by Charles, Eva
“Am I a monster?”
What? My eyes shoot open, and I turn my head toward him.
I need him to repeat the question, before I go anywhere near it. What if I nodded off and completely misunderstood? “I’m sorry. I missed part of that.”
“No, you didn’t. You’re just not sure how to answer.” He snickers. It has a ring of sadness to it. “You’re probably the wrong person to ask.”
Monster? Where did this come from?
“I’m exactly the right person.” I respond too quickly and reflexively, almost as though I’m gearing up to defend him—but against what? Himself?
“I’ve seen a lot of sides to you, Gray. And I’m the right person to ask because I’ll tell you the truth.” I shrug. “When I worked at the club, I saw mostly good in you—toward everyone. But once I left, you were ugly to me. And now?” I gaze up at him. “Some of your behavior has been downright deplorable, and confusing, to be honest. But no, I don’t think you’re a monster. Far from it. That’s why I agreed to join you in a mission.”
“You agreed?” The cords in his neck are so tight, I can see them under the dim light. This is the broodiest he’s ever been around me. “Is that what we’re calling coercion now?”
“Yes. I agreed. I’ve been clear about that. Your threats got my attention, but they didn’t play any role in the final decision. I’m not afraid of you. I never have been.” I get up and reach for my plate, but Gray grabs hold of my arm, and pulls me into his lap. There’s something about his mood that guts me.
“Sit here with me for a minute. Let me enjoy the way your hair and skin smell. The way you feel. All soft, and at the same time strong. You’re such a contradiction. It’s beguiling.”
I curl into him, laying my cheek against his hammering heart, and close my eyes. He’s a contradiction too. Maybe we’re made for each other.
His heart eventually slows to a beat that feels familiar. “What did you get for dessert?” he asks after several minutes of just quietly being together.
“You want dessert?”
“I thought you might.”
“It was pecan pie. And it was delicious.” I feel his shoulders shake before I hear the laughter. A great relief washes through me. This is the man I know—the version of him that I like best. “It was getting late, and it’s not like you keep any food in the house. I didn’t want to pick at the chicken salad. I was saving it until you got home.” Home. Why did I say that? This isn’t my home.
“I don’t want dessert.” He holds me tight, so I can’t move, and kisses my head. “Make a list of things you think we should have in the apartment. Next time someone goes to the market, they’ll pick it up.”
A list of things we should have in the apartment. Not I should have, but we should have.
It’s pretend, Delilah. All pretend. You’d do well to remember that.
I should probably leave it alone, but his heart was heavy when he came in tonight. I can’t believe whatever was on his mind is gone completely. “What made you ask if you were a monster?” I ask, rubbing his chest lightly.
He doesn’t respond immediately, and after a couple minutes I’m convinced he isn’t going to respond at all. But sometimes it takes a little extra time to collect the courage to bare your soul.
“Laurel didn’t want to tell me she was pregnant. She needs the health insurance and thought if I knew, I’d find a reason to fire her.” Gray lifts my chin until our eyes meet. “Am I so shallow that someone who works for me would think I’d fire her because she’s pregnant?”
There’s something about him that looks vulnerable. I’m sure he wants my reassurance, but the truth is, in her shoes, I would have been concerned too.
“Pregnant women have a whole host of hormonal things going on that neither you nor I can appreciate. Hell, Gabby once cried at a commercial for a feminine hygiene product. But I can understand why Laurel was worried,” I say gently.
He stiffens under me, and I feel terrible about hurting him, but I’m not going to lie. That serves no purpose. “It’s not you, Gray. Wildflower is a carefully crafted fantasy. Everything about it is beautiful and decadent—even the part that’s above ground. You sell sex. A big belly and swollen ankles are a repellent to the kind of sin you peddle. They’re the result of sin, a warning of what’s to come when you partake in the fun, not an enticement.”
“I’m a perfectionist and I demand loyalty. But I was always under the impression that my employees understood that their loyalty would be returned. I’ve always tried to do right by them. It’s important to me.”
