Truly Helpless: A Nature of Desire Series Novel

by Joey W. Hill

  He braced himself back up on his arms and pumped into her, slowing down, watching her expression, every signal of her body that would tell him he was giving her pleasure. He could do that. He could give her physical pleasure, if she didn’t ask for any of the rest of it.

  “You’re going to come when I say,” he told her. “And it will be good.”

  She lifted her hand to his face. When he caught her wrist, he realized he was bleeding. The glass had cut his fingers, his palm. It didn’t matter, but he couldn’t put her hand back in the glass, so he put it against his side, molded his bloody palm to it so she knew to keep it there. Her breasts wobbled as he pushed in harder, deeper, pulled out, tried to balance between how much he needed to just rut on her and how much he wanted to give her pleasure. Stroke and stimulate, tease and drive her higher and higher. He wanted her to see stars and galaxies. That was what he could give her, if she’d just stop asking for anything else, like wanting to bring him into her fucking bedroom.

  She squeezed down on him, and he caught the little set to her lush mouth. She was going to try and make him come first? Yeah, that wasn’t happening, but oh Christ, she was good at that. Fuck…

  She’d started to meet him thrust for thrust. Her eyes glittered, her hand lifting to grip his nape, a hold that centered him in an unexpected way. Last time she’d done it right before she’d cold-cocked him with her elbow, but that wasn’t her intent now. She was doing it to hold that pinpoint laser focus between their gazes.

  “My only choice, hmm?” she said breathlessly. “I told you last night, Marius. You don’t fuck me. I fuck you. Serve me. Bring me pleasure. Work your fine ass off to satisfy me.”

  Just like that, she’d turned the tables on him. Her legs adjusted high on his back, clamping down. She stretched her arms up above her head like a queen waiting to be serviced, her lips in a half curve, her eyes heavy lidded. It pissed him off, made him harder and yet he wanted to please her. She was turning him into a fucking split personality, both sides vying for control of his mind. He focused on the easiest route.

  He dug in, pressing his knees harder into the floor to give him better leverage and make every stroke count. Her nipples became harder, darker tips as she built toward climax. Her lips parted, her tongue touching them, her eyes closing then opening, chin lifting to expose her throat as she gave herself fully to what he was offering her. Her leg was silk under his hand as he gripped her thigh to add to his efforts. His cock was ready to spew, but he wouldn’t…couldn’t. He had to serve her first. She’d said so.

  He knew she was seeing how long he could manage to hold out, her control intended to school him on just who had the reins. Sweat gathered in his back. He knew he was doing it right and she was wildly excited, just as close to climax as he was, but somehow she managed to revel in those feelings, balance on that precipice and prolong it even further while he moved inside her endlessly.

  Somewhere along the way, he got caught in that same torrent, enraptured by the feel of it, her cunt squeezing down on him rhythmically, her heels tattooing against his ass and thighs, her soft words of encouragement and pleasure, praising him. He didn’t remember when that started, but he was suddenly willing to work for her pleasure until his heart burst in his chest.

  “Now, sweet boy,” she whispered. “Together.”

  The climax was prolonged and intense, because they’d delayed and denied themselves. She’d made that happen. She’d taken back control. He groaned through the overwhelming sensations, closing his eyes in savage male bliss at her cries, the two of them together in a cyclone so powerful it was almost frightening. Like a roller coaster ride with no brakes, just a precipitous, open-ended fall into the unknown.

  Her arms came down during the climax, hands gripping his back and then tearing into his flesh as she pulled him closer. He set his teeth to her shoulder, closing his eyes when he saw he was marking her beneath those other, earlier marks. She turned her face against his, not allowing him to get distracted by that, making him hold fast through the full, rocking experience. And when it finally ebbed, he was cradled in her arms, just as he’d imagined. But he was also holding her tight about the waist with one arm, the other braced so he didn’t have his full weight on her.

  “Fucking hell,” he said against her skin.

