by Dani Collins
The hollow ache between her legs grew worse, like she was exposed and open and empty. His scent filled her nostrils like a drug-laced vapor, expanding her senses so she not only smelled the spicy maleness of him, his underarm and faint cologne and something mysterious and musky, but she felt the heat off his body. Could practically taste the salt lick of his skin.
“Kiss me,” he ordered, lowering his head in offering.
She looked up, catching sight of their reflection on the ceiling. It was one giant mirror. Her questing eyes widened in shock behind the dark shape of his bent head. The vision was deliriously exciting, but his breath dampened her lips. She parted them and tasted his exhale.
Lowering her gaze to his waiting mouth, she lifted to press hers against it as if drawn by a desperate thirst.
He didn’t move his lips, allowing her to explore at her own pace. This was her first try. She was sure she was doing it wrong, but she massaged his lips with her own, thinking of the way he’d claimed her last night and enjoying the texture of smooth lips against her own, the intensification of his smell, the taste that was like black coffee, hard liquor and charred steak.
Shyly she French-kissed him, seeking a deeper taste of his unique flavor. He surprised her by pulling on her tongue, drawing their mouths into a tighter seal. He sucked, lashing her tongue with his, lifting a tight, swollen sensation into her breasts.
A spiral of acute desire wound through her, weakening her muscles. Moaning, she braced her hands on the wall, bracketing his chest, barely able to hold herself off him as he took over the kiss, consuming her. Holding her transfixed with the ravaging of his mouth over hers. The contact was so hard it was nearly bruising, but that was her, rising in her shoes to offer herself.
When he lifted his head, hers stayed lolled back, her neck weak, her limpid gaze on her own reflection. His chest expanded like he was catching his breath after running. Her own panted, brushing her nipples against the fabric of his shirt. Staring upward, she imagined herself as she’d been in the ballroom, flat on her back, legs spread, watching his bare buttocks tighten as he thrust into her.
“Why do I like seeing us like this?” she asked in a voice that didn’t sound like hers. It was faint and breathy and sexy.
“Because you have a kink. A lovely one. Open my shirt,” he commanded.
She imagined this is how it felt to be drunk. Her balance felt off, her fingers clumsy. It took effort to tug his shirttails free of his waistband, awareness of him like an energy she had to fight in order to function. Then she was brushing hot skin, fully opening his shirt so she could stare unabashed.
Something between anticipation and apprehension trembled in her belly. He was so muscled and strong. It didn’t matter that he’d promised to hold on to the iron rings—or even that she could see the tension straining his muscles against his shirtsleeves and making the tendons stand out in his wrists. The power in the layers of muscle on his chest and abdomen were intimidating.
And godlike in their perfection.
Like his chin hair, his chest was shaved to a precise line that accentuated his shape, underlining his flat breasts and bisecting his abdomen, disappearing into his fly like a track that demanded to be followed.
“Touch me. Lick me,” he said and she leaned close to take a deeper draw of his smell. He was too intoxicating, too compelling. Splaying her hands on his rib cage, feeling it expand, she smoothed her face against the hard plane and drank in the sensation of touching a male form. Caressing. Nuzzling. Stealing, even, as she stroked her hands and face against his skin, like she was bathing in him. It was crazy, risky, but she was willing to take the risk. The experience was too remarkable and never likely to happen again.
Her lips traveled of their own accord, drawn by the different textures of a tickling line of hair over a plate of bone and hot skin, a taut thick muscle, a pebbled nipple that stood like a bead against the seam of her lips as she stroked back and forth, around—
“Fuck,” he groaned. His head thumped into the wall, startling her into opening her eyes and drawing back. “For Christ’s sake, don’t stop.”
Stunned at the power she seemed to have, she learned the feel of his nipples with her fingertips. They were smaller than her own, but he seemed to like the same sort of toying and playing, circling and rubbing…pinching?
