Safeguard (NYC Doms)

by Jane Henry

  “May I?” she gasps, remembering our rule to ask before coming by a hair.

  “Come, doll. Let it go.” I work my fingers faster, firmer, sliding through her slick folds, and then she arches even harder, a strangled cry wringing from her as she writhes in ecstasy. I slide her to the floor, still working her pussy, wrenching the pleasure from her with greed, needing every spasm and thrill as mine. Her climaxes are mine. They belong to me, and when I take what’s mine I leave nothing behind.

  She slumps against me and still I work her, easing her down from her high with gentler strokes. Fuck, I need to be in her. I need to claim her, fill her, let her ride me.

  “Sir,” she moans on a whisper, her head tipped to the side as if she’s high out of her mind, and I know she is, high on arousal and endorphins. The indigo room is meticulously clean and adorned with throw rugs. I chose this one for Beatrice’s penchant for subjugation because the floor is warm, and comfortable, as I lay her down on it.

  “Take me,” she pants. “I need you to fill me. I need you in me.”

  I push up her top and pinch her nipple. “Beg me.”

  “Please,” she pants. “Sir. Oh, God, please fill me. Take me. Fuck me.”

  “Strip.”

  She quickly slides out of her clothes, her movements frenzied, eyes shuttered and lust-filled. When she’s bared to me, I lift her easily and flip her onto her belly, anchoring myself with a fistful of her hair. She screams when I give it a sharp tug, and my cock throbs, needing to claim her. Grabbing her hips, I drive into her without preamble, drawing out a deep, low moan from her. She shudders when I thrust, her whole body tensing, holding her breath.

  I hold onto her and whisper in her ear. “This is my pussy. My hot little cunt. You’re my dirty girl.”

  “Yes, sir,” she moans, bracing herself on her arms and knees as I slam into her, the danger she’s been under making me want to claim and mark her any way I can. “No one touches what belongs to me,” I groan, just before my own climax takes over. I grunt into her ear, my words a jumbled mess of heat and sex and possessive love.

  Fuck. Love.

  As she settles down to the floor, swallowing huge gulps of air, I hold her in my arms, my body surrounding hers, pulling her close to me. I love this woman. I love everything about her. Will I scare her if I tell her?

  “You mean so much to me,” I whisper, which sounds like some weak-ass shit, but she needs to know what she is to me. Why I do this. And I can’t tell her in a way that’ll make her close herself off from me.

  “And you to me,” she says, turning her head to look at me. We’re getting there. Every time I whip her ass or tie her up or ask her to obey me, I ask her to trust me, and maybe some would say we’re coming at this backasswards. But I don’t give a shit what some would say.

  Beatrice is mine. And I’ll keep her safe no matter what that takes.

  Chapter 13

  The loud clanging of the alarm bursts through my consciousness like a freight train.

  “Oh shaddap you,” I groan, reaching out to smack it off, but it slides right off the bedside table, unplugs from the charger, and clatters to the floor.

  “Shit!” I sit up in bed, my heart smacking against my rib cage. Did I shatter it? I half-fall out of the bed in a move that would rival an Olympic gymnast, twisting my body and reaching the tips of my fingers to grab my phone with my lower body still anchored on the bed. “Don’t be broken, don’t be broken, don’t be broken,” I chant, flipping it over, and when I see it’s still perfectly fine, I pull myself back into bed and toss the phone back on the table.

  Without warning, I feel Zack’s colossal palm crack against my naked ass.

  “Ow! Hey, wait. I thought you were asleep,” I say, rolling over to protect my ass against the sheets and possibly retain a shred of dignity, but since he makes me sleep naked, he now has access to my breasts. I yank the covers up, but it’s too late, he’s already palming my breasts. He tweaks a nipple, making me shriek.

  “Asleep?” He says in a groggy rasp, one eye closed and one half-open, peering at me. He’s on his belly, pillow tucked under his chin, utterly and beautifully naked, and I smile in appreciation of the view. “Babe, a drugged man couldn’t sleep through that racket. What did your phone ever do to deserve such abuse?”

  I sidle over to him and gently nudge him. He rolls over on his back, eyes closed, and pulls me onto his chest. My skin flush against his, I feel the warmth of his body, and his heartbeat thumps against my cheek. I close my eyes and sigh.

  “You’re purring like a kitten,” he chuckles, combing his fingers through my hair. He’s right, I am. Half asleep, curled up to him, one knee hitched up over his legs, who wouldn’t purr?

  “I’ll be your kitten. You’re into that kinda kink?”

  A corner of his lips quirks up. “You need to ask that? Didn’t I already make it clear this pussy’s mine?”

  His hand comes to my neck and he tugs on the collar he left there last night even as I groan out loud. “You did, sir.”

