried to block out his father’s voice and listen to Kat’s, to Hope’s saying this was something she craved.

  And he might have conquered those fears too. In his favor, Hope had not gone numb under the beating—he’d seen that before, where subs sank so deeply into the feeling that they shut down. She was twitching under each stroke, making her cuffs rattle against the St. Andrew’s Cross, moaning and yelping and turning him on more with every second.

  He’d thought he was doing so well.

  During a check of her reflection in the mirror—even someone as closed as Hope revealed a great deal on her face during a scene—he saw her tears, just like in his nightmare. Cathartic, maybe for her. For Gabe, each one was a liquid reminder of how quickly his control could spiral away.

  Another check in the mirror, and his father’s face looked back at him. “Hit her harder,” he said. “You’re a Cassidy. Our women need to be taught lessons.”

  He jerked back, dropped the crop and tried to catch his breath.

  Yeah, like that was going to work. He was flooded with memories of his childhood, of his father’s beatings and his mother’s tears. The tears he knew Hope had cried as Joseph whipped her.

  Dammit. He envisioned her begging, crying, then stoically taking the vicious beatings, and it made him cringe in self-loathing. He was no better than that man, taking someone pure and sweet and pushing her limits.

  Even if she’d said she wanted to play—hell, she’d instigated it—he was supposed to look out for her. The man’s arrival had just reopened her emotional wounds and here he was, taking advantage of her vulnerability, just like Joseph, just like his father.

  With any other woman, he would have demanded she wait longer to give herself time to recover her center before they played. With Hope, the control on which he prided himself fell to the wayside. He wanted her too much to listen to his own reasoning.

  What if she regressed? What is she was still flying from their reconciliation and sex last night, so much that it masked her vulnerability?

  Worst of all…what if he really couldn’t stop himself when she needed him to?

  It stopped him cold in his tracks. There was only one thing to do. He had to leave her—for her own good, before he took more joy from her pain than she was willing to give.

  Seeing her jump under his hand was one of the most erotic things he’d ever laid eyes on, second only to seeing her orgasm. With his tenuous hold on control, slipping from the heady excitement of having her back, he didn’t trust himself to stop.

  Even if she did.

  “Sir?”

  Hope’s voice still had that dreamy subspace quality to it. He hated ripping her out of it, but it was his only option, before she went any deeper.

  Before she mixed up past and present and saw him not as himself, but at Master Joseph. He’d heard other Doms talking about it, had read about it, and refused to let it happen to his Hope.

  It killed him, and might just break her heart, but it was better than continuing and leaving her emotionally shredded due to his actions.

  He would not take joy in her suffering when that loomed as a consequence.

  Without words, he unbuckled first her ankles then her wrists, lifting her off the cross to cradle in his arms. He wanted to move faster, get the hell out of there, but he needed to get Hope settled.

  “Done already?” The question in her eyes asked so much more.

  “Yes, baby, we’re done.”

  The lump in his chest grew at the sight of the tear stains on her cheeks. Run, run, run! He laid her down on the corner bed and she winced. “What hurts?”

  She winced again, whether from tenderness or his tone, he didn’t know. “I’m a little sore.” Her gaze locked to his. “But I’m ready for whatever you’ve got planned, Sir. Including thorough aftercare.” Her grin blazed after her words. She truly wanted to be coddled and soothed for once.

  The one time he couldn’t bear to do it because if he stayed, he’d never leave her. And next time they played, he wasn’t sure he’d find the willpower to hold back, even to save her from herself.

  Once she was situated on the covers, he stepped back from the bed. The lustful look in her eyes faded.

  “Oh. We’re…done.” She deflated, pulling the sheets over her body as if to protect herself. Seeing that look of defeat on her face hurt more than he wanted to admit.

  “I’m—I’m sorry, Hope.” He made for the door, praying she’d be able to forgive him one day.

  Hope didn’t think he was serious. Gabe would never leave her without aftercare or without reason. But when the door closed behind him, a shaft of betrayal pierced her heart. The tension, which had melted away under the crop, returned full force, with friends in tow, crushing her under the weight. Hell, she was even too far gone to cry. She lay in bed, staring at the blank white wall, hoping it was all a bad dream.

  Chapter Ten

  Hope had no idea how long she’d been lying there, only that she hadn’t the slightest inclination to move. After her Sir—no, Gabriel—released her bonds and left, she’d enveloped herself in the cool sheets of the bed to find solace. But only desolation lingered there. She should have been lying there in the loving arms of her Sir, not curled on herself in pain.

  As minutes passed, her thoughts darkened. Self-doubt and recriminations replaced any trace of anger or disappointment she had in Gabriel. Things like this didn’t happen twice without some blame laid at the feet of the victim.

  Logically, she knew that wasn’t true, but the words circled her head like vultures preying upon the deadened pieces of her heart until all she felt or heard or saw were her failures. She’d been too demanding with Master Joseph and too…needy? Not needy enough with Gabriel. Maybe he sensed how deep her feelings had become. Maybe reconnecting in the first place had been a mistake.

  And to top it off, she’d not even been introduced to Ms. Lamont—the only reason she’d come to Maison Domine. The whole weekend was a goatfuck of epic proportions.

  But no matter the cause, the pain coursing through her body swamped her, drowned her, intensified with every breath until her vision grew blurry and she didn’t see anything beyond total darkness.

  She wanted it to stop.

  You need pain to keep you grounded? the vultures whispered. Well, here is it. You came seeking pain, and you got what you wanted.

  Her shoulders hunched farther and she tightened her body into a smaller ball to ward off the ugly truth. She’d come to Maison this weekend to explore unfinished business with Gabriel, to scene, to siphon off her stress. He’d simply provided her with a convenient exc
use to accept his invitation.

  A soft knock roused her from a fitful nap she hadn’t realized she’d slipped into. “Ye—” Her voice cracked from the emotions choking her. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes?”

  “Hope?” A deep male voice resonated through the room and her treacherous heart jumped, thinking Gabriel had returned for her. But she knew that wasn’t his voice.

  Slipping into an unaffected persona with the ease of an expert, she replied, “Yes, how may I help you?” As long as she focused her energy on her mask, she wouldn’t be able to think about the pain. She crossed her arms and dug her fingers into her biceps, which siphoned some of her unshed tears into physical pain. Much more tolerable.

  “Can I come in?”

  Her mind flitted across questions about the mystery man at her door, but she refocused her thoughts to playing happy. Didn’t matter who he was, no one would come through that door until she was good and ready.

  “No, I’m sorry, the room is currently in use.” She uncurled and turned to face the door. Her eyes latched on to the St. Andrew’s Cross and her mask slipped before she could shove it back into place.

  “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but could I at least talk to Gabriel?”

  Hearing his name tore at her viciously. A sob leaked from her lips before she could restrain it.

  The door opened a few inches, and a sweet female voice drifted to her. “Hope, please let us in. It’s Jax and Lara. We’d like to help.”

  Once more, her throat tightened and choked her words. Lara must have taken that as assent because she entered, wearing a corset she recognized as one of Gabe’s designs, followed by the darkly handsome Jax. “We…we thought you’d might need some company.”

  Lara’s expression held sorrow and empathy so genuine Hope couldn’t pretend anymore. She started trembling worse than when Master Joseph had lashed her.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks, uncontrolled, and Lara said, “You poor thing.” She turned to Jax and he nodded, anger etched into his face.

  “I’m sorry, whatever I did,” she said to Jax, his anger raking claws through her guilty conscience.