Agony/Ecstasy: Original Stories of Agonizing Pleasure/Exquisite Pain

by Litte, Jane

  He walked back to his side of the desk. “No test. If you want me, all you have to do is say yes.”

  HE’D pushed her too hard. Colin realized the mistake the second after he dismissed Allie from his office. He was a dumbass. A total fucking dumbass.

  After eight months of carefully biding his time while she dated that idiot accountant Bill from down the street then dumped him, and all that time planning her seduction, Colin knew he’d rushed the end and blown it.

  He didn’t care about the job because he had the safety of another one. But the idea of not seeing her every day, not hearing those heels click as she walked down the hall or feeling the kick of anticipation as he waited for her to hover by his door and say good morning, left him feeling restless and frustrated.

  Hell, she left the office right after their confrontation and without even saying good-bye. He’d half hoped to see her car parked in his condo guest spot as he pulled in. Even the empty concrete mocked him.

  “Damn.” He fumbled with his keys. Balancing a box in one hand and a briefcase in the other made getting into his place tough.

  He managed to open the door and use his elbow to shove it shut behind him. The scent of crushed roses filled his head. Damn, he could still smell her. It wasn’t bad enough her image lingered in his head, now her presence haunted his place.

  “You’re late.”

  He dropped the box. Something shattered in the crash against the hardwood, but he ignored it. He was too busy taking in the beautiful woman in front of him. The long robe fell open to the shadowed valley between her breasts and the slit highlighted her lean legs to her upper thigh. The same sweet skin he had tasted and touched for hours.

  He said the first words that popped into his muddled brain. “I like you in pink.”

  “I thought you liked me naked.” She twisted the belt between her fingers as she walked barefoot through the gap dividing them. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?”

  Desperate to get this right, he nudged his ego to the side. “I want you to be here because you couldn’t stand the idea of being away from me.”

  She untied the belt and let the material slide open to expose miles of rosy skin. “I’m standing in your house because I realized I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

  The words he’d wanted to hear. “What about the job?”

  “You of all people should know this isn’t about work. This is personal.” She slid her fingers under the edges of the robe and dropped it to the floor.

  He knew what it took for her to take this step, to risk being hurt and rejected. To put her needs as a woman before her responsibilities as a boss.

  “I know you like being in charge, but I’m thinking I’ll take the lead tonight.” Her fingers danced across her nipple before brushing down her stomach. “Yes?”

  “Definitely.”

  Her hand stopped just inches above the reaching the place he longed to touch. “I’m going to need you take your pants off.”

  He stripped them down before she finished the sentence. Standing there bare from the waist down and still wearing his shirt and tie should have been strange, but it felt so right.

  She pressed her body against his. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she slid skin against skin, leaving no question about what she wanted.

  “We’re going to need a condom.” Her heated kisses followed along his jawline before traveling down his neck. “And a bed.”

  “I have both.” What he didn’t have was a prayer against this Allie. He’d sensed the sensual creature hiding under those proper suits but the reality was much more potent.

  “I have nothing but time.”

  But he had to be sure he didn’t push her into this. “No doubts?”

  “No.” She loosened his tie. “No regrets?”

  “None.”

  She dragged his hand to her breast, letting him cup and caress her. “Then you better get to pleasuring me.”

  “You’ll be amazed at what a hard worker I am.”

  Her ankle slid up his calf. “I’m pretty demanding.”

  “I can handle it.” His other hand snaked down to her ass. The smooth skin had his hips flexing.

  “You have all night to show me.”

  He rubbed his erection against her, loving the way she cuddled and held him. “I plan on taking a lot longer than that.”

  “Good.”

  From anyone else the word would have been meaningless. From Allie he felt the vow, the promise of commitment. “And I happen to have off tomorrow.”

  “I have a feeling I’m going to need to call in sick.”

  Relief poured through him. “You never take a sick day.”

  “I’m thinking you’re worth it.”

  “I promise I will be.”

  Her mouth hovered over his. “Stop talking and show me.”

