Enlightened [Sexual Magic 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Jennifer August

  Heat suffused every part of her, and her mind went oddly blank.

  All she could feel was pleasure. Lust. Desire. Satisfaction.

  Griff pulled his cock free. “Open your eyes,” he rasped.

  She struggled to lift her lids, finding the swollen purple head of his erection at face level. He stroked himself hard and fast.

  Mason matched his tempo, his fingers still tugging at the ropes binding her tits and torso.

  Her nipples strafed the velvet cushion, and another swell of release built in her.

  “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” she chanted.

  Mason’s hips sped up. “You look so good trussed up like that, Emma. We could fuck you raw, and there isn’t a damn thing you could do about it, is there?”

  “No,” she wailed as the orgasm speared through her again.

  Griff squeezed the tip of his cock, head thrown back but eyes firmly on her as he, too, came. He sprayed her face and neck with his hot cum.

  Mason yelled and slammed hard and deep into her, shooting an answering long, hot jet of cum deep inside her pussy.

  It was almost too much. Emma bucked and groaned and clamped down hard on his dick, trying to milk every drop from him.

  A long, still moment passed. The only sound in the room was their harsh breathing and the occasional creak of her ropes.

  Finally, she slumped down to the bench, her whole body going limp.

  Vaguely, she realized Mason had slipped his cock from her pussy. The faint snip, snip of scissors echoed in her ears, and the ropes fell away.

  Griff plucked her from the bench, and he sank to the floor with her cradled to his chest. Mason pulled her legs over his lap, his hands smoothing up and down.

  “Nice,” she murmured and nestled her head into Griff’s shoulder. With her other hand, she sought out Mason, her fingers finding and draping over the cut muscle of his chest.

  A tremor shook her, then another. Breath was difficult to come by, and her mind refused to work.

  “Easy, you’re all right, little one.” Griff’s deep voice broke through her rising panic.

  Emma struggled to open her eyes but found it impossible. The soft sweep of his palm along her back, Mason’s gentle caresses on her legs, the strong thump of their heartbeats beneath her hands all served to soothe and ground her once more.

  A tear formed at the corner of her left eye, and she squeezed against it.

  “Emma, you’re okay. Breathe, sweet girl. Breathe,” Griff said softly.

  Mason trailed his fingers along her knees and up her thighs. “That’s a good girl. Nice, long breaths. We’re right here.”

  Warmth surrounded her, batted away the threatening haze, and gave her back clarity.

  She shuddered as she broke free of the odd sensation. But she didn’t move from her comfortable perch on Griff’s lap. “That was weird,” she said.

  “A sort of sub space,” Mason murmured. “Not too bad, actually. You handled it rather well.”

  Sub space. One more thing to look up.

  She had a feeling the clinical definition would do little to explain the rampant emotions running through her.

  Emma snuggled deeper into Griff’s hold and stroked his chest. He contracted his arms around her, and a burst of happiness washed over her.

  She’d been enlightened. And she loved it.

  * * * *

  The heat woke her. Griff’s muscular thigh lay heavily over her lower body, pretty much pinning her to the bed. Emma gave a little sigh of contentment. He felt good against her. But damn, he was hot.

  Mason, tangled in the sheets, pressed his back against her other side. He, too, emanated like a furnace. A trickle of sweat beaded at her temple and slid down her cheek. Another welled beneath her breasts. At this rate, she would drench the entire bed.

  With deliberate movements, she eased Griff’s thigh off her, then tugged the meager part of the sheet covering the rest of her away and onto Mason. Then, she scooted to the end of the bed.

  She stood with a wince. The men had worked her over, but good, and her body was definitely protesting now.

  Emma bit her lip and looked back at them. They’d given her a lot to think about, like creating boundaries and parameters

  Not the least of which were her emotional boundaries.

  She slipped on a T-shirt—probably Griff’s because it hung lankly around her body, the hem just above her knees—and walked from the room.