  Wait… why am I still wearing this collar? I’m not a collared sub, and something inside me fights against this. This is what Diana wants, and has for a while. She wears Tobias’s collar, and has things like… rules. And I know other people at Verge who are into the 24/7 thing where the dom calls the shots and the submissive does what she’s told. It’s hot, there’s no doubt about that. I mean shit, I’m getting wet just laying up on his chest, my ass still stinging from the smack he gave me, my breasts still tingling from the abuse I suffered last night. Just the memory of it makes my pussy throb and zing with need.

  But that 24/7 thing isn’t me.

  “Zack, why do I still have this collar on me?” I ask, and even though it feels so damn nice to be snuggled up against him like this, I push away from him. I’m not into this. I feel my lips turn down in a frown. “Take it off, please.”

  He eyes me curiously, his gaze stern as he tugs on my hair. “Watch your attitude.”

  I blink. “Excuse me? I’m not giving you an attitude.” I push away from him, giving him total attitude. “Take this collar off.”

  His brows rise, his voice stern when he corrects me. “There are other ways of getting what you need without being a brat, young lady.”

  My heart thumps in my chest, but I ignore it. I’ve been trained to be turned on by his dominance, that’s what this is. He bosses me around and I’m ready to fuck him senseless but whatever, this is a simple case of mind over matter.

  “We’re not at the club,” I snap, reaching for my neck. Maybe I can take it off myself. But taking off a collar yourself is like trying to scratch your own back. You can almost do it, but the reality is, you need another set of hands. Still, I tug at it, trying to unfasten the buckle, but before I know what’s happening, he’s up, I’m flat on my back, my wrists are pinned to my sides, and he’s over me.

  Aw, hell, that’s hot. No fair.

  “Let me go,” I say through gritted teeth. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  His eyes narrow, his brows drawing together, deep brown pools that simmer under his finely-honed control. “You’re throwing sass at me like confetti at a goddamn wedding, and all I did was forget to take your collar off when you went to bed.”

  “Weddings? Jesus. You have to bring up weddings now? All of this shit kicked off after a wedding, and now I have to see my best friend go through with the whole thing, and do what everyone thinks she should and wear the stupid white dress and get a stupid ring, when all that shit doesn’t even mean anything when over half the population is going to call it quits anyway so what’s even the fucking point?”

  He blinks, his grip still tight, but there’s surprise in his voice when he speaks. “Christ, Beatrice. What’s gotten into you? You PMSing or something?”

  I shove him so hard I actually almost budge him. He did not just say that. He did not! Oh my gawd.

  “I cannot even believe you just said that,” I whisper. “Only total dickheads say shit lik
e that.”

  At that, his whole body tightens, and I just realized I’ve stepped into total punishment territory for talking to my dom like that. I’m pissed but even I know I probably deserve to be punished. Tobias would whip Diana’s ass for mouthing off to her. None of the doms at Verge would put up with this. Even sweet Travis, the bartender, would toss a chick over his knee. There are a lot of hard limits and things like that in this world, but there’s one kinda constant: Doms don’t do mouthy.

  What am I doing? Who am I?

  He swallows, and I know then he’s controlling himself so he doesn’t lose his temper. Watching his nostrils flare, feeling the heat radiating from him, I feel sorry for mouthing off over something so small, because it’s taking him considerable effort to keep himself in check. He’s like a hundred pounds heavier than I am and about five times stronger, and since he wields the power, it’s important he doesn’t overdo it. But it’s the quiet way he speaks to me that subdues me.

  “You’re right,” he said. “That is a total dickhead thing to say. I should know better.” He’s still pinning me in place, and there’s no way I’m out of the woods yet. I swallow as he continues. “I’m just shocked that you flipped like this when we were having what I thought was a nice morning, and I’m wondering why.”

  Tears prick my eyes. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I really don’t know.”

  His lips thin and I can see he’s warring with himself. Hell, I need him to be stern with me. It’s partly why I love him. I close my eyes briefly as emotion overwhelms me.

  I love him.

  When did I agree to this?

  My eyelids flutter open, and he’s looking at me with gentleness, the warm brown eyes trained on me. He misses nothing.

  “Keep your eyes on me,” he whispers, “and listen.”

  I nod. I mean, I’m pinned beneath this behemoth of a man. What else am I going to do? I decide to play my cards right. “Yes, sir?”

  “You don’t talk to me that way, Beatrice. I won’t allow it.”

  I nod, still swallowing hard against tears. “Yes, sir.” God, it feels so fucking good to call him sir. I feel little, and precious, and cared for and I can’t deny it’s hot. It’s so wrong but that’s partly why I love it.

  He works his jaw, his eyes still on me. When he speaks, his voice is both stern and amused. “I can’t decide if I should fuck the brat right out of you or punish your ass.” He shakes his head from side to side.

  “Both?” I suggest on a whisper.

  A corner of his mouth quirks up. “Wears me out, keeping up with you.”