  National bestselling and award-winning author HelenKay Dimon is a former divorce attorney who is thrilled to write romance full time. Two of her novels have been designated as “Red-Hot Reads” by Cosmopolitan magazine and excerpted in its issues. Her books have been featured at numerous venues, including E! Online and The Chicago Tribune, and have been published by Doubleday Book Club and Rhapsody Book Club and translated into a dozen languages. Other than her readers, the best thing about her job is the commute—which consists of going from one side of the house to the other. You can visit HelenKay at her website, www.helenkaydimon.com.

  INTO THE RED

  CAMERON BELLE

  Shortly after lunch, the suits came and escorted Carlson from the premises. Scuttlebutt is he was slipping enhancements to the contestants, something about a gambling addiction and that alone would have been enough. Since the Network takes “fairness” and “integrity” seriously, we’re not allowed to bet on anything, let alone the Tournament. The drugs just make it sexy, which makes for coverage and with the first elimination sweeps around the corner, they would want him gone before a scandal brewed. So gone he was.

  Which leaves them down one exam tech for the night.

  So far, I’ve only ever worked in the rehab wing of the aftercare center, but I do have certification, a spotless record, and—thanks to my birth—financial resources that make bribes and debts a non-issue. That may be why they chose me, or maybe it was luck of the spin. I hope so. One of the points of my having a career is to earn advancement through my own merit, and I’d like to hope that’s how I got this opportunity. But I’m not naive.

  It’s thankless grunt work, screening the early-season rabble, but it’s still a game-night task at the megarena itself, one on one with active contestants. It’s a foot in the door that an intern of my seniority shouldn’t expect for another season at least. So yeah, chances are some admin type realized who I was and saw Carlson’s slot as a chance to curry my family’s favor. That doesn’t mean I can’t prove myself equal to the task.

  They pull me from PT with last year’s second runner up, and on the van ride over, I struggle to recall the last time I saw a full game, some time before med school for sure. My last stadium visit is easier to pinpoint; it fell the weekend before my fifteenth birthday. While I’ll admit it’s what drove me toward medicine, I try not to unpack the crystal-clear memory too often. Mostly, I succeed.

  After a security screening, I find myself in a long tunnel many levels below the thundering floor of the megarena. A story or so above my head, the motion-activated lighting flares up, then drops back into darkness as a quartet of armed and armored guards hustles me along. Our steps echo off the vaulted ceiling and tremors of bass pulse down from the pre-competition music, so loud that if I pressed a palm to the cool, concrete walls, I’d feel it.

  The lead guard stops abruptly and smacks the companel beside an entrance. He states my code, his code, the date and, after leaning in for a retscan, the word, “Authorize.” The door whispers open and dim blue overheads flick to halogen white.

  Only the lead follows me in. “You know the routine,” he says, and I nod. “Go
od. Show me your wrist, boy.”

  I manage not to bristle. I may be lean, with a face that has many patients asking where the real doctor is, but this man’s got five years on me at most. He hasn’t worked nearly hard enough to earn my visible disdain. I flex my wrist, holding it up impatiently.

  He extracts a wristband from a vest pocket and after strapping it on more snugly than necessary, he taps his compad. The wristband beeps and a green light starts flashing in time with my pulse. “You’re all set. Panic button’s here.” He taps the left side. “Something happens and you can’t reach it, no worries. If it goes into the red, it drops him long enough to give you a chance.”

  “I told you I know the routine. You can go now. I have men to see.”

  “Just the one,” he says with a knowing smirk.

  I ignore his tone, fetch my compad from my bag, and as the door closes, I pull up the chart to familiarize myself with the essentials. I flip past the contestant’s bio—don’t care. “Personality” is B-roll to charm the viewers. All I want to know is what’s been done to his body. The answer, I discover as I scan, is “not much.” He’s a rookie with just three games behind him and nothing worse than a broken nose and the usual cuts and bruises.

