by Helena Maeve
She didn’t realize her mistake until Dylan was standing, his fingers tight around her chin. “What did you say to me?” he growled. He looked dangerous.
He looked furious.
Hazel’s voice fled, taking with it the air in her lungs and the last scraps of courage she had left. She wanted to sink into the heated floor.
“I think you need a reminder as to who’s in charge here…” He pulled away so abruptly that Hazel swayed forward before she could steady herself. She tracked him with her gaze, dreading that he’d make good on his threat to gag her after all.
It was a little pathetic that she felt relieved when he took up a leather crop, bending it between his hands before letting it whip back into shape with a bone-chilling hiss.
“What color are you on?” Dylan asked, from well across the room.
Hazel frowned.
“Green, yellow, red?”
Oh. That. She had to think about it. “Yellow?”
Dylan’s expression softened as he approached. “It doesn’t hurt very much. Do you want to try it and see?”
The change was so swift, anger fleeing his features as though it had never been there at all. It nearly gave Hazel whiplash. She shook her head. “I’ve used one before.” Less ‘used’, more ‘had used on me’, but the answer was the same. “Don’t… Don’t hold back on my account.”
Dylan seemed a little unsure, but he didn’t challenge her. Maybe that was against his rules, too.
Hazel didn’t get the chance to put much more thought into it before Dylan pulled back the crop and flicked its flat, fly-swatter-like tip against her hip. A sharp sting exploded in her buttocks, heat skittering up her spine.
“Red?” Dylan asked, steadying her with fingers splayed wide against her belly.
Hazel swallowed hard. “Green.” Very green. She tilted into the offending instrument, eager to prolong the burn before it numbed away.
Dylan got the message and struck her again.
By the third stroke, Hazel’s flesh prickled with hurt. By the fifth, she could barely hear the crackle of the crop as it went singing through the air. Dylan cupped her mound, clearly less as a way to steady her and more in an attempt to cop a feel.
Hazel bent at the waist on a swat that lashed her breasts. “Ah—I’m gonna come if you don’t stop.” Her voice barely sounded like her own anymore—or maybe that was just the drumming in her ears, making everything else seem hazy and muffled.
“You want me to stop?” Dylan asked. He sounded more awed than amused, although the dividing line was so permeable that perhaps Hazel had it all wrong.
She didn’t care. Her pride had fled with the first smack of the riding crop. The rest was sensation and delight, bliss simmering in the pit of her stomach like champagne bubbles as hurt bloomed fresh under her skin.
She shook her head.
“That’s what I thought.” Dylan switched the crop from hand to hand and stepped back a foot.
The first swat across her midriff had Hazel doubling over—or at least as far as she could, considering that she was dangling from a hook in the ceiling. Her foot came up off the ground in a futile, thoughtless defense. It had been a while since she’d learned how to smother such instincts, but Dylan didn’t seem to mind. He swatted her shin, then the back of her thigh when she only curled up tighter in a foolish attempt to protect herself.
Her ribcage rose and fell like a bellows.
“Put your foot down,” Dylan ordered. “Now, Hazel.” The rough cadences of his voice brooked no opposition, admitted no delay.
Hazel slammed her foot into the floor, curling her toes into the hardwood boards like that might help anchor them. It didn’t. This was all about willpower and self-control, and Hazel had neither. She couldn’t even follow a simple request. She couldn’t do anything right. She was going to fuck this up and Dylan would be so disappointed. He wouldn’t want to see her again.
Ward Parrish would get to feel vindicated about being right all along.
The pace of the slaps intensified, building to a crescendo along the underside of her breasts, then ceasing abruptly. Dylan tossed the crop to the floor and knelt. He would’ve ripped her panties off if they were of higher quality, but the cheap, sopping cotton held out in the face of his brutal tug. He didn’t bother pulling them off completely, simply let them dangle around one ankle as he pressed his mouth to Hazel’s cunt.
As per orders, she couldn’t lift a foot off the ground. A moment later, it didn’t matter.