He made another noise of acute pain, eyes narrowed to slits on her face as she looked up into his.
“Get to my cock before I come in my pants.”
“Can I lick your nipples first? Would you like that?”
His answer was a feral groan that made her smile, but she lashed him delicately, loving the feel of the nubs so hard against her tongue. He’d said to hurt him. She didn’t really want to, but she couldn’t resist biting into the muscle around his nipple until he reacted, body taut and arched toward her.
Just playing, she thought, and petted his bare belly, then further, roaming her fingertips into the waistband of his pants. There was so much she wanted to know about the male body. How did it feel to have a lover? Why was sex so powerful? Is this how it was for everyone? Or was it simply a power that Porter wielded against every woman, entrancing her into mute fascination with his physical form?
She stood at the precipice of an understanding of sorts. Her hands trembled as she opened his pants, but she wasn’t shaking with fear—despite how frightened of him she’d been when told she would be leaving KSA to marry him. Oddly, at this point, if he broke his promise and grabbed her, pushed her facedown on the bed and fucked her hard, she didn’t think she’d care. If he tied her ankles so she couldn’t close them, all the better. Everything happening between them right now was drowning her in desire and her only lucid thought was a fear that somehow Eloisa would stop them.
It was a concern strong enough to push her past hesitating from shyness or inexperience. If he was willing to let her do this, she would take it before the chance was lost.
Smoothing her hands beneath his waistband, she felt his buttocks tighten under her touch as she forced his pants down over his hips. He wasn’t wearing underwear. His penis, his cock, sprang out with aggressive demand. It was flushed and turgid, longer and thicker than she expected.
Delicately, she took him between one fingertip and her thumb. Her other fingertip found a bead of liquid on the tip and lightly moved it, discovering it was slick, much like her own juices. Before she realized what she was doing, she had the taste in her mouth.
The earthy, musky flavor burst in her senses while his curse shattered her ears. The chains rattled and she realized he’d released one and quickly re-grasped it.
“The sadist doesn’t usually wear the collar,” he said tightly. “Quit teasing and give me what I want. Please.”
He wanted her to take him in her mouth, she realized, and part of her balked, but she refused to let insecurity deter her. “You’ll tell me if I do it wrong?”
“Impossible,” he bit out.
She smiled, dazzled by how reassuring that sounded. She’d never teased herself into such as state of intense arousal and it baffled her that she was having this incredible reaction when she was doing all the touching and he receiving all the caresses.
Lowering to her knees, she discovered the small area rug served more than a decorative purpose. It was surprisingly dense, cushioning her so she barely noticed the hardness of the floor while she eyed the weighty testicles beneath the erection pointing to the ceiling mirrors.
For a moment her inexperience got the best of her and she wasn’t sure what to do, but in the next, she remembered the mural and photos in the ballroom. She remembered him saying, your pussy muscles will tighten like this around me.
With more confidence than she really possessed, she curled her hand around his shaft and lightly squeezed, seeking the level of pressure that would make him protest.
He didn’t, but she wrung a second drop from him and as she stared at it, she remembered that he was watching her.
Dare she?
&
nbsp; Quivering with the excitement of being so bold, she shifted a fraction, ensuring he had an unimpeded view as she leaned forward and took her time exploring for the dab of liquid with the tip of her tongue, stealing it from the smooth end of his cock then searching for another.
“Jesus, fuck,” he ground out.
A glimmer of satisfaction grew inside her. How many times had she watched something and wondered, how would that feel? Viewing Eloisa and her lover from the closet had nearly undone her. To give Porter both the visual experience and the sensory one was unique and deliciously captivating.
Forgetting everything about wolves and submitting, except maybe the part where they learned each other’s most intimate smells, she squeezed his cock and fondled his balls, nuzzling in close enough to learn his texture and scent with her lips and nose.
He grew harder and tighter in her hand, the thick muscle pulsing like her own intimate parts. Taking pity, she delicately pulled his skin back, thinking of her own pleasure when she spread herself for more tension.