“While I worked at Wildflower,” I say, sincerely, “I always had the impression that everyone adored you, despite your exacting ways. You’re good to people who work there. You do it quietly—like going in the ambulance with Laurel without making a big deal.”
I pull his face toward mine, until my lips reach his. It’s not the kind of kiss that’s big and sexy—it’s the kind that says I’m on your side.
“You’re a good soul, Delilah.”
His mouth meets mine, with a raw energy that stokes the sleeping fire. He sinks his teeth into my bottom lip, sending jolts of pleasure through me. When I begin to pant, he slides a hand under my shirt, caressing one breast, then the other. Not sweet, gentle caresses, but firm, skilled strokes that demand my nipples furl in appreciation.
“What are we going to do about the little lapse tonight?” he murmurs.
My brain is in a fog. Between his sexy mouth and those hands—I’m a muddled mess. “What little lapse?”
“The one where I told you to go upstairs and you defied me.” His tone has a roguish edge that makes my heart skip a beat.
“I guess you’ll have to punish me.”
Gray wraps my hair around his hand, tipping my head back and leaving my neck exposed. “I don’t punish grown women unless it’s part of a scene.” He runs his tongue along my throat until he reaches my ear. His teeth sink into the lobe, making me shudder. “I dole out consequences for behavior, good and bad. Everything we do, or fail to do, has a consequence. Human behavior is shaped by our willingness to bear the consequences.”
“It sounds complicated. Maybe you can show me what you mean.”
The edge of his mouth curls. “You just bought yourself another consequence, Blue Eyes. Let’s go inside.”
23
Delilah
Gray opens the door and steps aside so I can go in first. I stop just inside the living room because I’m not sure where to go. I’m not even sure what we’re doing. Not exactly. But I’m all in. That, I am sure about.
He cradles my face in his hands. “This is going to be a short, uncomplicated scene. But intense. Will you follow where I lead?”
I’ve come to understand that this is Gray’s way of asking for my consent. “Yes.” I emphasize my assent with a slight nod.
“Yes, what? What are you agreeing to?” He stills, waiting for my response.
“You lead, and I’ll follow. Wherever it takes me.”
I feel his hands tense around my face. He places his warm lips on my forehead, where it meets the hairline. “Green, yellow, or red when I check in with you during the scene. Red anytime you want to stop. It’s your safe word. Don’t be afraid to use it.”
“Of course.” I can handle whatever he has in store for me—physically, anyway. I don’t plan on using the safe word. Although I don’t suppose anyone ever does.
I follow Gray to the bedroom, past the enormous bed we’ll be sharing tonight, into his closet.
I’ve never been inside before. It’s not that different from the one where my new clothing hangs, although this closet is decidedly more masculine. It’s the size of a large dressing room, outfitted along two walls with rods and racks. A bank of drawers covers the far wall, and there are two built-in dressers flanking a wide, floor-to-ceiling gold-framed mirror. The woodwork is dark, and the walls and ceiling are lined with cedar panels.
Gray locks the door from the inside, making s
ure I see him slip the key into his pocket. I’m his captive. His willing captive.
He leaves me standing in the center of the dimly lit room, while he climbs into an elaborately carved chair. It appears to be some sort of a throne, resting on a dais off the floor. But as I examine it more closely, I realize it’s a vintage shoeshine chair that men once sat in to have their shoes polished to a mirrored finish.
Even in sweatpants and a T-shirt cut at the sleeves, Gray looks like he belongs in that leather chair with its gilded frame. Rich, powerful men don’t relinquish their birthright when they shed their fine clothing. By the same token, you can’t put couture on a girl from Mississippi and expect her to be a queen.
“Is this my consequence?” I ask tentatively.
He peers down at me from his antique perch, like a king on a peasant. “No. This is play time. We’ll discuss the consequences later. Or tomorrow. I don’t think you’ll be up to discussing anything when we’re done.”
The buzz of anxiety is well-entrenched inside me, humming along nicely. Just like he wants.
