by Vivien Vale
Fuck that glam, made-up socialite look that the women I normally rub elbows with try and tout. This is real beauty: Jenna Lockhart, naked and shivering, completely at my mercy.
She has the look of a woman who’s been ridden hard and put away wet.
It makes me hard. I’m not ready to put her away quite yet.
“You’re a very bad man, Braden Masterson,” Jenna teases. Even her voice is shaking.
I toss the towel around her neck and pull her in for a kiss.
“You have no idea,” I say, twisting the ends of the towel tight. The water I’ve just mopped up off her body comes streaming back down over both her breasts.
She arches against me in tortured ecstasy.
I watch her nipples get even harder. I didn’t think that was possible, but now they’re standing at attention, dripping wet and ripe for the taking. They’re the color of a cranberry vodka.
I dip my mouth down to kiss them, one then the other.
“Oh,” she breathes, thrusting her chest out for more.
I give it to her, licking and biting and sucking away. When it comes to Jenna, I just can’t say no.
Does she have any fucking idea that she does that to me? She must. My cock pressing demandingly against her stomach is hardly something she can ignore, but the way she coos and sighs as I wrap my hands around her and tilt her backward, feasting on her tits like this, she seems so oblivious.
Oblivious to the shit she makes me feel, to the way she could fuck up my life in an instant if she tried. With all her fucking meddling, she still might.
Her mouth opens in a perfect O, shaped like it was made to stick my cock in. Surprisingly, her lipstick is still intact.
It won’t be for long.
My garage is vanity lit, with spotlights over all the classic cars I keep inside. These aren’t your granddad’s restored roadsters. They’re the kind of classics so rare and so expensive that on the books, they don’t even exist anymore.
The amount of money that I shelled out to keep these beauties in good hands would boggle your fucking mind. I bought them in invite-only overseas auctions so deep underground that they’re practically black market.
I’d give up every one of them if it meant Jenna Lockhart would just be mine.
“The things I want to do with you, Jenna,” I growl, kissing between her breasts.
“Maybe I’ll let you,” she whispers. “If you ask nicely.”
My lips shift into a wolfish smile against her skin. “I don’t ask, Jenna. I command. I take.”
“Oh,” she moans again, so breathy and sweet that it makes my cock throb. “Well then…you’ll have to catch me first.”
She spins out of my arms and takes off through the parking garage, ducking and weaving through Ferraris and Mercedes Benzes.
She’s only wearing heels and a smile, so for a moment, I just watch her go.
Then I take off after her. After all, I never have been able to turn down the thrill of the chase.
I follow the echoing clicks of her heels against the concrete floor as I track her down the way a hunter tracks his prey. Finally, I catch sight of her slipping away behind a sleek black 1961 California Spider that was supposedly destroyed in the late 70s.
It’s the jewel of my collection, perfectly restored.
I stalk her around it until she sees me.
She dodges left. I go right. I’m faster than her, stronger and more powerful, and when I want something, there’s nothing that can stop me from taking it.
I sweep her up in my arms as she tries to flee, holding her from behind while she shrieks and screams with delight.
“Okay, you caught me.” She giggles, breathless. “What should your prize be?”
“Honey,” I growl, bending her over the Spider’s hood. “You are my prize.”
Her ass looks so fine, bent over and pushed out like that, that I nearly fuck it then and there. But I want to cover this girl in my cum, milk every last iota of pleasure from her body, and then claim it as my own.
I want to make her hurt. I want to fucking break her.
I want to kiss her broken parts and hold her until they’re all healed.
I drop to my knees behind her, pressing down on the small of her back. She shoves her cunt against my lips whether she means to or not.
I take her like a man starved. She’s slick with my cum. Her cum. With us.
“Oh, fuck,” she whines. “Braden…Braden, wait. Your cum is still inside me—”
I smack her ass so hard, she cries out.
“Do you think I fucking care? I don’t know what pathetic boys you’ve been with before me, Jenna, so let me clue you in: a real man doesn’t give a fuck.”
I go down on her with renewed vigor until her pussy is spasming against my lips, soaking me with her honey, just to prove my point.
I lap it up. All of it. I pull her hair, spin her around, claim her mouth with mine, and pass our combined juices onto her tongue with mine.
“Swallow it,” I snarl as my fingers wrap around her throat. “Swallow it up like the little slut you are.”
She licks her lips as she obeys—no argument, no protest. I have Jenna exactly where I want her: gorgeous eyes glassy and glazed over, dumb from too many orgasms, obedient, eager to please, and desperate for more.
I drop my shoulder and toss her over it, carrying her off like a war prize. At the back of the garage, next to the private elevator up to my penthouse, are my trophy case and my workbench, side by side.
I deposit her in front of the case, pushing her to her knees. Trophies, medals, and ribbons tremble and flutter with the impact of her body while I grab a pair of jumper cables from my bench.
“You wouldn’t,” she gasps as I tease her nipple with the tip of one clamp.
“Maybe not,” I say forebodingly. Then, just to fuck with her, I open the clamp up and nestle her nipple between its sharp jaws, ready to snap shut at any moment. “Or maybe I will. You don’t know what I’m capable of, Jenna.”