He pushed himself into her grip, seeming to like it, so she did it again, then glanced up to ensure he was watching in the mirror before she swirled her tongue around the arrow shape. He jerked when she hit a certain spot on the underside. She lapped at it and his balls tightened. His entire body drew tight as a bow.
A bizarre kind of happiness filled her, knowing she was pulling him so close to sexual fulfillment. She closed her mouth over the tip of him, barely learning the shape of him on her tongue before he thrust in, leaking that wicked, forbidden taste.
“Suck hard. Ah, fuck, yeah—” His voice was guttural, his hips lifting to push his cock toward the back of her throat, filling her mouth and retreating like he was fucking her open lips.
She’d never forget this, never be sorry. She sucked as hard as she could, loving the way his shape expanded in her fist, the way his balls tightened. His smooth head seemed to melt against her tongue like a liquid-filled chocolate—
Molten cream burst into her mouth, startling her into swallowing as chains yanked and his body arched and he let out a wordless shout of triumph.
Stunned, only vaguely keeping up with the fact that he was climaxing in her mouth, she continued to milk and suck, certain by his shaken groans that he liked it. In the same way she pulsed and clenched when she released, he erupted and throbbed and eventually eased into a relaxed state.
She had no idea what a good sub did at this point. Offering a few grateful kisses and greedy licks against his relaxing cock, she gently released him and sat back on her heels. Everything in her wanted to lie back at this point—lift her hips in Hunger, expose her lips and even part them in more than an invitation. A plea.
A muted bell chimed and a yellow light blinked to life on the door panel.
“Eloisa,” Porter said in a ragged pant. “You’re not leaving. Not yet.”
“I have to.” She staggered as she forced herself to her feet. Her heels made her dizzy and her muscles weren’t ready to cooperate. Her sensual high came up against reality like it was Cain’s hard, flat hand. “I’m sorry,” she offered from the door.
“Violet!” he cried as she started to slip through the open the door. “Release me.”
“Oh.” She smiled, pleased that he was willing to keep his word so faithfully. “As soon as I’m gone,” she said, barely peering back through the closing door, “you can release yourself.”
* * *
With exasperated amusement, Porter groaned at his own reflection on the ceiling.
Eventually he looked forward, to his reflection in another mirror, his fists locked around the rings, shirt and pants open, cock relaxed but still elongated. That hadn’t been the most drawn out or sophisticated blow job he’d ever had, but it had been the best. By far.
And not just because he hadn’t used a condom. He tried to think of another time he hadn’t used one, when such an important thing had completely left his mind. Never.
Because he was under duress? Because it had been a while since he’d played?
Or because she really was that amazing?
The way she’d combed her fingers through his hair in the ballroom had been beyond amazing and not the least bit sexual. Disturbing, really. So much so, he’d had to shift their focus to the carnal to maintain his composure, but he didn’t regret it. He had needed her touch.
And she’d complied, even taking way too much pleasure in teasing him than any sub should. Her true kink, he suspected, was watching and being watched, something he’d always had a little bend for himself.
Forcing his fingers to open one by one, he shook out his aching arms, hitched his pants closed and checked the time. Apparently he owed Violet for more than the pleasure she’d just given him. He wouldn’t have had the strength to leave her, but now he’d be home for the dinner Cain was so anxious for Ann to dress up for.
As much as he wanted to dwell on what had just happened with Violet, he found himself oddly curious to see what Ann would look like without the scarf and glasses. Nothing so enticing as Violet, he was sure. Ann was short and given to slouching. Her skin needed sun. She seemed a few pounds heavier, but she might not be too bad under all those layers.
What did it matter, aside from a desire to see Cain eat his words if she turned out to be a looker? He would marry her if she stayed frumpy or even grew horns, tender affection for the generous and quietly stunning Violet notwithstanding.