  “Mmm.” She pressed her face against the side of his head. “You owe me a vase.”

  “Regina…” Had he ever said her name? He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think he’d ever said it without the honorific of Lady in front of it. The familiarity startled him enough that it caught on his tongue.

  She didn’t notice his disquiet, because she’d noticed something else, something he’d realized some time ago. Her reaction to it was far different from his, though.

  “Oh, Marius. Here, sit up slow. Pick your hand straight up off the floor.”

  He’d been vaguely aware of the burning sensation, his hand in the broken glass throughout the build-up to climax. His hand was a bloody mess, as was the floor, the shards glittering with crimson.

  “It’s okay,” he told her absently. “Probably just some splinters and shit.”

  “Up,” she said, easing him back so he’d sit on his heels. He pulled out of her body reluctantly, gratified to see her bite her bottom lip and hear a little moan catching in her throat at the friction. But as she started to lift herself up without using her hands, he realized the hazard the glass posed to her. She wasn’t wearing shoes, her exercise shoes and socks neatly placed on the linoleum in the kitchen.

  “Hey, don’t move,” he told her. Pulling up and fastening his jeans, he rose to his feet, bending to slide his arms beneath her. She shot him a bemused look and started on a halfhearted protest, likely bullshit about her being too heavy or maybe it conflicted with some independent woman feminist shit. He didn’t care. She wasn’t walking barefoot in glass, and he could carry her.

  He lifted her free, moving a few steps back up the hallway where any scattered pieces wouldn’t be a danger to her bare soles. She was a tall woman, so he had to turn so her feet wouldn’t hit the wall, and he had to adjust his balance to distribute her weight a little better, but she wasn’t difficult to carry. It seemed to bemuse the hell out of her, which was a plus since he couldn’t seem to get anything past the damn woman.

  Why that made him want to smile and helped that constant ache in his gut, he didn’t really care to examine.

  “Put me down, Tarzan,” she instructed.

  He did, but in the kitchen, where he was certain the glass couldn’t have traveled. Regina pushed him into a chair and went to the sink, taking the shaving bowl and rinsing it out to refill it with water and bring it back. “Put your hand in that so we can get the blood off and see what’s what. Don’t move or I swear I will put my foot up your ass.”

  “Little soon after fucking for more foreplay.”

  She swatted him upside the head, a slap hard enough to make his ear ring, but she didn’t seem to mean it with malice as she went back down the hallway, muttering about the stupidity of men. When she returned with a first aid kit, she’d donned a short, silken robe, loosely tied so he could see a good length of thigh when she moved. She’d removed the remains of her underwear, so it was all her beneath the clinging fabric.

  Blood swirled in the water, turning it a pale crimson. When he lifted his hand out, he showed her what he’d suspected. “See? Just a few cuts on the fingers and one on my palm. A couple splinters I can get out later.”

  In answer, she produced a spot light from a utility closet and clamped it on the edge of the kitchen table before directing the light toward his hand. Then she donned a pair of reading glasses and lifted a pair of tweezers out of the first aid kit. “Which cuts have the splinters?”

  She refused to be dissuaded, so for the next few minutes, he subsided and watched her concentrate on the task. His fingers were playing with the hem of her robe and touching her thigh. She glanced down at the contact, but didn’t object.

  Ins
tead, she poured peroxide over his cuts. The burn was something he was used to feeling, so he didn’t react to it beyond a brief tightening of his grip. She dried the wounds and wrapped three Band-Aids around his affected fingers. They were Snoopy Band-Aids, the famous beagle and his yellow bird pal cavorting across a cheerful blue background.

  He closed his hand around them. He got lost in his head for several moments before he realized she’d dumped the water, rinsed the bowl and was setting it in the dish drainer. Turning, she leaned against the counter, her arms stretched out and braced to either side of her as she studied him.

  Her face was so inscrutable; the tightness came back to his gut. It was better that way. He was used to that feeling. The rest just messed him up. He cleared his throat.