  The house was neat and well kept. It was masculine in tone with visual interest and architectural details that took her breath away. Entering the house earlier, the only thing that had been on her mind was the experience.

  Now, she took her time and really studied their space. The house was clean and organized, but something was missing. The hallway bore no pictures of family or interests. The eggshell walls were bare save for a couple of iron wall sconces with dark-orange candles.

  Not wishing to flick on a light and wake them, she padded into the living room and shut the door to the hallway behind her. She felt on the wall for the switch and blinked against the soft light that flared to life.

  Large brown leather furniture anchored both sides of the expansive room. At one end, it opened into the hall for the kitchen. The other sported an elegantly masculine armoire with double doors in the middle and open shelving on top and bottom. Again, no pictures littered the surface, but there were touches of each man. She stepped onto the muted-tan Berber, her bare toes curling into the sumptuous fibers. They spared no expense when it came to furnishing the house, but it still felt hollow.

  If she didn’t know better, know the one room they had customized, she would think the place was a show home.

  She knelt in front of the armoire and reached for a small silver knife hanging on two delicate chains. The blade was surprisingly heavy. The hilt bore an intricately carved figure of a dragon. The blade curved upward the smallest bit and was nicked in several places. She turned it over and found the initials RK etched just below the handle in what was obviously a child’s writing. The stand, however, was sturdy and new. It was obviously a place to hold an important treasure.

  Carefully, she placed the knife back in its cradle. Next to it was a worn blue collar, and she sucked in a breath, hand stilled over it. Was it a memento of an old lover? She sensed Griff held something deep and private, a pain that came only from knowing and losing love. But did he really keep her slave collar as a reminder?

  Emma’s fingers trembled as she picked it up. A light tinkle echoed in the quiet of the room, and she cupped the two thin metal pieces dangling from the collar.

  “Bosco.”

  Relief weakened her knees. “His dog, not his ex.”

  She giggled at her own absurdity. The bone-shaped tag also contained an address and phone number. Erie, Pennsylvania was a long way from Milla Flores, California. Behind it, the other tag listed a vet’s address and phone number. She stroked the cracked leather-façade of the collar and wondered what kind of dog he’d owned. She bet it was probably something big and rambunctious and the kind of dog a boy could pal around with and always count on.

  Her nose tingled, and she sniffed as she replaced the collar. She was a sucker for animals. She felt guilty for leaving Halo alone in the house, but she had her automatic feeder and water fountain, and it was only one night.

  To the side of the dragon knife stood a set of worn and tattered books. Bound in leather and the spines so split the titles were illegible, they bespoke many years of handling. She eased one out. The Hobbit.

  Emma smiled. She loved this book when she was a kid. In fact, she still had her original copy of it on her bookshelf, too. Just knowing they had something in common sent a little thrill through her.

  She read the other titles, pleased even more as she realized she had all of them herself.

  Thighs aching from her prolonged squat, she rose and rubbed at her legs. She lifted on tiptoe to peruse the top shelf. Immediately she knew these must be Mason’s things.

>   A little stuffed monkey sat drunkenly on a clear box that held cards of some kind. Odds favored the cards would be of baseball or football players. She pursed her lips. Mason didn’t really seem the sports type, despite his lean, whipcord length. Nah, she’d bet they were something much more nerdy.

  Another whippet of pleasure ran through her. In her mom’s attic, she still had boxes of old trading cards from comics.

  She picked up the monkey and set the little guy flat on the shelf. He looked war torn and on his last legs. He was missing one eye and had a giant Frankenstein zigzag of red thread from forehead to chin. The stitches were wild and lopsided, and she would bet money he’d done the doctoring.

  Emma pulled down the box and flipped open the lid. She nearly hooted with triumph. Inside were all the characters of her childhood ranging from superheroes to gritty-looking dark elves and aliens. She flipped through them, smiling as her own memories surfaced—comic book conventions attended with her brother, secret stashes of the latest graphic novel, haggling with her friends for trades on the most prime cards.