Shards of resentment and guilt churned through him as he found himself torn between dual wants of equal strength: the erotic escape from dour reality that Violet represented and the satisfying revenge for his bitter existence that marriage to Ann would provide.
Ann, he reminded himself, was his priority. He needed to avenge Tomas’s afflicted life and senseless death.
* * *
“Take this,” Eloisa said as Ann changed into her own clothes.
“What is it?” Ann was still shaken by everything she’d done with Porter, ready to tell Eloisa that the pill in her palm, if it was for what she thought it was for, wasn’t necessary. They hadn’t had intercourse, unprotected or otherwise.
“Porter’s mother wants to dine out tonight. And see a show. A foursome with her son and his bride-to-be. She told Cosette she wants to see you in an evening gown without your charming Arabian accessories.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly. But not to worry. You’ll be excused when she realizes how ill you are.” Eloisa offered a glass of water alongside the pill.
Not so innocuous after all. Ann stared at the yellow and white capsule, wanting to refuse.
“It’s very fast acting. You’ll be over the worst within an hour, but it will make an impression.” With a cruel smile, she added, “I did warn you there’d be a reprimand if you chose to flout me.”
“You told me to seduce him,” she defended in a voice that shrank into the ether on the last syllables, pushed there by Eloisa’s death glare.
“I told you to play hard to get. Now swallow and get yourself home before Porter gets there first.” She nudged with the glass of water.
Ann quickly took the pill and climbed into the car.
Fast acting was right. She barely made it into the powder room off the front foyer of the mansion before she threw up violently. It was an entrance that drew people out of the parlor to the locked door and kept them outside the little room, talking about her. If Eloisa had wanted to punish her, a cat-o’-nine-tails wouldn’t have been worse. Once started, the retching wouldn’t stop. She barely caught her breath between violent bouts.
She was coated in a cold sweat, heaving up nothing, flushing a toilet as empty as her stomach, when she heard Porter’s voice join the rise and fall of conversation.
“That’s Ann?” he asked.
“Oui,” a maid said.
Her voice was stomped over by Porter’s mother. “Pregnant, I imagine. That’s why he wants a husband for her. I told you this marriage was a bad idea.”
“Abortions are easy,
” Porter’s father gruffed dismissively. “She can go into the clinic tonight and be fine by the wedding.”
“She’s not pregnant!” Cain choked, banging on the door. “Ann. Get your ass out here and explain yourself.”
“Ann.” Porter tried the handle. “Ann, open the door. Fetch the key—ah, good.”
The door latch clicked and she brought the trailing ends of her hijab over her clammy face, hunched into a ball and moaned in wretchedness.
“All right,” Porter said soothingly, gathering her up against his chest like a pile of sheets off the line.
This was awful. She smelled disgusting. Dying of mortification, she curled like a bug, petrified he would recognize her as Violet.
“Did you eat something bad? Fish?” he asked as he carried her toward the stairs.
She moaned agreement, grasping at the excuse as she drowned in humiliation.
“See? Food poisoning,” Porter said as though addressing the crowd.
“Believe what you want,” Porter’s mother retorted, then commented, “although a purge like that does wonders when you have to fit into a dress. Tell her we have reservations for eight,” she called after Porter.
“Think again, Mother. She needs to rest. Had to be the uppermost floor, didn’t it?” he added under his breath, going silent and tightening his grip on her as he ascended the second flight of stairs.
That almost made her smile. All she could think of was how good it felt to be cradled this way, something she would have liked after the intimacy they’d shared less than an hour ago.
That behavior hadn’t been very dignified on her part and this was so much worse. Thank God she was able to cower in her hijab right now.
“Sleep it off,” he said as he shouldered into her room and set her on the bed.
Fonzo’s little nails danced on the hardwood, pulling Porter away from her when she thought he might have lingered. “I suppose he needs to go out. I’ll take him and bring him back. Can you get yourself to bed or shall I tell a maid to come up?”
