Silver Tongue (a PowerUp! story)

by Marie Harte

  “You want me to stop? Because that no sounded an awful lot like yes.” He stilled all movement. “But I’m not into rape. You tell me no and mean it, and I’m gone.”

  The bastard would have to stop now. He seemed to have no problem with a little force, and the perverted side of Kitty loved it.

  “Yes or no, Kitty?”

  Saying her name so softly gave the situation an added intimacy, and his finger suddenly wasn’t enough inside her. Not when she’d felt that huge bar in his pants against her belly just moments before. He shifted his finger slightly and grazed her clit again.

  Her entire body seized.

  “Oh God. Yes.”

  He smiled in triumph, the conqueror gratified by his opponent’s surrender.

  She wanted to be angrier about succumbing to her hormones, but he kissed her again and shoved another finger inside her. As he thrust his tongue in her mouth, he rammed his fingers harder, grazing that special spot inside her and her clit at the same time.

  Kitty moaned into his mouth as her orgasm shot her into ecstasy. She clamped down on his fingers and refused to let go while the endorphins in her system gave her a high like no other.

  It took a few moments before Dane ended the kiss and withdrew his hand. He stared at her with a look she would have killed to understand.

  “That was fucking incredible. But we’re not done.” In a low voice, he ordered her to remove her top.

  “Wh-why?”

  “Do it. The bra too.”

  She wanted to disobey, to try to use her empathic ability to pull Dane’s arrogance out of him and soothe him with peace, lulling him into a state of malleability. But the ultrasubmissive stranger taking hold of Kitty’s senses removed her shirt and bra, more than pleased when Dane licked his lips and focused on her breasts.

  “I love your tits. Those nipples look bitable.” He smiled at her, mean and sexy and aroused. “I want to see them in clamps. I want to see them on either side of my cock.” He paused, breathing hard. “Get on your knees.”

  Clamps? Oh God. His fantasies totally mesh with mine. She knelt without a word and watched him take himself out. Dane was proportionate. A large man with a large cock, one wet at the slit. The notion she’d aroused him to such a degree renewed her libido once more.

  “Watch me stroke it. See how hard I am?” he murmured as he masturbated in front of her. “Soon your mouth will be over me. Licking me. Sucking my balls, my cock. Then you’ll swallow my cum and beg me for more.” His hand moved faster over himself. “Yeah, you’re going to be a good little girl, aren’t you? My pretty pussy on her hands and knees while I shove hard up that sexy ass.”

  His dirty talk only made it that much more difficult not to beg him to bend her over now. “You’re so big. So hard,” she moaned, enthralled with the sight of him.

  “We’ll hit that ass later, baby. Right now I’m gonna come all over those tits. Oh yeah. Fuck.” He groaned and came, jets of white seed splattering on her breasts. The possession on his face as he watched her while he climaxed both scared and thrilled her. He milked the rest of himself and wiped his hand on her chest, where he rubbed his cum into her skin.

  They remained in silence. Her on her knees, sticky and wet. Him so tall above her, staring down as if he owned her.

  Good little girl? Shoving hard up her ass? Kitty had participated in anal sex once and only once. She hadn’t liked it. And her partner had been nowhere near as large as Dane. She couldn’t look away from him as he finally tucked himself back into his clothes and buttoned up.

  What the hell did I just do?

  She didn’t feel like herself. Kitty remained on her knees, confused and unnerved. Dane sighed. He pulled her to her feet, then gently helped her into her bra and shirt. He put her clothes to rights and straightened her hair without saying a word.

  They stared at each another, and all the while Kitty remained conscious that she wore his seed on her skin. He’d come hard over her breasts. The only thing she could be even remotely happy about was that they hadn’t had actual sex, because she stupidly would have let him do whatever he wanted, condom or no condom.

  She wanted to blame her lack of reserve on Dane and whatever mystical power he might have. But she didn’t feel that same psychic aura that many of her friends had. Truth be told, Dane had only given her what she’d always dreamed of: a strong, dominant lover who could overpower her. They were physically compatible, and she found him really attractive.