Dylan was merciless, spearing his tongue to part her folds and lapping at her with sloppy, inexpert flicks, as if he couldn’t set aside desire long enough to focus on what he was doing. Wet, vulgar noises ricocheted against the walls as he fastened his lips tightly around her clit. She tried to resist, but between the hot burn of the crop and his enthusiastic ministrations, it didn’t take much to send Hazel over the edge.
She came like that, suspended from a hook in the ceiling. Her knees gave out at last. A sob tore from her throat as bittersweet ecstasy took her under.
It might have been a minute or an hour later that she felt Dylan rise, petting her flesh with gentle hands when she swayed against him. He undid the buckles on the leather cuffs easily, as if it was child’s play. It occurred to Hazel that she probably could’ve done it herself if she put her mind to it.
“There. I got you… How’re you feeling?” Dylan asked, combing the hair from her face.
“Tired.” Good was what Hazel could’ve said, but surely that went without saying. She was achy and spent, and parts of her that hadn’t even been touched seemed to thrum with exhaustion. “M’sorry,” she slurred.
“For?”
“You didn’t say—”
“I wanted you to come, sweetheart. That was so hot. You enjoyed it, right?”
Hazel tried to find the words—she really did—but her brain wouldn’t cooperate.
Dylan didn’t hold it against her. “Let’s get you to bed.”
Now Hazel understood the wisdom of having a bed so close to a torture chamber. She didn’t know how she managed the twenty feet from ceiling hook to king-size mattress, but once she was horizontal, she was perfectly content to stay there. Dylan propped himself on his elbow beside her. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head.
“Thirsty?”
Hazel managed a crooked smile as she hugged the pillow to her chest. It smelled like Dylan’s cologne. “What’s with the Twenty Questions?”
“Comes with the territory.” Dylan stroked her flank. “You won’t have any bruises, but if you’re sore right now, I can run you a bath…”
You’re way too coherent after that. It took Hazel a moment to realize why. Bliss dimmed swiftly, replaced by guilt. Was she really so selfish?
She caught Dylan’s hand in hers and used it as leverage to drag herself up. Aching limbs protested the attempt, but Hazel was all about mind over matter. She ignored Dylan’s frown in favor of unbuckling his belt. By the time he caught on, she already had a hand down the front of his pants, into his boxers, curling around his erection. He was half hard, but he thickened even more in her fist, pre-cum slicking her thumb.
There was something incredibly gratifying about hearing his breath hitch. “What’re you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Hazel licked her lips and, before she could think better of it, tugged him out of the confines of his slacks and pressed her lips to the silky cockhead.
Dylan swore under his breath. “Fuck, let me get a condom—”
Hazel wasn’t listening. She hated the taste of latex in her mouth, anyway. A blow job wasn’t even close to the top ten risks she’d taken today. She hollowed her cheeks around his shaft and sucked him deep. This part she remembered well. All it took was letting her throat relax, remembering to breathe through her nose, and soon her lips met her fingers at the base of his erection.
Dylan made a sound low in his throat, fisting her long hair, then bucked up. His body stiffened as he c
ame.
Cum filled her mouth, seeping out of the corners of her lips.
She pulled back misty-eyed, but she knew not to cough until she’d let him slide out completely.
“Fuck, sorry. I thought you’d…” Dylan left off apologizing as she licked him clean, tremulous little moans creeping out of his throat as the aftershocks rode his spent body. He sank back into the mattress when Hazel shifted away. “That—that was unexpected.”
“You’re welcome,” Hazel rasped out, her throat like sandpaper.
Dylan twisted around to glance at her, his eyes soft, lashes low over his cheeks.
“Thank you.”
He looked debauched and edible, but Hazel was too exhausted to do much more besides loll in his bed and watch him. Now she could sit back, enjoy the afterglow.
“I should get cleaned up,” Dylan mumbled after a beat. “Sure I can’t tempt you with that bath?”
Hazel shook her head.