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” she says, biting her lip.
“You don’t sound so sure of that.”
I ease the clamp closed a little more around her nipple. Not all the way, but enough that she can feel it.
“Oh god,” she whimpers, trying to pull away. But there’s nowhere to retreat to and she knows it.
She’s so wet, I can fucking smell it as I pull the clamp away.
“You fuck around with things that are dangerous, Jenna, and you’re going to end up hurt.”
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” she says again, this time with more certainty.
It makes my chest glow with pride. She trusts me. Maybe not outside of tonight, maybe not even outside of this moment.
But in the moment, it makes me want her—need her—all the more.
“Then you’d better fucking please me,” I say, grabbing her wrists.
I wind the jumper cables around them, binding her hands together, while I shove my cock down her throat.
She takes it beautifully—every thrust, inch after inch after inch after inch.
I watch her struggle. I watch her gag. But with every pump of my rock-hard dick over her tongue and down her throat, no matter how brutal or how vicious, she takes it.
It’s making me lose my fucking mind. You don’t hurt a girl like that. You marry her.
Christ, listen to me. Look who’s gone stupid with orgasm now.
I pull out just in time, stroking my cock to a finish while I hold her wrists over her head and pump rope after rope of my hot cum onto her beautiful face.
She looks ruined now, with my cum dripping down off her eyelashes and her tongue snaking out to lick up whatever stray drops of my seed she can find.
“Have you had enough yet?” I ask her.
She blinks, and I do her the favor of wiping the cum away from her eyes with my thumb. I let her suck it clean before she replies.
“No,” she says, her chest heaving. She looks up at me with the most gorgeo
us gaze of adoration I’ve ever fucking seen. “I want more…if you can handle it.”
“Oh, I can handle it,” I growl, pulling her to her feet. “The question is, Jenna…can you?”
I haul her to the elevator, a million and one ideas flashing through my head. The hard part isn’t going to be coming again, I know.
The hard part is going to be deciding how I’ll use her next.
Jenna
The elevator doors spread open, and Braden tugs me through them by the jumper cables tied around my wrists like a lead. I stumble forward in my heels, naked and dripping with rain and Braden’s cum.
There’s something smug about him right now. He’s self-satisfied, like he’s conquered me and now he can take whatever he wants. Braden won his race and now, he thinks he’s won my body too.
And maybe he has. There’s no denying that I want him, more than I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone. Maybe I just don’t want to admit it to myself.
I like being used. I like being fuckbait for all of Braden’s dark little desires.
I like the way he makes me whimper, the way he makes me beg, the way he makes me come. Over and over again, past the point of rationality or reason, and beyond whatever limits I might have set for myself. Whatever limits I previously thought my body couldn’t be pushed past.
Orgasm after orgasm after fucking orgasm.
Even sex with Braden Masterson is so decadent it ought to be a sin.
Call me a sinner then, I guess.
“Champagne, Jenna?” Braden says, chuckling darkly at the bottle sitting in an ice bucket on the kitchen counter. “My staff must have heard about the win.”
I look around nervously. Of course he has staff. His money might be self-made, but I can hardly imagine Braden scrubbing toilets and washing dishes himself.
You wouldn’t have to do it either, I think greedily. If you were his, he wouldn’t make you lift a fucking finger.
“Don’t worry,” Braden reassures me, though with that grin on his lips it’s hardly effective. “They’ve all gone home for the night. Can I tempt you?”
He plucks the champagne bottle out of the ice and holds it up for me to take a look at. I don’t know my champagne. Having tastes as expensive as Braden’s is well above even my pay grade, but even Braden’s mere presence is intoxicating enough for me.
The atmosphere only serves to make it that much more intense. The storm is raging on just outside the window. His apartment is as dark and broodingly sensual as he is.
“I think you’ve tempted me plenty tonight, Braden.”
And I need to keep my wits about me if I want to stay head over water for whatever he has planned for me next.
He yanks the cables wrapped around my wrists, and I stumble against him, my tits pressing into the still-damp T-shirt clinging tightly to his chest. Braden wields the icy, dripping bottle of bubbly like the sadist he is, running its cold glass exterior over my hip all the way up to my waist.
“Jenna.” He smirks. “You’re shivering.”
No shit, Braden.
“Why don’t we get you warm,” he suggests as he moves the bottle around my back, tracing up my spine.
My entire body shudders at the sensation. All of my cells are already on high alert from the rain, the cold, and so many fucking orgasms.
He’s wearing me out, I realize. He’s breaking down my barriers, one by one, until I don’t have any fight left in me. Nothing left to push back my feelings for him, nothing restraining me from giving myself over completely.
And I can’t let that happen. Not with the FBI breathing down our necks. Not with the kind of man I know Braden to be.
Not without losing part of myself in the process.
He pulls me into a kiss, and he’s so warm that I can’t help it. I press against his lips, needy and full of longing that it’s becoming harder and harder to deny.
With anyone else, all these orgasms would have been some sort of release. With Braden, the wanting only intensifies with every throbbing, shivering, earth-shattering time he makes me come.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” Braden suggests, pulling me along like a captive savage.