  The rehab patients I’m used to dealing with are all incapacitated with injury. They’re also game players who’ve mellowed with experience and for the troublemakers, we’ve got drugs. I’ve got none of that here, just a powerful, lucid, barely trained prisoner and an opportunity I probably didn’t earn. One I’m not entirely prepared for.

  I roll up my sleeves to just above my elbows and anticipation stirs in my gut. In response, my wristband blinks faster, green taking on a yellowish hue. Deep breath in on a slow count of three then out through pursed lips. Twice more and the blinking slows, shifting back to emerald. Good. I will do this, I resolve. I will handle whatever walks through that door without calling for the guards.

  Long before they arrive, I hear the heavy clomp of boots, the rise and fall of one man’s voice. Then the door opens and he’s shoved in. “Been a pleasure,” he barks, then he spits a fat wad of saliva in one of their faces.

  Instead of wiping it away, the guard taps a button on his chest, and the competitor’s muscles go rigid. He yelps involuntarily then does a half-lunge at the guard, the kind of fake out that’s over before it starts. Instead of flinching, the guard jabs the button and holds it. And holds it. And smiles.

  The competitor’s hands fly to his metal collar. He struggles to stay on his feet, but the longer the guard presses, the further he curls in on himself, thickly muscled thighs trembling. I rush forward and wrap both arms around his chest, keeping him from hitting the unforgiving metal floor. “Enough!” I snap.

  The guard twists the button and the competitor goes limp. I strain to ease him to the ground. I’m not weak, but at 218 pounds, it’s an awkward task. “You’re welcome,” the guard says as the door closes.

  “Terrific,” I say as I kneel. That probably just cost me any chance of cooperation, and if I don’t get my pulse under control by the time he snaps out of the stun, I’ll be the one setting off his collar. I roll him onto his back, supporting his freshly shaved head so it doesn’t bang on the floor. The collar on his tan, short-sleeved shirt looks irreparably stretched, like he’s been dragged by it. A fresh cut on his mouth leaks blood, the red smearing just past the pink of his full lower lip.

  I’m about to rise and retreat to a smarter distance when I’m stopped by an iron grip right above my wristband. The blinking light is lemon, which means right now the collar is inducing moderately painful sensations all over his body. “Easy,” he says in a strained whisper. “Easy now. There’s a good boy,” he croons as if to a skittish animal.

  With my free hand I dig a thumb into a pressure point on his arm and wrench myself free, then I rise and put a few steps between us. My wrist aches and his finger marks fade slowly from my skin. I resist the urge to rub at them. “You baited him. Don’t bait me, and I’ll make this as painless as possible.”

  He sits up and rolls his head until his neck cracks. Then his eyes widen as he slowly looks me over. “Not a boy, but new, yes? My name’s Tom, by the way.” He extends his hand, and it’s not clear whether he’s looking for a handshake or help up.

  I’m not nearly green enough to offer either, but I do note the rust of healed scrapes on his knuckles. I select a pair of transparent sanitary gloves and tug them on, unrolling them to just below my elbows, and since he’s still on the floor, I tell him to please sit on the exam table.

  After a smooth kip-up, he stalks toward me, circling me and the table once. He stops beside me, leans a hip against the edge of the table, then slides a couple fingers up under his collar, scratching. “Love how they leave us in here alone with you lot. You haven’t even got a gun. It’s like they don’t care what happens to you.”

  “That collar works fine,” I say.

  Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out and lays a hand on my throat. It’s rough and hot, heavy even though he doesn’t squeeze. His tone isn’t menacing so much as curious. “I could snap your neck, you know. You’d be dead before the collar dropped me.”

  “And lose your chance at freedom? You don’t look particularly stupid.”

  He holds on for another half a minute, his blue-green eyes locked on mine. Tanning lamps have lent his cage-kept body a healthy glow. His nose, which his chart says has been broken at least once, is as straight as a well-carved marble statue. The Network’s hand has done its part making him close-up ready, but it’s his mouth that really wants my attention, full, round, natural lips whose softness looks out of place on such a hard body. He presses a thumb to my carotid. “You don’t look all that brave, but your heart tells me you’re not scared.”

