Falling Hard

by Shelly Bell

  Tristan shook his head. “No matter what kind of relationship Maggie has with Rick, I don’t do married subs.” Not that he would change his tune even if she was an unmarried sub. The ménage thing was sexy as hell and he’d certainly participated in his fair share, but there wasn’t a woman here who could make his dick stir from its slumber tonight.

  Ryder shrugged. “Suit yourself. She’s waiting for me in the master bedroom.”

  “Thought you abided by the no sex rules at your parties.”

  “It’s my house. If I can’t fuck here, where am I supposed to do it?” Ryder’s said, his gaze glued to Yvette, who’d yet to become a notch on his bedpost. Leave it to his best friend to line up his next conquest while having a naked woman waiting for him in bed. Compared to Ryder, Tristan was a prude. “If you change your mind and stay, the other bedroom is open and available. Just like all the subs.” He raised his bottled water and winked to Yvette before returning his attention to Tristan.

  “That’s the problem. I just want someone for one night. Someone I’m not going to see again.”

  “You’ve certainly made that easier, considering you’re moving this week.”

  “Not permanently. And I’ll occasionally come back to the city. Lord knows I’m not going to find anyone in the lifestyle up there.” Although with the women he’d met lately, he’d been thinking he might go vanilla for a year. It certainly couldn’t be any less fulfilling.

  “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you agreed to the job,” Ryder said, his brows knitted into a frown. “And didn’t you get introduced to BDSM there?”

  “Somehow, I think the chances of finding another Olivia in that one-horse town is slim to none.” His college girlfriend had been four years older and the first to show him the ropes. Literally. “And I agreed to the job because I couldn’t say no when Lancaster called begging.”

  With most of Tristan’s money tied up in Novateur, the business he owned with Ryder, and the mountains of debt the she-devil had left as a parting gift, he needed another revenue stream. His friend, David Lancaster, dean of his alma mater, Hayvenwood University, knew all of that, yet when he’d called asking Tristan to teach a few undergraduate business classes as an adjunct-professor, he’d made it seem as though Tristan would be doing him a favor, rather than the other way around.

  The old college town was filled with too many memories he’d tried to forget. But ten years ago, David had rescued Tristan from making a mistake that would’ve cost him his life. He owed that man everything.

  Ryder shook his head. “You’re a good friend, but you don’t owe him everything,” Ryder said, echoing his thoughts. “Maybe twenty-five percent. You owe the rest to me, your business partner. But, hey, don’t worry about leaving me to run everything. I’ve already got phone calls in to my contacts about the expansion into the southwest.”

  Shit. He and Ryder had discussed that they needed testimonials as to the long-term success of their products before they’d expand into other territories. “Tell me you’re joking. We don’t have the capital—” At Ryder’s smirk, Tristan realized he’d been played. “You dick.”

  “Give me a little credit. I wouldn’t make any major decisions without your consent.” Ryder pounded him on the back hard enough to make his teeth chatter. “Have fun with the kids, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Tristan punched him in the arm. “There isn’t anything you wouldn’t do.”

  “True that. Speaking of which, I’d better go meet Maggie before she starts without me.” On a laugh, Ryder walked off with the swagger of a man who was about to get laid.

  Meanwhile, Tristan had a date with his right hand.

  As he inched his way through the crowd to the front door, Dreama, a sub he’d met but never played with, came in. She gave him a little smile, careful not to make eye contact, and forged a path toward the basement. She was a sweet girl, but there had never been any sparks between them, and she was now in a collared relationship.

  Seeing the opportunity to sneak out before someone else stopped him, he stepped to the door.

  And there she was.

  Tristan’s breath caught in his chest as if he’d been kicked in the ribs. She was a vision in pink, her long red hair flowing down her shoulders and pale skin that was just begging for him to mark. He could practically see his pink handprint on her ass and the way the flogger would make it appear as though her entire body blushed. Had she come with Dreama? Who the hell was she?