  She smiled as she gently shut the box and set it back on the shelf then replaced the little monkey. He slid to the side. His soft head rested against the wall of the armoire. She frowned and straightened him again, but he refused to remain upright. Finally, she gave up.

  Next to the box were two models on pins and wooden bases. One was a fighter jet, but she’d be damned if she knew what kind. The other was a replica of the Apollo space capsule.

  “Huh, interesting.”

  These guys were much deeper than just fantasy makers.

  She tugged open the armoire and was met with a variety of movie titles ranging from the sublime to foreign and a heavy preponderance of comedy. Someone really liked Mel Brooks.

  Emma shut the door and settled onto the sofa. She tugged the dark-brown crocheted afghan over her legs and curled into the cushy corner.

  As soon as she became still, her mind roared to life and refused to settle back down. She played and replayed every instant from the moment they’d knocked on her door. She relived every orgasm, word and fantasy.

  She’d been given everything she’d fantasized about. Now she had to sort through all of it and decide what was right for her.

  They’d told her it would not be an overnight fix and that she was too raw—she heard naïve—to be let out into the BDSM world.

  After tonight, she agreed.

  She poked her finger through the afghan and contemplated all that she’d been through. Some of it, like the anal plug and the whippings and the dirty talk, turned out to be everything she’d ever imagined, if not more.

  Some other aspects like being zapped with that damn TENS unit she didn’t really like. In fact, she was totally ready to knock that thing off her list.

  Picking up the remote, she flipped on the TV, hoping she could find something to help settle her brain.

  After countless infomercials, she stumbled on one of her favorite sitcoms. With a happy sigh, she scooted to the center of the couch and propped her feet up on the coffee table.

  Too bad she couldn’t really concentrate on the show, though. She was still sorting through the many new experiences of the night.

  “Is this a private viewing, or can anyone crash?”

  She jerked her head around and saw Mason lounging in the doorway. He had on his jeans, unbuttoned and showing his incredible abs. His hands were shoved into the pockets and he appeared both vulnerable and lickable.

  She grinned and held up the afghan. “Come on in.”

  He settled next to her and placed his hand on her thigh like they were an old and familiar couple. His touch was warm and slightly rough on her skin. Prickles of awareness built under his big palm and radiated up to her clit. The air seemed thicker, harder to suck into suddenly constricted lungs.

  “Been up long?” he asked.

  She plucked at the woven blanket. “Not really.”

  He shifted and turned to face her. He brushed a tendril of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. The heat of his soft caress continued to build. “Why did you wake up?”

  “I was hot.” She dimpled at him. “You two are like freaking furnaces.”

  His chuckle was low and rumbly, and it stirred even more emotion deep inside her. He was open and affectionate, carefree and sexy. But, like Griff, he had a commanding presence that lurked always near the surface.

  “I , uh, saw some of your things over there.” She jerked her chin toward the armoire.

  He lifted a brow.

  Crap, maybe she should not have admitted to snooping. That was probably bad form.

  “Oh, really?” His drawl was light and teasing, which made her relax back into his shoulder.

  “Yeah. I peeked. I like your monkey.”

  Mason nudged her, and she looked at him. His expression was soft and indulgent. “That’s Monkey the Magnificent. I’ve had him since I was a little kid.”

  “Monkey the Magnificent, huh? What happened to his face?”

  “Hey, I was six, give me a break. My dog decided he’d be a tasty treat and ripped him in half. I was devastated, but my brother sewed him up for me. Riley was eight and didn’t know shit about sewing, but back then I thought Monkey looked, well, magnificent.” He wiggled closer, pulled her body tight to his, and settled his chin on her shoulder. His long fingers drew patterns in the blanket on top of her knees.

  She laughed and pushed his hand away. “Lord, don’t do that. I’m ticklish.”