  “Thanks for breakfast. I’ll uh, head out now. I um…” He shrugged and rose, pushing the chair in and picking up his shirt. “I get it. I know this is it. And that’s…well, I’m sorry if I acted… You’re pretty damn awesome, Mistress. You deserve far better. I appreciate you trying.”

  He went to the playroom to retrieve his keys. Once there, he paused, thinking about it only a few seconds before he left the shirt. He was being a sentimental dumbass. She’d probably tear it up and use it for cleaning rags.

  He lingered, thinking about what had happened in here last night, what had happened in the kitchen, the hallway. And before that, their date, her reaction to the concert. She’d laughed and smiled, and made him do the same, sometimes giving him a lightness of feeling that scared him.

  It was the most thorough experience and connection with another human being he’d had in some time. The words he’d said to her just now were a pathetic thanks for that. But the best thing he could do was leave. As bad as things had gone this week, what would happen next week would make him even more of a menace to be around.

  It was the event that had been building into dead weight on his gut for weeks, making it harder and harder to shake. He shouldn’t be around anyone after it was done. Not for a while. Tyler’s edict had been great timing, the hand of fate.

  He came back up the hallway. She was still in the kitchen, her back to him as she did something at the counter. He should go straight to the door and keep going, but his feet took him right up behind her, a foot between them. He stared at her slim shoulders. She was a strong woman, yes, but he was a male fighter, and he saw all the signs of female fragility that he cherished, along with her strength. Slim shoulders, a graceful back, a delicate neck. She’d unbound her locs, so he could no longer see the marks he’d shamefully left on her, but he knew they were there. He wanted to press his lips there again, inhale her scent straight from heated flesh. But he didn’t. He was about to backpedal for the door when she turned.

  She handed him a paper bag. “The extra cinnamon rolls are in there, as well as a couple ham and cheese sandwiches. I don’t have a guest room, but I have a pallet I’ll put on the floor of my bedroom. You’re not welcome in my bed without an invitation, but you can come sleep on that when you don’t have a better place.”

  He stopped her, his hand closing over hers. His heart was hammering in his ears again, the floor dropping out beneath him. Please don’t trust me this much. Don’t let her trust you this much.

  “I haven’t earned that, Mistress.”

  “Good boy. Smart man. No. You haven’t.” She placed a hand on his face. This was a different kind of touch. Part Mistress and part something else, her eyes assessing and kind. “My sub may not have earned it, but you need a friend, Marius. Probably more than you need a Mistress. For the moment, you have both. But I’m no more gullible a friend than I am a Mistress. You watch your ass, or I’ll kick it for you. If you’re going to fight for money, I have no say on that. But fighting to get rid of demons is a dangerous road for you. Will you promise me not to do that?”

  He didn’t know how, and that inner anger raised its head, saying she had no fucking right to require that kind of promise from him. But it mattered that she cared, enough that he almost said yes. In the end, he stayed silent. She stroked his cheek.

  “Asshole. Okay. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I…” He shook his head, biting it back, but it came out anyway. “I’ve got to visit my dad, so I won’t be around next week.”

  “Okay.” She digested the unexpected turn of the conversation. “The college is on break next week, and I can shuffle some of my consulting projects. Want some company?”

  The idea was so outlandish he choked on a harsh laugh before he could stifle it. And immediately panicked at the curious look in her eye, because it made him want to say yes. Hell, what better way to end this? Since he lacked the will to do it with words, he could drive her away—in a manner that wouldn’t risk her life, but with something even she couldn’t see coming.

  She was right. He was a chickenshit.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Why the hell not?” Moving to the counter, he picked up a pen and wrote down the address on a pad there. She gave money to St. Jude’s, because the pad had their logo on it, and a crayon drawing print of a girl, a dog and a bright sun, done by one of the sick kids, he supposed. “You’ll have to meet me there, because it may take longer than you want to hang around.”

  She was giving him that scrutiny that said she sensed something wasn’t as it seemed. It wouldn’t matter. Not in a million years would she guess this. He felt sick. It was stupid.