“Okay.” He dragged himself up with some effort.
A job well done. That indefatigable voice at the back of her mind was up to its old tricks again. Shame it’s the first and last time…
Hazel waited until the bathroom door had shut in Dylan’s wake before staggering to her feet. She found her clothes and purse in the playroom. She tugged her dress on as best she could, forgoing underwear, girdle and tights and gritting her teeth when it came to pulling her shoes on.
She was combing her hair back into place when Dylan came out of the bathroom, sans pants, his untucked shirt hanging open over a pair of black boxers. His chiseled stomach briefly distracted Hazel from the wrinkle between his eyebrows.
“I should go,” she said pre-emptively.
“Already?”
“I had a good time,” Hazel replied, sidestepping the question. She got off. He got off. What more was there to do?
Dylan didn’t seem to agree, but he nodded all the same. “Me too, it’s just… Look, let me put some pants on, I’ll drive you home.”
“I called a cab.” That was a lie, but Hazel had said far worse things to get out of sticky situations.
She could almost pretend she didn’t care that Dylan’s face fell in dismay or that a part of her badly, foolishly wanted to spend the night. That was one rule she couldn’t afford to break. It was for the best.
“Are you sure?”
“Do I strike you as the kind of girl that needs handholding?” Hazel retorted, because she couldn’t lie to his face after that.
“Okay,” Dylan said, relenting. “You’ll call me?”
“Sure.”
“Hazel.”
She was already halfway out of the bedroom, handbag slapping against her hip, when Dylan called her name. Ask me to stay. Ask me to stay and I will.
“Your dress is undone,” Dylan said.
“Oh…” It took everything she had not to crumble when he came up behind her to do up the zipper. “Thanks.”
“Any time.”
She thought about pecking him on the cheek before she left, but in the end the fear of losing her resolve won out. The front door closed behind her with a dull clang as she took the steps on jelly legs.
Hands shaking, she called a cab from the lobby. The operator promised a fifteen minute wait, give or take. Hazel thanked him and hung up. Through the flimsy material of her dress, the stone step bit at the blood-hot welts on the backs of her thighs.
It was a relief when the overhead neon switched off at last, plunging her into pitch-black darkness.
Chapter Seven
“What do you mean you’re not coming in today?”
Hazel pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. “I’m not feeling too hot. Think it’s something I ate…”
“Honey, do you need me to come over?” Sadie’s tone veered from bewildered to concerned in an eye blink.
“No. I’ll just sleep it off—”
“Christ,” Sadie swore on the other end of the line.
“What?”
“Your boyfriend’s here.”
Hazel curled her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Shit. I’m sorry…” She heard Marco shout for Sadie to get off the phone. She could only imagine the diner was full and tempers were running hot. Marco would be no happier once he heard she was taking the day off. “Look, don’t tell him anything,” Hazel pleaded, not quite sure which ‘him’ she meant.
Sadie gave no sign of having heard. “Or I could beat his ass with a tire iron. I know people. If he did something—”
“He was wonderful.” That’s the problem. ‘Wonderful’ hurt more when they left. “I’m serious, Sadie. It’s all good. I just don’t feel up to facing the world today.”
“I’m coming over after work.”
“You don’t have to.” It wasn’t ‘there’s no need’ because Hazel never wanted to be alone when she was down. Silence gave her thoughts room to roam. She’d grown up in a house that was quiet only at night. And you left it for a reason.
Sadie scoffed. “I’m coming over.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t wallow. Whatever it is. If you’re feeling up to it, go for a walk. Clear your head. Buy expensive shoes.”
Hazel made no promises. She didn’t want to give up the handy fiction of an upset stomach. It had served her well enough in high school.
She hung up and fell back into bed.
Sleep found her easily.
In her dreams, she went back to Dunby and the home she’d been so eager to flee. She found herself trying to get ready for school but finding all her clothes had disappeared. Her mother burst into the room to tell her she would be late.
A breath later, her father did the same. Then Buddy.