  Before he could ask, she walked inside. And slipped. Her arms flailed as she began to fall backward. Dropping his gear bag, he lurched forward and caught her in his arms, one hand wrapped firmly underneath her perfectly rounded ass and the other landing on a soft, supple breast.

  Startled, she gasped and stared up at him with clear, gray eyes, a beautiful blush creeping down her cheeks and disappearing under her dress. Her pale pink lips were swollen as if she’d just spent the last ten minutes with his cock between them. Jesus, were they naturally that plump? Her tongue darted out, moistening her bottom lip and leaving it glistening in an invitation to sample.

  He knew he had to bring her upright and release his hold on her, but he couldn’t seem to let go, especially since the cock that had been hibernating all night suddenly blazed to life and began throbbing mercilessly against the front of his pants. No way was he leaving without learning more.

  Realizing his hand remained indecently placed over her breast, he moved it to her shoulder, but not before brushing his fingers across the center of the ample mound and causing her nipple to perk up against the fabric of her dress. “Well, hello, Angel,” he said, his voice sounding a bit grittier than usual, no doubt attributable to the lack of oxygen in his chest.

  A cute little notch formed between her brows. “Angel?” she asked breathlessly, making him wonder if she was equally affected.

  “You’re obviously an angel because you just fell from heaven.” He inwardly cringed. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t a man who lost control over his dick for a woman and spouted cheesy come-ons.

  She laughed. “Really? I came to a play party for this? I could’ve gotten better pick-up lines at the bar.”

  “Who says it’s a pick-up line?” He hefted her to her feet and reluctantly took his hands off her soft curves. “You just fell into my arms like a gift from the gods. I think this may have been the first time it was used appropriately.” He eyed her up and down, enjoying the way a blush swept over her cheeks and her gaze lowered. Definitely submissive. “What’s your name?”

  She bit her lip before coyly looking up at him through her thick lashes. “Why don’t you just call me Angel?”

  His dick lengthened behind his jeans. Was she really that shy or was she playing him? His instincts told him to go slow or she’d bolt. He couldn’t allow her to leave before he got a taste. She was positively edible, and he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into her. “And you can call me Tristan.”

  She glanced at the door. “Were you leaving?”

  “I was. Now I’m not.” He took a step closer to her, her hard nipples brushing against his chest. He dipped his head to her neck, inhaling. God, she made his mouth water. “You smell like vanilla.”

  “I’m a baker,” she said, a tremor in her voice. Her hands went to his chest, fisting his shirt in her hands as if using him to keep herself upright. “I didn’t have time to shower. Or change.”

  “You smell delicious.” He sucked the lobe of her ear into his mouth and nibbled. She tasted as sweet as cake, and if her cunt tasted half as delicious, he’d likely go into a diabetic coma by the time the night was over. At her quiet moan, he whispered, “And your clothes are irrelevant. In five minutes, the only things you’ll be wearing are wrist and ankle cuffs and a smile. That is, if you consent.”

  Her breathing quickened. “If I say yes, what will I be consenting to, exactly?”

  Images of her naked and bound flashed through his mind. There were so many dirty things he wanted to do
to her, each one ending with her climaxing harder than she ever had before. And he was just the man to make that happen.

  He cupped her heart-shaped face in his hands. “Paradise.”

  Chapter 2

  Isabella had never been so turned on. Her body was practically vibrating. She’d only been with Tony, and he’d been a boy. Tristan, on the other hand, was the definition of a man. He towered over her petite frame, and although he wasn’t bulky, she could feel the hard contours of his chest under her hands. He reminded her of a lion with thick, dark blond hair framing his face and stubble lining his angular jaw. His gaze honed in on her as if she was his prey about to be devoured.

  Physically, he was everything she fantasized about and more. In fact, she was fantasizing right now about plunging her fingers into his hair as he worked his mouth between her thighs. But it wasn’t just his looks that had her panties growing wetter by the second.