  Such a bad reason to let go of her inhibitions. He didn’t even like her. And she’d proven herself no better than her mother.

  Internally, she cringed at the comparison.

  “Be here tomorrow night. Ten o’clock. And bring your favorite toy.”

  The thought of letting him have full control over her mind and body again scared her straight. Once was bad enough. She took a step back when he moved closer, but he only stepped to the sink to wash his hands.

  He dried them and said, “Don’t be late.”

  He left without looking back.

  Kitty stared at the doorway in horror. She didn’t want to face him again. Hell, she didn’t want to face anyone. What the hell had she just done? Sure, she’d been in a sexual dry spell, but she’d never considered herself frantic for sex. She’d never been into casual intimacy, and especially not with a virtual stranger she didn’t like. Dane Hanson was arrogant and dictatorial. He no doubt still thought her in cahoots with Doug.

  Kitty smacked herself in the head and checked her appearance once more. She’d clean herself thoroughly when she returned home, just as soon as she could depart without stirring questions.

  She returned to the dining room. Dane had disappeared, and Karen and Doug were so into each other they didn’t seem to mind him being gone. Thank God. Kitty slid her energy around the room, fostering a tired sense of happiness. The others gave no objection to her leaving, and she promised to get together with Karen to celebrate her engagement next week, when she’d have more time.

  Time Kitty planned not to have. With effort, she could convince Karen to avoid her. Kitty would be subtle, so as not to stir suspicion. But she had no intention of ever being near Dane again. Not in this lifetime. Not in two lifetimes. She’d buried her fears about herself a long time ago. She didn’t need this man to screw her up all over again.

  * * * *

  For a solid two weeks, it worked. Kitty rarely saw Karen and Doug at the gym, since the pair spent most of their free time planning their wedding. Karen apparently didn’t want to wait, and neither did Doug. Kitty had convinced them to spend less time with her and more time with each other. Not a mental manipulation so much as increasing their desire for each other.

  Jack and the others teased her, but only about being a matchmaker. They had no idea Kitty worked to actively keep the pair away.

  Of Dane she saw no sign. He hadn’t called or shown up to demand an explanation for her avoidance, much to her relief. She only wished she could stop replaying their interlude in her mind, or that she could get off without pretending to be Master Dane’s lowly sex sub. She was torn between embarrassment and desire every time she thought about him coming on her. He’d been so sexy, so dominant. And she’d been submissive…like her mother. Yet instead of the intense shame she normally felt when having D/s fantasies, the reality of the experience with Dane felt almost normal, arousing, and worth repeating.

  It was like the man had intentionally ripped off the bandage she’d placed over herself years ago. Watching her mother kowtow to her asshole of a stepfather had forced Kitty to be strong, no matter what her inner self might secretly desire. She knew other people indulged in personal fantasy and considered themselves quite normal. But her mother had let herself be used and abused and had liked it. Kitty had no intention of becoming a carbon copy of Katherine Nelson. Yet she wanted Dane to dominate her?

  Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? And why did the thought of his anger and punishment stir her to arousal every time? God, just let
me be normal.

  She glared at the computer screen in her office and threw herself into work by revising the next month’s schedule. Since Jack had left yesterday on a trip to find Owen’s sister, the day-to-day operations had fallen on her shoulders. The team didn’t give her a hassle. That they saved for Jack. Work didn’t bother her, but the numbers weren’t matching up on her spreadsheets. She’d have to talk to Gavin again. Their psychic CPA could do wonders. Too bad he’d just gone home for the night.

  The phone rang, interrupting her foul mood.

  “The PowerUp! Gym, this is Kitty,” she said, forcing a pleasant voice.

  “Kitty? This is Owen Stallbridge. I need your help.”

  She paused in response. Owen always dealt directly with Jack. “Is Jack okay?”

  “Fine, as far as I know. This concerns an item of mine I need found. Immediately.”

  She bit her lip. “O-kay.” For a long time, Owen had maintained secrecy about his identity as their client. For him to out-and-out call her now for help made little sense. “Is everything okay, Owen?”