“But for now,” Gray continues, “unless I ask you a question, or you need to use your safe word, I want you quiet. No words. But not silent. I want to hear those whimpers of pleasure and the groans of frustration. I want your screams to thrum in my veins.” I shudder in response, and he smiles devilishly. “What’s your safe word?”
“Red.” I don’t need to think about it.
Gray nods. “Take off your clothes, Delilah. For me.” He leans back with his forearms propped on the chair. “Every. Last. Stitch.”
I lift my head and pull my shoulders back, not in a balk, but resolute and determined. I intend to do this not only for his pleasure, but for mine.
Although it’s not my intention to put on a show, I feel myself disrobing with moony, graceful movements, my gaze drawn to his. I’m already aroused and Gray is too. The evidence is not just his hard cock probing the thin fabric, but in his dark eyes, with their heavy lids.
“You’re beautiful, darlin’. I don’t tell you that often enough.” His voice is the soothing stroke of a master caressing a pet. “Look into the mirror.”
I swivel, following his command without wavering.
“On your knees,” he instructs with that same inviting tone.
Only this time, I don’t rush to obey. Instead, I meet his eyes in the mirror. Pleading silently. I’m not ready to kneel for him.
“I’m not requiring you to get into a submissive pose. That’s entirely up to you. But I do want you on your knees. Now.”
I’m not sure if it’s a concession, or if he never expected me to kneel for him. Getting on my knees is different from kneeling. It’s not just semantics. I wouldn’t expect just anyone to understand the distinction, but Gray does.
I lower my knees to the well-padded silk rug, with my body long and proud, and my arms dangling at my side. It’s not a submissive posture. It’s nothing like it. Although it doesn’t take long before I realize the humble position might be more comfortable. But I don’t move.
Gray watches me in the mirror with a keen eye. “Quiet your mind,” he demands. The soothing tenor is gone, replaced by the commanding Dominant. The shift is subtle, but unmistakable.
I lower my head to save myself from his probing stare. But I’m not spared. The sear sizzles on my exposed skin, and I struggle not to squirm.
His patience will surely outlast mine, especially with the heady scent of cedar whirling with his spicy cologne. When I first entered the closet, the dance was subtle and oddly comforting, but now, it’s loud, permeating my senses, and it’s all I smell.
After what seems like an eternity, there’s a rustling behind me. I glance into the mirror as he approaches with a swath of fabric in one hand and what appears to be a crop in the other.
My skin is already singing for the crop.
“Spread your thighs wide,” he instructs. “That’s it. A little more.”
I’m unsteady with my knees so far apart, and even though my legs are strong, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold this position without toppling over.
Gray places a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “I’m going to blindfold you,” he explains, before tying the soft fabric around my eyes and robbing me of all sight. “I prefer not to tie your hands. But I want you to keep them behind your back with your fingers laced. Can you do that of your own accord, or do you need the assistance of the binding?”
Anyone can be kept immobile when bound. But it takes a strong will and great fortitude to keep still and embrace the sting of the crop. He’s challenging me.
I choose my words cautiously. “I don’t need to be bound to submit to the crop.” I’m careful not to say a word about submitting to him from my knees.
Gray slides his hands over my shoulders and neck, with firm but gentle strokes that make it difficult not to sway. It would be easier if I were in a submissive pose—and I consider it briefly. No, I decide. He hasn’t earned it, and if I give it up too easily, it will be an empty offering that means nothing.
I lace my fingers against my lower back.
His lips carefully graze the hair at my crown, as the crop slithers between my thighs, inching up slowly, in a satanic tease.
The striking part of the crop, the keeper, is a pliable, unforgiving leather tongue that will sting sweetly when wielded by a skilled hand. The darkness heightens my anticipation, and every nerve ending is on high alert, waiting for the first scrumptious bite of the crop.
Gray slides the keeper across my mound, taking great pains to avoid the sensitive pink flesh begging for a taste.