An endless succession of family and friends paraded before her bedroom door, all shrugging when she asked where her things were. And all along, pieces of her childhood haven vanished off the walls. It was an eternity before she noticed that every time her back was turned, her visitors removed another Backstreet Boys poster, another Missouri Princess Pageant trophy. She was down to her pink-swathed twin bed and an empty wardrobe by the time she jolted awake.
Rain pelted the window, fat droplets slamming against the pane like pebbles. It took Hazel a long moment to grasp that it wasn’t the rain that had roused her.
Her cell vibrated on the bedside table, rocking the reading lamp and the stack of books balanced precariously on the corner. Hazel checked Caller ID.
Dylan gleamed on the screen.
“Duh…” He’d said he would wait for her call. This was proof of poor impulse control.
Or maybe he just likes me? Hazel dismissed the thought as she clicked Reject. He would call again later, when she was better prepared to face the conversation brewing on the horizon. Much like the tornadoes of her childhood, she knew she couldn’t outrun it.
She endeavored to get back to sleep, but last night’s events wouldn’t give her peace. Sighing, Hazel kicked off the covers and stomped into her minuscule bathroom. Pipes rattled and clanged as water gushed from the shower spray.
It wasn’t a matter of feeling dirty. True to his word, Dylan hadn’t left any marks. Nothing hurt the day after he’d worked her over with a sure hand. Hazel leaned against the tiles. If she closed her eyes, she could see Dylan on his knees before her. She could feel the sting of the crop making the pleasure that much sweeter. Her clit throbbed with the memory, body yearning for touch despite the curl of shame in her belly. The shower ran cold before Hazel had exhausted the stock of lewd flashbacks. She wrapped herself in a towel and wrung out her hair before pinning it up in a messy twist.
Last night had been a happy accident—evidence that there were some good men left out there. So why did the woman staring back at her from the mirror look so hollow-eyed?
The phone shrilled in the other room.
It was Dylan. Again. This time, Hazel picked up.
“Hey…”
“Hey back. How are you feeling?” His voice sounded echo-y, like he was
speaking from inside a tunnel.
Was he asking because he’d stopped by the diner and she wasn’t there or because of what they’d done last night? Hazel opted for the likelier option. “I’m not that much of a fixture that you can’t digest breakfast at Marco’s without seeing me, am I?” Never mind that she was still happy to pull double shifts—as long as they were in daylight—just so she wouldn’t be cooped up at home, alone with her thoughts.
Dylan scoffed. “Sadie mentioned you weren’t feeling well. Was it the salmon?”
“Salmon was fine.”
“I thought so, too… But if you didn’t like the salmon, I hope you know you can tell me. There are other dishes on the menu.”
Hazel parked herself on the edge of the bed, chilly rivulets dripping from her hair down her spine. She smiled despite herself. “Or we could just eat in from now on. I do make a killer cheese casserole…”
“I wasn’t really talking about salmon.”
“I know.” It wasn’t the most obscure analogy he could’ve come up with. Her smile dimmed. “I don’t know how to say this without coming across as giving you the brush-off.”
“So don’t say it,” Dylan breathed, his voice dropping an octave.
“It’s not fair to you.”
“I don’t want you to be fair. Be as—as unfair as you’d like, just… Give us a chance?”
Hazel ran her tongue along the flats of her teeth, mulling it over. She couldn’t do that. Not only would it lead to heartache in the long run, but Dylan would regret ever talking her out of a quick and easy breakup. She knew how this story ended.
“Ward doesn’t like me much, does he?” Hazel asked, trying another tack.
“Did he say that?”
“I thought it was implied.” Especially when he owned up to online stalking me to make sure I wasn’t some kind of a gold-digger. “Guess I can’t blame him. I’d be protective, too, if I was your friends-with-benefits person.” She’d nearly said ‘guy’, but more and more she was beginning to think homosexuality wasn’t something that Dylan or Ward were comfortable admitting to. It made no difference.