  “Oh, is this about me calling? That secrecy crap was to irritate Jack. As if a bunch of you people aren’t going to know everything within a few days of working for me.” He snorted. By “you people,” he obviously meant “you psychics.”

  Kitty smiled. She liked Owen. Though he had that same lethal vibe her coworkers had, he had a positive energy as well. Strong and deadly but overall good. And she liked that he and Jack seemed to be friends. Her boss didn’t socialize enough; he worried her.

  “Right. So what can I do for you?”

  “I just shot you a file on something I need back. It recently turned up on the art scene. Problem is, I can’t tell if the collector is who I think it is. And if it is, she’ll ship it off before I can blink. The thing is valuable, and it’s dangerous.”

  “Everything from that warehouse seems to be dangerous.”

  He sighed. “My family has a thing about power. Now it’s coming back to haunt me.”

  Excitement filled her at thoughts of something new to do. The gym could wait. Their client needed help now. “No problem. I’ll look over the file and see what we can do.”

  “Thanks.” He paused. “And have Jack call me when you next hear from him. I have a few questions I need him to answer.”

  “Will do.”

  She hung up and pulled up the e-mail Owen had recently sent. Considering Jack had called her the other day to check in, she didn’t overly worry about her boss. The guy could do things even normal psychics couldn’t. And his history with getting out of tight spots had become legendary. She could handle a stolen piece of art. Piece of cake.

  Over a year ago, a warehouse containing hundreds of Stallbridge antiques had been broken into and several objects stolen. Their preternatural factor made the objects hard to find. Many of the items the team had recovered for Owen were linked to unexplainable phenomena. Normally Kitty didn’t believe in woo-woo crap. The expansion of human brain power into psychic ability seemed a foregone conclusion when one looked at evolution. She accepted ESP with no problem.

  But a blade that caused its user to feel past kills? A painting that brought back a dead woman? And this…

  She scanned through the file on her computer, intrigued. A sculpture of a pair of lovers that brought death or long life in its wake? Cupid’s curse, she thought wryly. The Little Death, as it was known in the art world, was thought to have been carved in 1804. Back in the early nineteen hundreds, the statue had been stolen from the Stallbridge family for a period of ten years, where it supposedly brought great joy and success to some, and misery and death to others before the Stallbridges recovered it. The artist remained unknown, as did the figurine’s construction. From what accredited scientists had claimed, the statue had been crafted from a malleable, unidentifiable material.

  And what the hell did that mean? Still, it didn’t seem as lethal as some of the other things they’d had to bring back.

  Hell, her weeklong case in Washington just over a month ago had put her face-to-face with a ghost locked in a tiny picture frame. But weren’t ghosts just another form of energy? Like the emotional well she tapped into when targeting a person’s feelings?

  She shrugged. The figurine—statue—would be easy enough to recover. Or so she hoped. She assigned Ian to find it. Their resident forger had ties to the underground art world, where forgeries and thievery ran rampant. If anyone could dig up the prize, it would be Ian.

  Kitty brought him into the office and gave him his marching orders. Then she called Chloe and let her know to keep an eye on him. For all that Ian had joined the team, he still had that “new kid” shine. And his skills made him a liability, because he skirted very close to the law when he worked. It wouldn’t have been a big deal if he could avoid getting caught. But Ian had killer good looks and a mouth that wouldn’t quit. Not a great combination, but Kitty believed in giving him time to prove himself.

  This case would be his.

  * * * *

  Two days later, when Ian showed up at her office to give his news, she waited, expecting to hear he’d located The Little Death and how he planned to retrieve it.

  Ian sat, his bright blue eyes narrowed with a palpable frustration. “I had it, but I can’t get it.”

  “Explain.” Kitty sighed and leaned back in her chair. It would have been too easy if Ian had the thing.

  “The statue is called The Little Death, which is kind of ironic because that’s actually another name for an orgasm.”

  “Not seeing the bigger picture, Ian.” She blew out a breath.

  “Well, when you look at the statue—or figurine, for you unenlightened types—you see a pair of lovers ready to engage in sex. Heterosexual sex.” He made a face.