  “I’m a bit of a handful,” I say ruefully, suddenly feeling like a total brat.

  He releases my wrists, sighs, and gets out of bed. “I’m going to make some coffee.” He turns and points a finger at me. “You’re staying right there. You have some thinking to do, Beatrice.”

  “Okay?” Damnit. Is he going to make me think about why I submit to him? Am I going to have to answer questions about what I want from this? I feel like a naughty girl who’s been sent to bed.

  He turns and looks at me, crossing his arms on his chest. His eyes are stern and probing, the muscles on his shoulders and biceps bulging as he gives me a stern look. “I want you to imagine that I’m going to punish you. When I come back in the room, I’m going to put you over my knee, and spank you for mouthing off. And then we’ll talk about how you feel about that.”

  What?

  And then he’s gone. I can hardly form a thought as I listen to him in the kitchen, clinking things around and making coffee. Within minutes, the fragrant smell of fresh-made coffee wafts through the air. I realize a few minutes have passed and he’s coming back expecting an answer, and all I’ve done is fantasize about lattes and cappuccino.

  Okay, so… he’s coming in the room and he’s going to spank me. Got it.

  A throb of heat pulses low in my belly.

  He’s going to shut the door, his face all stern and sexy-angry, and then he’s sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for me to come to him.

  My breathing becomes labored, my pulse quickening.

  “What happens to little girls who don’t do as they’re told?” he’ll ask.

  I close my eyes and slide my hand under the covers, gliding through my folds. Oh yeah. I’m horny as hell.

  I stand in front of him, knowing I’m going to be punished, embarrassed but sort of craving this. Needing him to forgive me for whatever I did. I need to know it’s all right now.

  I work my clit, and after the sixth stroke of my finger, I freeze.

  Wait. Wait a minute. He didn’t ask me to fantasize about getting spanked. That’s, like, always gonna turn me on. I frown.

  He asked me how I would feel knowing I’d be punished.

  I guess… ashamed and yet weirdly, inexplicably… aroused?

  Part of me gets angry at him, though. I mean, I’m a grown woman who can take care of herself. Does he think that I can’t handle adulting and he needs to treat me like a child? Does he think I’m incapable of taking care of myself? Hell no. That’s so not cool. I spent my childhood being told I couldn’t take care of myself or accept responsibility. I had money handed to me in fistfuls, and to some that sounds like heaven. But when you’re twenty years old and legit don’t even know how to do a load of laundry and the idea of bank statements is like learning a foreign language, and you’ve gotten fired from your literal entry-level job that your daddy got you because you missed four shifts in a row, it’s really not so cool. When you’re not good enough at home, and not good enough in the real world, it takes a toll.

  And handing control over to a man doesn’t solve any of that shit. It doesn’t make me more responsible, or stronger, but dependent on him and hell no, that isn’t happening.

  The door swings open and Zack comes in with a tray. He has trays? On the tray are two cups of coffee and a little plate of mini scones, along with a fresh bowl of fruit.

  “Wow. Dude. Seriously? I mouth off to you and you bring me breakfast in bed? Is this some sorta alternative reality?”

  He raises a brow and smirks, crossing the room to me. He slides the tray on the bedside table, and lifts the cup of coffee, handing it to me. I take a long sip of piping hot liquid, feeling it course down my throat and warm me through, and sigh.

  “Yeah, no,” he says. “I wouldn’t recommend mouthing off in the future.”

  I don’t know what to say so I reach for a scone, but he taps my hand. “Nope.”

  I blink up at him.

  “I’ll feed you.” He picks up a scone and it takes everything I have not to smack it out of his bossy hand. Not ten seconds ago I decided I was not that girl who would submit to real discipline, and here I am waiting to be fed. I look up to him, and feel the anger rising, my hands shaking with it.

  “Tell me what you were thinking,” he says, breaking off a piece of scone.

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly before I respond. “I… fantasized about you punishing me and I almost made myself come.”

  He blinks, then he lifts the piece of scone to my mouth. I let him place it in my mouth, but I’m filled with the sudden desire to bite him. He feeds me the piece, and I don’t even taste it. I swallow it with a drink of coffee, watching the humor leave his eyes.

  “Did you.” It isn’t a question, but a statement, as if he can’t believe what I just told him.

  “Yes,” I say, growing ornerier by the minute. “And I decided that no. No, I don’t like the idea of you disciplining me. I like the club scenes and it’s hot then, but I worked too hard to get to where I am.” My voice is rising, and I push myself up in the bed.

  “I see.” He places the scone on the plate. “You don’t like being accountable to me? You don’t like rules and things like that?”

  “I… no.” My voice comes out tremulously. “Take the collar off, please. And I would like a scone. I don’t want to be fed like an animal.” I swallow and don’t understand why tears spring to my eyes as I
speak. “I like playing with you at the club. I like scening. But I don’t want anything beyond that, