Transcendent

by Anne Calhoun

“Sit back,” I command, omitting the please, making my voice as crisp as I can given the satisfied purr humming in my throat.

  One second stretches into two and the red-blooded American male in Cole looks down at me, his carved torso streaked with sweat, his mouth somehow both full and hard, the line of his jaw taut. He could easily ignore my command and spend into my body. Instead he pushes back, wincing as his cock withdraws from my cunt.

  “On your knees on the floor, please,” I say as I get up. My dress falls back into place as I walk into the kitchen to pour another glass of water.

  He’s in position when I turn around, sitting back on his heels, erect cock gleaming, hands behind his head. The manacles left no marks, and I marvel at his strength, his discipline. I offer him his glass, as I sip from my own.

  “Thank you, Miss Banks.”

  While he drinks, I seat myself on the bed, legs crossed, the skirt slipping with my movements, one heel dangling from my toe. “More?”

  He sets the glass on the floor at arm’s length. “No thank you, Miss Banks.”

  I nod and study the flush, hot and strong on his throat and cheeks, his face completely vulnerable yet utterly male, absolutely transfixed with sexual need. I dominate Cole, true enough, but through his surrender, he owns me. In my lonely bed I dream of these encounters. I spin little fantasies about us, about him, who he is outside of this room. Finding a man caught up in the typical alpha male chest-beating is simple. A man who can control his own impulses, explore the furthest edges of his masculinity, and fuck like a dream ensnared me. But for tonight only, he’s mine to do with as I please. There is never any promise of another night.

  We are not finished. I hook my heels in the sideboards of the bed, knees spread wide. Then I edge up my skirt, slowly drawing it up to the crease where my hips meet my thighs, exposing the silk stockings and pale cream garter belt holding them on. As I lift my skirt, the scent of arousal and fucking rises into the air between us. I slide my fingers around the back of his skull and bring his mouth to my cunt.

  He begins with the soft opening to my vagina, hardening his tongue to first circle, then gently probe. Until instructed otherwise, he will either fold his arms behind his back or leave his hands on his thighs and use only his mouth. With one hand braced behind me for balance, I knot my fingers in his sweat-dampened hair and succumb to the pleasure coursing through my veins. Cole is pure, undiluted male kneeling between my legs, tongue lapping at my cunt. There is nothing I can do to him that will make him anything less, even when I say, “Lick my clit.”

  He does, circling it so that tense heat pushes under my skin, up through my abdomen to my fingers, down my thighs to my toes, which curl in my pumps. I’m close, my head lolling back as I push against his mouth. I let my head drop forward and open my eyes. The muscles of his back are rigid with excitement, and I can imagine the state of his cock, erotic ache verging on agony.

  “Use your fingers,” I demand. Cole works two fingers into my cunt and strokes in time with his tongue, but he isn’t rough, doesn’t rush. He coaxes me to the precipice, then over. Orgasm tears through me and my low cry, breathy and gratified, echoes in the room. He lightens his touch just enough to prolong the ebbing pleasure, sitting back only when I tug on his hair.

  His hands once again lock behind his neck. I straighten and begin to unfasten the tiny, fabric-covered buttons holding my dress closed. His gaze roams hungry and desperate over my revealed skin while his cock throbs in time with his pulse. If I touched it, wrapped my hand around it, I’d feel no give at all, just rigid steel under sensitized skin.

  It’s an odd feeling to undress in front of a man knowing he has none of the typical male prerogative to touch what I expose to him. I shimmy out of the dress and unhook my bra, then stand with my stomach mere inches from Cole’s face to take off my garter belt and stockings. He moves only once, pressing a kiss into the damp skin just above my mound. The gesture, at once flirtatious, possessive, and a little bold, surprises me.

  “That was very nice,” I say as I use my index finger to trace his wet, swollen mouth, the mouth I’ve never kissed. Kissing him is a risk I’m not willing to take. “I want to come again.”

  Another shudder. “Yes, Miss Banks.”

  I lie back on the bed again and beckon him into position with one preemptory index finger. All lean, shifting muscle, he crawls over me, aligns his cock with my swollen pussy, and slides inside. I let my hands roam his back, my fingertips finding and exploring the welts lining his ass as he begins to thrust.

  I wait a few strokes, then give languid little directives. “Slower,” I say. “Your cock fills my pussy so nicely, Cole. I want to savor every stroke, feel you stretch me.”

  “Yes, Miss Banks.”

  His voice is low and strained, his entire body taut as he maintains the excruciating pace I demand while I whisper dirty, descriptive language into his ear and sink my nails into his reddened ass. Because I can, because he has asked me to torment him, I squirm under him, press my breasts to his chest, adjust his position until he’s exactly where I want him. I give him no respite. Instead I make him fuck me slow and hot and strong until I’m lost in the sensations, lost in the sheer heat and power of his body at my command, until I’m lifting my hips with each stroke, trembling with need, my cunt slippery with my juices and our mingled sweat. His only concession to what this costs him is the slightly agonized tone of his groans as he labors under the spell of my pinching fingers, my wicked mouth, my hot, slick body, all working together to drive him crazy while he continues his unrelenting pace for my pleasure, my pleasure . . .

  My pleasure. I implode around his cock, head back, throat straining, legs spread and my pelvis pressed to his. I take my pleasure in the most biblical, old-fashioned sense of the phrase. Oh, yes, I take it at his expense.

  After the last ribbon of sweet, hot satisfaction flutters along my nerves, I ease back onto the mattress and open my eyes. He’s poised above me, his gaze focused on my throat, his cock steel-hard inside me, but his face is changing, as if the sweat trickling down his cheeks and along his jaw etches fault lines into the mask he wears when we’re together.

  I brace my hands on his chest. “That will be all, Cole.”

  A moment’s hesitation. He inhales as if to speak, then he sits back and allows me up.

  “Yes, Miss Banks.”

  The quiet edge to the words gets my attention as I sit up and tuck my legs under my bottom. He’s kneeling, his big hands braced on his thighs, his head bent. The edges of the fantasy begin to blur back into reality. For the first time he looks directly at me, and the ferocity seething under the subservient mask glints in his eyes. In that instant something I lock away in the most secret part of my soul flares to life, then I slam shut the door his glance just opened.

  But now I am in dangerous territory.

  Now I am curious.

  “Why do you do this?” I ask again.

  He strips off the condom and leans forward to drop it in the trash can. “Because it makes me hot,” he growls as he sits back. “Why do you do it?”

  I have a ready answer to his challenge. “I’m five feet tall, Cole. With me any man can play master. A man who can sublimate his desires to my will and test the limits of his stamina and fortitude is far more intriguing. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  His hands flex against his thighs, and his gaze shifts to the Manhattan skyline. “Because it’s the purest adrenaline rush ever,” he says in a low voice, as if he’s admitting something. He is, but not to me. To himself.

  I know he fears this as much as he needs it. Humans avoid what they fear. Cole squares up and stares pain down, and that unflinching courage makes me hot.

  I look at the bike jacket, advertising a brand of speed bike, at his hard body, the set of his shoulders, remember the suits. “NYPD? FBI?” I ask, continuing the longest conversation we’ve ever had. He wou
ldn’t be the first.

  He flicks me a look through thick brown lashes. “Marine Corps.”

  That explained the stance, the willingness to push himself beyond endurance, but not the suits. “And now?”

  “Trader for Cooper Bensonhurst,” he said.

  Trading on the stock exchange is fast-paced, stressful, and extraordinarily competitive. Every day is about the thrill of the kill. When traders bet well, they win big. A wrong bet means millions of dollars in losses.

  “You’re an adrenaline junkie,” I say. “And I’m your current fix.”

  “You’re tiny,” he says distractedly. “You’re . . . delicate. You strap me down, then you whip me and all I can do is endure the pain dished out by a hundred-pound woman dressed like she’s walked off the Mad Men set, wearing pearls, fucking pearls. And then you make me fuck you!”

  Of course I do. That’s why he’s here. That’s why we’re both here. We have unique needs, hard to meet. “You liked the pearls,” I point out.

  “They drove me insane,” he growls. “You whipped the hell out of me, strapped me to the bed on my back, stripped to nothing but the pearls, and rode me like a cowgirl. Remember?”

  “I remember.” I came four times before I sent him on his way. I still dream about it, and this sudden, personal conversation is making me light-headed. Details of the real Cole break against me like thunderclaps. In response, lightning flashes in my body, illuminating my needs, my fears.

  “No control, no choices, no decisions. Just torment, all from a woman I could snap in two. The pain gets me so hot, so high, I float away. I feel the marks for a week.” His voice is a low purr, and his erect cock pulses as he speaks.

  Adrenaline junkies are always searching for a new high. I stop myself from folding my arms across my chest, instead looking around the room for my dress to avoid meeting his eyes. “What’s the next rush?” I ask, keeping my voice light.

  “This isn’t the only thing that turns you on,” he says as he shifts to the edge of the bed and stands.

  His certainty halts me in the act of sorting out my dress. I have so many conflicting sexual urges it’s sometimes difficult to breathe. I’ve long since given up trying to reconcile them, or find one man who can satisfy them. “Hardly,” I say as I step into the full skirt and push my arms into the sleeve holes. “You?”

  “Oh, hardly,” he drawls.

  The invitation is clear. My fingers steady on the buttons, I tilt my head and consider this proposition to transform our shadowy, intimate encounters into something ocean dark, ocean deep. “What do you have in mind?”

  He laughs. It’s deep and rough and fucking sexy as it tumbles into my ears and along my nerves. Then he nods toward the wrecked bed. “Find out.”

  That’s a challenge, not an answer. Equally intriguing is the fact that Cole’s sentence structure and cadence is becoming much less formal. It’s faster. The words run together like whiskey pouring out of a bottle, the flickering heat making my cunt clench. Right before my eyes he’s transforming into someone completely unlike the man who waits for me on his knees. I’m absolutely, utterly transfixed.

  I watch him dress. His clothes, removed within minutes, are immaculate while I look like I’m the one who was bound, whipped, and fucked. He pulls his jeans over the raw, reddened flesh of his ass and thighs, yanks the T-shirt over his head, and shrugs into the fitted motorcycle jacket I find sexy as sin.

  But something breaks open inside me when he collects his belt from the floor. I watch him slide the dark leather through the loops in his jeans and fasten it with two quick movements.

  Cole’s seduced me as he dressed, and he knows it. He flicks me a grin and steps into his boots. “What’s your name? Your real name.”

  I push my hair back from my face. Telling him this makes me the vulnerable one. Fear wars with curiosity as I speak. “Marin Bryant.”

  He flips the dead bolts and holds the door open for me. “Cole Fleming,” he says, and holds out his hand.

  After what we’ve just done it’s absurd to shake his hand, but I do it anyway. I slip my hand into his. He wraps his long, strong fingers around mine, and smiles. He holds me in place for a heartbeat too long, then I tug free. He studies me for a moment, then nods slowly, as if to say game on. All gentleman now, he gestures into the hallway.

  “After you, Marin.”

  With that I take a step into the unknown.

  Transformed

  The first rule of combat was to gain and maintain tactical advantage, preferably covertly. On the surface, Cole had orchestrated a seduction: a bed stripped to the bottom sheet, pillows mounded at the headboard, the floor lamp in the corner casting soft shadows on the maple bureau. He’d maneuvered Marin Bryant into his apartment, into his bed, and under him.

  The perfect opening position.

  Stretched out beside her, he let his gaze sweep her from head to the toes of her bare feet. She wore white jeans and a white cashmere V-neck sweater, and her black lashes, opaque sea green eyes, and full mouth were startling bursts of color in her pale face.

  She seemed as cool and untouchable as moonlight.

  His next move was to rest his hand on her taut abdomen. Immediately she countered, laying her hand on top of his and looking right into his eyes. “What do you have in mind for me tonight, Cole?”

  His heart leaped against his rib cage. Only at the very end of the last of their nine previous encounters had his gaze met hers, so for him the effect was as stunning as the first seconds of a firefight. Marin, however, submerged all emotion under her maddeningly tranquil surface. Controlled in speech, controlled in movement, controlled even at the moment he fucked her full-throttle into a gasping, shuddering orgasm.

  Sometimes control was a prison.

  He didn’t answer her question, too absorbed in watching her, assessing the situation as the seconds passed, adjusting his response. Despite the casual question and her seemingly unruffled exterior, she was rushing the scene, something she hadn’t done before. He focused on the rise and fall of her stomach under his hand. A little rapid, a little shallow.

  Keep it slow. You know how effective that tactic is. “What do you think I want to do?”

  “Restrain me,” she said without inflection, a living, breathing statue carved from alabaster marble. “Black leather, not handcuffs. Then put me on my knees to suck your cock.”

  That amused him, the corners of his mouth lifting as he slipped his hand from under hers to brush her fine blond hair back from her face, exposing delicate bone structure and skin so luminous he could chart the stages of her arousal by the blood rising in her throat and cheeks. He stroked her cheek with his fingertips and watched the heat he knew burned inside deepen the pale pink to rose. With his index finger he traced the swell of her lower lip, then dipped inside to touch the tip of her tongue.

  The temperature of the air between them shot up ten degrees. Her pulse, visible above the V of her sweater leaped at the base of her throat as her tongue darted out to taste him.

  Such mixed messages. She was an enigma, a quest wrapped up in a five-foot-tall, slender woman.

  He trailed one finger down to her skittering pulse. “That’s a tempting offer, but I’ve got ten inches and a hundred pounds on you. I don’t need to restrain you.”

  Not a hint of reaction in her face, but a leap of blood under his fingertip. Her gaze sharpened as she took in his body as if seeing it for the first time, noting shoulders and hips, lingering at his hands, which were big enough to hold both of her wrists. If he were so inclined.

  “What do you need?” she asked.

  Asking the question subtly changed the dynamics. She’d never asked before, so here they went, over the cliff, into thin air. “To touch you. However I want to. For as long as I want to.”

  A charged stillness followed, quiet enough to hear the ebb and flow of traffic on Fifth Aven
ue, ten stories below, and the rush of blood in his ears. Such a simple word, touch, encompassing so much. Their previous meetings, arranged by Lady Matilda’s Introductions service at Marin’s request, involved exploring the pleasure found in searing, unavoidable pain.

  Wary for a number of reasons, he used only his first name but Marin came to their encounters shrouded in a character, Miss Banks. The experience was so all-consuming it took him three meetings to realize Banks was a pseudonym and another six to discover the fine seam in her defenses, curiosity.

  Is this the only thing that turns you on?

  Hardly.

  She’d paused after that single word. Sometimes silences were as informative as words or tone. This one wasn’t hesitant. Marin owned her sexuality without reservation; the possibility of more and varied sex with him didn’t crack her.

  What do you have in mind?

  Find out.

  For nine heated nights touch was limited to restraints of leather on wrists and ankles, to sweat-soaked cotton sheets and his belt on bare skin, to his cock in her cunt, to thrusting and grasping, the smack of flesh against flesh, to agonized gasps and groans. Suffering, erotic and real. Then simple curiosity undid Miss Banks and, for a split second, ignited Marin.

  He wanted more than a split second. Getting it was the problem.

  At his statement, she reacted much as he anticipated, breathing halted, muscles tensed and poised for flight. It took visible effort for her to inhale and say, “You need to touch me.”

  Need didn’t cover it. “Yes.”

  “You touch me every time we’re together.”

  “According to your rules,” he countered. Rules she’d established to protect herself. He wouldn’t dismantle her physical or emotional walls.

  By all means, keep out the rest of the world, or at least the rest of the male population of the world. But not me.

  Intensity sat familiarly on his face, but its tight grip on his heart felt unusual. Urgent. “Be daring, Marin. Find out what I have in mind.”