  She fought a grin and failed. “I didn’t realize you were so easily offended. I guess I can give the case to someone else.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Laugh at my expense.” He turned those baby blues on her again, and she could see why no one ever forgot Ian Ryder. “The dude is hot, but why pair him with a woman?” He chuckled before turning serious again. “It’s so lifelike, it’s a little spooky. The Little Death is small, maybe ten pounds, if that, and no bigger than six inches, but man, the skill of the artist was amazing.”

  “So you like it despite its heterosexual nature?” she teased.

  “Weird, right? Now, the thing would be perfect if you had two guys as hot as the male carving. You just bend one over and—”

  “Got it. So?” she interrupted, needing to keep him focused. God, Ian made her laugh, but he gave her a headache too.

  “Patience, my lovely.” He smiled at her scowl. “Okay, okay. I’m getting there. The auction house that sold TLD—that’s what I’m calling it—is legit. They bought it from a deceased collector, so I can’t tell you how he got it. Bottom line is, though the thing sold for a hundred grand, it’s actually worth a hefty quarter of a million, if not more. But in terms of its value to a true collector, it’s priceless. A brilliant one of a kind.”

  Not good. Whoever had bought it wasn’t going to want to give it up.

  Ian continued. “The sculpture’s material is something no one has ever been able to identify. It made a real buzz in the news a few years ago when Owen made the mistake of showing it off at one of his ‘galas.’” Ian ended in air quotes. “It wasn’t too long ago I saw an Internet thread speculating about it all over again. Links to alien rocks, meteors, Area 51 crap. Stuff like that.”

  “Great. So if our collector isn’t loving it from an artistic point of view, he or she will want to keep it because it’s not of this earth.”

  “It gets worse. I found out who has it. Linda Cavendish, a glamorous Hollywood has-been who supposedly had a thing with Owen a few years ago. It didn’t end well.”

  “Oh boy. Well, that ties in with what he said about it not being easy for him to retrieve without us.”

  “Yeah. No way in hell will she sell it to anyone she hasn’t v
etted, or so my sources say. And I get the feeling she won’t sell it period, not when she knows it belongs to our secretive boss’s boss.”

  “How does she know it’s Owen’s?”

  “Duh. That article I mentioned earlier? Everyone knows who it rightfully belongs to. Mr. Multimillionaire himself, the great and esteemed Owen Stallbridge.”

  “Right.” She rubbed her head, trying to find a way around this. “So we’ll just have to steal it back.”

  “My thoughts exactly. But we need to get into her fortress. The woman isn’t in Hollywood any longer, but she invested wisely. She’s loaded and connected. Our best bet is to waltz in, invited, and waltz out with the thing.”

  “So get yourself invited.” Seemed simple enough to Kitty. Ian had connections all over the place. Surely he could find a way inside Cavendish’s home.

  “Easier said than done. She has a thing for artists and fighters. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

  “Fighters? Like boxers?” Interesting tidbit.

  “More like those guys who fight professionally doing all kinds of stuff.”

  “Oh. MMA guys?” She loved watching the Mixed Martial Arts fights on television. The control and skill they used appealed to her. They reminded her of Dane.

  She immediately stopped that train of thought and tapped her cheek, trying to think of someone who might have access to Linda Cavendish’s type of people. But the only person who came to mind was Owen.

  She reached for the phone when Ian said, “I forgot to mention something interesting.” The evil grin on his face, as well as his radiating glee, forewarned her she wouldn’t like what he had to say. “Two things, actually. One, Cavendish has had a thing for one artist in particular for a while.”

  He didn’t say anything more, but his internal laughter spilled over into the air between them.

  “For God’s sake. Put me out of my misery, and tell me who it is.”

  “Apparently, Cavendish is in looovvve with Dane Hanson, a new up-and-coming sculptor whose pieces are selling like hotcakes. He’s actually pretty good, and, if I recall, he’s freakin’ huge. Guy like that would be absolutely golden to a woman like Linda. He’s an artist, and he’s totally a bruiser. Imagine that god in a boxing ring wearing shorts. The shorter the better.”