  “Sit on the table, please.”

  With a reluctant sigh, he lets me go. “How ’bout you tell me your name first.”

  “This isn’t a negotiation.”

  “You look like a Fredrick.”

  “I can get you declared unfit for the tournament. If you want to wait until next season, please, stay where you are.”

  He cocks his head to the side, looking for all the world like a curious dog. “I think I like you, Fredrick. I think I like you very much.” He hops up onto the table and drops his jaw, lifting his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

  I tug my glove taut and check under his tongue for hidden blades. With two fingers, I explore the slippery heat of his cheeks, then all along his gumline. As I withdraw, he bites gently and wraps his lips around my knuckles. My heart rate jumps and the tendons of his neck show the exact moment his collar responds. After swallowing a groan, he sucks.

  I yank my hand away and continue my exam, logging his vitals and ignoring his smirk. Absolutely ignoring the way he follows me with his eyes and licks his lips every time I touch him. I just focus on crossing items off a mental checklist. For the most part, this exam is just a bureaucratic paper trail, proof he hasn’t snuck contraband onto the megarena floor and that no one’s graced him with any synthetic boosts.

  On my command, he inhales, exhales, then in a husky voice, he says, “I believe you like me too, Fredrick.”

  I pull an autosyringe from the rack and without preamble, I jab it straight in his thigh. Silently, I count to five as it pulls, turning the cylinder from clear to dark, swirling red. When it’s full, I pop the sample in the right slot and set the scanner to work. “My name’s not Fredrick,” I tell him. “It’s Brendan.”

  He’s smiling sweetly as he rubs his leg. “Brendan. Even better. Have you got a girlfriend, Brendan?”

  “No.”

  “A boyfriend, then?” His jaw clenches, then he touches his collar. “There’s a yes. Or maybe a regretful no.”

  “Or maybe it’s none of your business. Please drop your shorts.” I flip open a tube of lubricant and coat my right-hand fingers, then I look at his sculpted trapezius muscles, the door, my own slick fingers rubbing together. Anywhere but his playful gri
n.

  “How could I refuse you?” He slides to the floor and draws himself up to his full height, only a couple inches taller than me. It’s the breadth of him that’s striking, especially when he tugs off his shirt. After he pushes down his shorts and steps out of them, he clasps his hands behind his back and stands before me, shoulders squared, naked save for the tattoos scattered all over his skin.

  And, of course, the collar. It’s the same dull semi-gloss silver as my wristband, the width of three fingers and the thickness of one. I tear my attention away from it and tell him, “Bend over the table.”

  He doesn’t move a muscle.

  “I don’t enjoy this part any more than you do, so let’s just be done with it.”

  He pouts. “It’s not that I mind having you in me, but you didn’t say please.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s common courtesy,” he says, rubbing at his mouth. “Nothing you owe a man like me, sure, but—”

  I hold up a hand and he snaps his mouth shut. I want to be done with this, so I give in and say, “Please.”

  He turns, smiling like he’s genuinely surprised.

  “Thank you,” I tell him as he puts his thick, ink-wrapped forearms on the cold steel table. Violet stripes mar the back of one thigh, day-old bruises that cosmetics will mask before he’s on camera. Experimentally, I press on one with a few of my unlubed fingers.

  He chokes back a noise.

  “Sorry. Do you want an analgesic? I could—”

  He shakes his head. “Least of my troubles. You just caught me off guard. Go ahead,” he says, planting his feet a little farther apart.

  For the first time, I wonder what he did to put himself here. Nearly all competitors are criminals of one sort or another, most violent, but every year a crazy few sign over their lives for a shot at the purse. Some of the ink on his skin is jagged and hand scrawled, obviously the work of some prison amateur. But some isn’t, and the multicolored feathers that curl over his left shoulder blade are professionally intricate. Along the edge is a line of what looks like Latin. I trace it with my thumb. “What’s this say?”