He lays a steady hand on my shoulder, and strikes my ass. The swoosh of the crop cuts through the air almost as the sting lands. “Ahhh!” I gasp. Before I have time to collect myself, he strikes the other cheek.
Just one wallop on each side, before he begins the excruciating slide up the other thigh. Stopping at my pussy, he rests the leather tongue against the wet skin and holds it there.
Focused on self-preservation, I draw a breath and brace myself for what is sure to come next.
Gray hovers over me, and I feel his hand between my legs. But it’s much too brief. “Such a needy girl,” he murmurs, bringing his fingers to my lips.
I suck them clean. I don’t need to be told.
“You’re so good, darlin’. When you lave my fingers with your hot little mouth, I feel it in my cock.”
I begin to sway, and he brings a hand to my breast, fingering the nipple roughly while the crop snaps and licks my pussy with rhythmic beats against the slick flesh. Gray wields it expertly, varying gentle caresses with delicious bites.
He holds me steady, by my breasts, kneading one and then the other. When my legs begin to quiver, the crop disappears. I groan at the loss, squeezing my interlocked fingers in agony.
My pulse slows, and Gray begins again. The soft blows build, the cadence sure as I climb. But this time I know. It doesn’t matter how desperate I am to come, he won’t allow it. My cunt is aching. I need the release. I concentrate on keeping my legs still so he doesn’t know how close I am, but it’s all for nothing. He pulls the damn thing away when I’m right there.
The pressure behind my eyes is growing. The tears threaten. Not from the sting of the crop, but from the frustration.
I feel Gray move. He’s in front of me, with his cock on my lips. My tongue darts out eagerly to taste the smooth, stretched skin, and I’m rewarded with a milky bead.
“Just like my fingers, Delilah. Suck it good.”
He feeds me his thick cock little by little. I want to use my hands to pull him closer, to dig into the cords of muscle on his thighs, to grip the silky shaft and fondle the tightening sack, but I don’t dare. Instead I lick the taut skin, running my teeth gently over the crown.
He hisses, pushing deeper. “Relax and breathe,” he demands, in a raspy voice. “Take it all.”
Count on it. I tip my head back to lengthen my throat, and swallow as he pus
hes deeper. The saliva pools and dribbles. But I don’t gag.
I hear the rumble of release, and feel his seed on my skin before my mouth registers the loss of his cock. The spray goes on and on. I ache to dip my fingers into it and taste the salty brine.
His hands are in my hair, petting me, with the tender touch of a man who has just had his cock sucked. “Give me a color,” he says, in a voice that still sounds like fine gravel.
“Green. Green,” I repeat louder, so he understands I’m not anywhere near ready to stop.
He’s behind me again, untying the blindfold, and binding my hands with the silky fabric.
“I want you to see what I see. A smart, strong woman, on her knees, marked, swept up not by unrelenting pain, but by intense pleasure.”
My eyes adjust to the low light quickly. The woman in the mirror is uninhibited, covered in a wanton flush, with heavy breasts and swollen lips, her hooded eyes filled with lust.
She reeks of sin.
Gray picks up the crop off the floor and brandishes it mercilessly, harder this time and faster than before. The intensity overshadows the smarting sensation. My hips buck wildly and my legs won’t hold me up any longer. I begin to topple, but he catches me with a free hand, using my breasts to steady me, tweaking one nipple, then the other, until pleading moans are all I hear.
I lean back against his legs for support, and pull at the bindings as my orgasm rushes through me in an almost painful explosion. I don’t see myself in the glass as I fly. I see him. Only him. His soft eyes riveted on me, his strong frame ready to absorb everything I can’t handle, ready to catch me before I fall.
Gray lowers himself behind me, freeing my hands as I tremble. And with the utmost care, he carries me to the bed and lays me on the quilt.
I’m exhausted and sated—physically and emotionally spent. But my body doesn’t ache like a woman who’s been beaten.
He brings a bowl of warm water and a soft cloth, and gently washes away the evidence of our play. His touch is tender and kind, and contented mewls slip from my lips as he dries me with a heated towel.