  In a day or so, when he had his head clear, he’d leave a note on her door, tell her not to come. Then he’d disappear. Maybe drive to the beach for a few days. It was warm enough to sleep in his car and hang out at the shore. It was quiet there. He might even pick up some work and stay awhile. Get hooked in to the Daytona Beach scene, though the BDSM community was close knit. Tyler would have already sent out word that he was bad news, nixing his reciprocal privileges that membership to The Zone had given him.

  “Duncan.” She must have said his other name a few times, because she spoke his given name emphatically, snapping him out of his head. Her hand had fallen on his arm. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Probably better if you don’t come.” He shook his head, stepped to the counter and ripped off the note, stuffing it in his pocket. “Definitely. We’ll get together another time. Thanks for the food, Mistress. Thanks for everything. See you sometime.”

  Brave asshole that he was, he grabbed the care package she’d put together for him and fled.

  Chapter Eleven

  After she heard his car start up and pull out of the driveway, Regina dropped into her kitchen chair. The shakes she’d locked down broke loose, making her fingertips resting on the table surface tremble. What the hell was…all of that?

  First, there’d been his transformation in the hallway. It had been so abrupt, the quiet sensuality in the kitchen suddenly replaced by a maelstrom. It was as if he’d viewed the door to her bedroom as the gateway to Hell.

  A different kind of shudder gripped her as she closed her eyes and remembered how he’d pinned her to the floor. Pure alpha animal. He’d told her he would take her body without her express consent. Yet, belying that, in the very next second, he’d shielded her from the falling vase and obeyed her commands to take them both to an incredible climax. All while the glass ground into his flesh as if he couldn’t feel it.

  She’d navigated the dark maze in his mind, and brought them to a different place, but one neither of them had expected to be equally so intense. The man was exhausting, exhilarating…and a danger to himself.

  She didn’t kid herself. Being a correctional officer had taught her that overconfidence was a sure way to getting in trouble, but when she’d told him he needed a friend, his shields had dropped enough to show her that quick view into his soul once more. It was there, a light inside all those thorns. He wouldn’t appreciate the analogy, but she really was starting to feel like the prince in Sleeping Beauty, hacking through the briar wall to reach the sleeping princess.

  Her fingertips went to the bruises on her throat. At his core,
he understood violence better than he understood tenderness, but he craved tenderness so much it was impossible to miss. Somewhere along the way, he’d learned to be charming and sexy, irresistible to women for his own purposes. But the reason it worked so well was, in his unguarded moments, he was that sexy and irresistible. How he’d touched her while she was shaving him, that questing caress, had conveyed that he wanted to give and receive pleasure, unselfishly. She could feel how much he enjoyed touching her, the feel of her skin, the press of her body. He desired her for himself, not just as a game or a competition.

  The feeling was mutual. But fuck, what a mess the boy was. Last night when she’d left him on the playroom floor, she’d done a serious reality check. After brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed, she’d taken out that scary moment and given it a close, hard look. How she’d handled it, how he’d reacted on the front and back end.

  She knew a lot of women would have ended it right there. Hell, if they’d understood half of what she had known last night, they wouldn’t have risked bringing him home for a scene.

  She didn’t consider herself stupid or reckless. But she did have a different well of experience from which to draw. She’d done extreme interrogation scenes where the sub had completely lost it, been a risk to himself or her. At the prison, she’d routinely handled violent offenders. Both those things were why she’d taken the incident in stride and not freaked out. She’d slept well, even though she’d woken with her fingertips stroking the marks on her throat, a subconscious way to soothe the early morning uneasy feelings chasing her out of dreams.

  Everyone, even someone who grew up in Sunshine Suburbs with Suzy Perfect Parents, could be goaded toward their animal nature, though it took extreme circumstances. Some people’s triggers for uncivilized behavior were far closer to the surface. It didn’t take a Domme with her intuition to know where Marius fell on that spectrum.