  There was an energy between them that drew her to him like steel to a magnet. This man exuded confidence and control even when he’d quipped that terrible pick-up line. Sex with her would be meaningless to him. Exactly what she wanted.

  “I need a little more than your promise of paradise before I consent.” As he cradled her face in his hands and waited patiently for her response, she took a quick breath and hoped he wouldn’t change his mind once he learned the truth. “I came here with my cousin, Dreama, but I’m new to this lifestyle.”

  Although his expression didn’t falter, his fingers twitched against the skin of her neck. “When you say new . . . ?”

  “This is my first play party.”

  He jerked back, taking his warm, gentle hands from her body. A painful slash of disappointment cut through her. As the fantasy of what might have been faded into blackness, she wondered why the rejection from this particular stranger hurt so much. With a fake smile, she gave him a polite nod and turned to go find Dreama.

  Before she made her first step, he grabbed her by the arm, yanking her to him so that his strong chest pressed against her back. He licked up the length of her neck until he got to her ear. “I don’t remember dismissing you, Angel.”

  She sucked in a breath and waited.

  “You want to know what I’m going to do to you if you consent?” His hot breath tickled the shell of her ear. “First, I’m going to bind you to a St. Andrew’s cross. Next, I’m going to flog your creamy white skin until it turns pink. Then, when I’ve got you wet and throbbing, I’ll finger-fuck that cunt of yours until you see stars. Does that meet with your approval?”

  Her pussy rippled with what she’d swear was a mini-orgasm. Holy hell in a handbasket. She wobbled, her knees suddenly feeling weak. “Yes.”

  He picked up a black duffle bag then took her hand and led her though the throngs of people. Ignoring the raised eyebrows from some of them, he brought her down a flight of stairs.

  To the dungeon.

  A real freaking dungeon.

  As she feasted on the sights of the room and inhaled the erotic scents of leather and sandalwood, her pulse quickened and a warm ache bloomed between her thighs. Light chatter mixed with intermittent soft cries and moans of those in ecstasy sent sparks dancing down her spine.

  She was really here, about to experience something out of her fantasies. There were pieces of equipment she’d only read about on the Internet. Dark walnut spanking benches, bondage tables, and St. Andrew’s crosses were sprinkled throughout the space, several of the pieces in use.

  Sweat trickled between her breasts at the scenes playing out in the room. Her cousin was lying on a table spread eagle, her arms and legs shackled by chains, while her Dom dripped wax on her breasts. It probably should have felt weird to see her like that, but it didn’t. If anything, Isabella was curious. She licked her lips, almost able to taste the passion and pain in the air.

  Tristan brought her to the St. Andrew’s cross set up at the back of the room and dropped his bag on the ground. He stood in front of her, blocking out everything and everyone else. “Since this is your first time, I won’t expect you to follow any of the normal protocol. I do need to know if you have any triggers or any medical issues I should be aware of.”

  Biting her lip, she briefly considered whether she should tell him about the abuse, but decided against it. “No. No triggers.”

  “Unless you have a safe word you’d prefer to use, I like the traffic light method. ‘Red’ stops everything, ‘yellow’ is a warning for me to proceed with caution, and ‘green’ means good to go. What color are you at, Angel?”

  She felt his deep, commanding voice like a caress on her pussy. Gone was the incorrigible flirt, and in his place was a serious Dominant. One she had no choice but to obey. One she wanted to obey.

  She glanced at the cross and smiled. Not everyone dreamed of giving up control, being tied up and flogged. But she did. Tonight, her fantasy would come true and she’d finally confirm her suspicion that she was a submissive and a masochist. “I’m one-hundred percent green, Tristan.”

  “Good. But before we go any further, I need to add a caveat.” Leaning toward her with a serious expression, he picked an errant piece of hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “I can’t offer you more than tonight.”

  She almost laughed. “Well, that’s good because that’s all I want.”