I trail behind me, biting my lip and wondering what dirty plans he has for me next. Wondering if I’ll be able to handle them.
My heart is pounding in my chest as he guides me into his bedroom. His inner sanctum. And he closes the door.
At first, I think it must be fear. But no—fear is something I might feel right now if he was anyone but himself.
This is Braden Masterson in control of my body. He treats me the same way he treats his race car. He’ll drive me hard, dangerous, too fast, and too recklessly…
But he always knows exactly what he’s doing. I trust him completely—and without that trust, we couldn’t have what we have right now.
I’m not afraid. I’m excited.
Braden’s breath is hot on my neck as he takes me by the elbows and pushes me up against the windows.
Braden’s bed sits before a wall made completely of glass. From this vantage point of his top-level penthouse, I can see the whole city sprawled out beneath us. The only lights in the room are those of the city below, the occasional flash of lightning, and the orange-yellow neon glow of the alarm clock on his bedside table.
A glance at the clock tells me that it’s even later than I thought it was.
My mother always told me that nothing good ever happens past 2:00 a.m.
As Braden presses my body up against the glass, I’m not sure if he’s about to prove her right…or wrong.
“I’m going to break you, Jenna,” he says, wrapping an arm around my hips and pulling me hard against him.
“I don’t break easy.”
“No?”
“No.”
“We’ll see about that,” he growls.
And it begins.
Braden’s fingers find my clit. It’s not difficult. My clit is sensitive, slick, and swollen, and Braden knows the female body better than most men ever will.
I feel myself coming close to orgasm immediately, but just as it begins—the heaving chest, the growing warmth, the blossoming of something gorgeous and dark and heady from my cunt all the way up into my womb—Braden backs off. He leaves me wanting.
Then he does it again.
And again.
And again.
And no matter how I whimper and wheel and buck against him, I can’t take it from him. I can’t force him to give me what I need.
He’s edging me so dangerously close to coming that every time he flicks my clit between his fingers, I’m certain that this is the time. This is it. This is when he’ll push me over the edge.
But he doesn’t. He fucking won’t.
My whimpers turn into cries. My cries turn to desperate sobs.
I want him. I want it. However he’ll give it to me, I don’t fucking care.
I need him. His touch. His fingers. His tongue. His cock.
I need release.
And that’s how he breaks me. Little by little, then all at once.
“Please,” I sob, shaking. From where he’s positioned me, it feels like the whole city can see my need.
“Please what, Jenna?”
“Please—anything!” I cry out.
Like a slut. Like a fucking whore.
Behind me, Braden places the champagne bottle between my thighs, nestling the dripping cold neck against my cunt.
“Anything, huh? You must be desperate, offering something like that to a man like me.”
“Anything,” I whine, trying to grind against the bottle’s neck.
But I’m too slick. Braden has filled me with his cum and made sure that my cunt is keeping itself nice and wet.
“I bet you’d let me fuck you with this bottle, even,” Braden muses. “If I wanted to. You’d fucking let me, wouldn’t you, Jenna?”
I swallow hard, my mind racing.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Fuck. Anything. Whatever you want.”
Braden pauses, and for a second, I think he’s going to actually do it.
Slide the cork of the champagne bottle into my wet, dripping slit and make me come around it. Make me drink it after. Pop the cork and let it foam all over my breasts while I lick the bubbles and my honey off the rim.
Instead, he sets the bottle down. My body heaves in relief—but not for long.
“What about your ass, Jenna?” he growls, pressing the head of his cock between my ass cheeks. “Will you let me fuck this tight little ass of yours, here at the top of the city where all of New York can see?”
His cock is nestled just against the pucker of my asshole.
I’m so wet, my pussy has managed to lube that hole up as well. And I fucking want it. I want his cock inside me, however he’ll give it to me, if he’ll just let me come…
I’m done fucking around. I force myself backwards, impaling myself on his rock-hard rod. Braden doesn’t miss a beat. He wants this just as bad as I do, and I can feel it. In the way he grabs my hips, fucking me hard and fast and with total abandon.
His fingers pinch my clit, working the hood up and down over it until I’m coming for him with all the force of a clap of thunder.
The spasming in my cunt makes my ass even tighter around his throbbing shaft. I feel his thighs tense up, and then he’s coming as well, flooding my ass with his cum as the sky explodes with lightning and the rain streams down the windowpane and I collapse against the glass.
He takes me in his arms after. He unwraps the jumper cables from my wrists and peels off what’s left of his clothing and joins me in bed, a glass of champagne for each of us.
The warmth of the alcohol in my stomach mingles with the warmth of Braden’s body around mine, the weight of his blankets, and the cool linen of his sheets.
“You didn’t break me,” I mumble sleepily against his chest.
“Sure I didn’t, honey.” He chuckles. A low rumble, just like thunder. “Whatever you say.”
Braden
I pull open the door of the refrigerator and pull out the carton of eggs, a bunch of fresh mixed herbs, and a block of gruyere cheese. The coffee is finishing brewing, but I fill a mug with hot water and let it sit for a minute to warm. Then I turn the stove’s burner to low and place a copper saucepan over the flame so it will heat slowly.