  “Oh really?” He leered. “Never give ammo to a Dom.”

  He proceeded to dart and dig at her sides and knees and pretty much everywhere else her sensitive spots were.

  Emma tried to keep her shrieks low and quiet, but it was nearly impossible. “Please,” she finally begged on a gasp. “Please, stop.”

  “Are you sure? Tickling is very erotic, you know.”

  “Not if I pee on you.”

  “Ugh, no way. That is so on the don’t list.” His touch turned from tickle to tender. “Speaking of lists, how are you feeling about yours now?”

  Emma licked her lips. Now was definitely time for some honesty. “I enjoyed a lot of what we did and not so much other stuff.”

  She swore he looked relieved and wondered at it.

  “Yeah? What didn’t you enjoy?”

  Heat furled in her face, and she cursed her own sudden shyness. This man had not only seen her naked, he’d done incredibly intimate and devious things to her body. She had no more physical secrets from them. And few emotional ones, either.

  “Well, uh, I actually didn’t like the TENS unit all that much.”

  He stroked her brow. “Yeah, I figured that one out all by myself. But you tried it, and that’s the important thing. What else?”

  She shifted. “I don’t know, everything else was pretty stellar. Actually, a lot was better than I thought it would be.”

  “Like what?”

  In the cold dark of night, telling him that all those nasty words and being unable to move turned her on seemed too stark and revealing.

  “Come on,” he said and nudged her shoulder. “You can’t be shy. It’s good you’re starting to understand and acknowledge your limits but you have to be able to vocalize them, as well. It will make communicating with your Master that much easier.”

  My Master.

  While the concept thrilled her, it also scared the hell out of her. Her chest constricted a little bit, and she wanted to squirm away from his assessing gaze but knew this was one more important aspect of finding out about herself. “I am surprised,” she admitted. “In my fantasies, those words always poured out so easily. Reading them in stories turned me on. But reality was much different.”

  He nodded. “Sometimes it happens that way. Anything else?”

  “I’m having some trouble with the idea of instant and total obedience. I mean, I want to do what I’m told, but at the same time I rebel against the notion.”

  “Good. You know, when
we first got your case, I was skeptical. Not many people are really as open as you are.” He gave her a surprisingly pensive look.

  “What?”

  “It’s not good, Emma. Being too open leaves you vulnerable to the trolls and dregs out there. So many assholes are waiting for an innocent bit of goods like you to just fall into their laps so they can do horrible, despicable things to you.”

  She laughed. “Oh, melodrama!”

  His fingers tightened on her thigh. “This is serious, Emma. And it’s not just obvious stuff like that serial killer, though he’s scary enough. These guys are way more subtle in the beginning.”

  He is completely serious. She swallowed hard and covered his hand with her palm. “Hey, I get it, okay? I’m not going into anything until you guys have taught me everything I need to know to be safe.”

  Mason remained stiff for a long, silent moment before the tension suddenly seeped from him and he gave her a rueful grin. “Sorry, old habits die hard.”

  She drew small circles on the back of his hand. “What habits are those?” She was really curious about his past, as well as Griff’s. Mason definitely seemed the easier of the two to get to open up, though.

  “I was a cop for a while,” he said.

  Emma gaped at him, totally floored. “Are you serious?”

  “Yep. Joined the force as a wet-behind-the-ears rookie at all of twenty-one. Left when I was twenty-eight.” His voice was flat and unemotional.

  Had the Council wooed him from his cop job? Did he regret that decision now?

  “Mind if I ask why you left?”

  “Let’s call it a difference of authoritative style and leave it at that.”

  Emma nodded even as she squashed the dart of hurt. He certainly didn’t owe her anything beyond his sexual expertise.

  “Sure, not a problem.” She plucked at a loose piece of yarn and let the silence settle around them. But her curiosity rose, and unable to squash it, she tried another tack. “What’s the story with the Council anyway?”