  Honestly, did every guy think women wanted a relationship? She’d gone that route and it had ended in disaster. While her friends were looking forward to partying for the next four years, Isabella planned on spending her time studying and working.

  He frowned as if he didn’t believe she simply wanted one night with him. Then his frown morphed into a heated smile, his blue eyes full of dirty promises and wicked intent. “Then I’m going to start by taking off your clothes, Angel.” He buried his nose in her hair, whispering in her ear. “If you’re shy, you can keep your panties on.”

  She lifted her arms to give him the ability to remove her makeshift dress. “I’m not shy.”

  His hands went to her hips, his fingers bunching the thin cotton in his hands. He quickly whipped the shirt over her head, leaving her naked except for her underwear. Her nipples puckered from exposure to the air, tightening into hard buds. Completely comfortable with her nudity, she ran her hands between her breasts and down her abdomen, resting them at the top ridge of her lacy underwear. “Besides, my panties have gotten really uncomfortable.” To tease him, she slid two fingers over her swollen clitoris and down the damp slit of her pussy. A ripple of arousal hummed through her. “And wet.”

  He crouched in front of her and dragged her panties down her legs. Then he bunched them in his hand before placing them in the pocket of his jeans. He glided his large, rough hands along her thighs as he slowly returned to standing. Spinning her around, he pressed her back to his front and slid a finger between the lips of her pussy, accumulating her arousal and swirling it around her clit. “You’re on fire. You must like what you see in this room. What turns you on the most?”

  She rested her head against his chest, his fingers working their magic as they thrummed her clitoris. “You, Tristan.”

  Sadly, he removed his hand from her pussy. “Likewise, Angel.” He slid an arm around her waist and brought her closer to the St. Andrew’s cross. “Let’s see if you feel the same way once I start beating you.”

  Her pussy clenched as she spread her arms and legs and he wrapped her wrists with the leather bindings attached to the cross. This was really happening.

  For the last few years, she’d wondered if something was wrong with her because sex with Tony did nothing for her. Before everything had turned ugly between them, she’d loved him. But his gentle touches during sex weren’t enough to stoke the fire between her thighs. Her orgasms were achieved only by self-stimulation of her clit as he pounded away inside of her. They were young. Inexperienced. Yet she knew, deep down, that there was something missing for her.

  She didn’t want to be treated like she was made of glass. She wanted a ma
n to command her body, her mind, her very soul. She wanted to feel him on her skin as he marked her. Branded her. She wanted to feel his presence between her legs for days.

  Tristan finished securing her to the X-shaped frame facedown. “Too tight?” he asked, rubbing her back.

  She wiggled her wrists and ankles, the smooth wood cool against her heated breasts. There was no way to escape. Her heart began to race at the knowledge she was completely at his mercy. She was terrified. But she was equally as aroused, her nipples beaded and her inner thighs slick with her arousal. “No. I’m good.”

  And she meant it. This time, the choice to be bound was hers. She retained control. On the word “red,” he would stop.

  He brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “You’re beautiful.”

  On those words, he moved away, positioning himself a few feet away from her back. She peered over her shoulder, watching him go through his duffle bag and pull out two floggers. “I’ll start light, Angel. Turn around.”

  He didn’t keep her waiting long.

  The flogger’s tail hit the rounded flesh of her right butt cheek in a dull thud that woke up every nerve and had her gasping. He fell into a steady rhythm, working the strikes around her body in a circular motion from her thighs to her upper back. Like a massage, the motion lulled her into a relaxed state. Her shoulders dropped and the year’s tensions ebbed away.

  “What color are you at?” he asked.

  “Green,” she said automatically.

  So far, the sensations had been . . . pleasant. Nothing near what she expected. Where was the pain she desperately craved? If this was supposed to hurt, maybe there was something wrong with her, something that even BDSM couldn’t fix.

  “Now that you’re warmed up, I’m going to switch floggers,” he said, striking the back of her thigh.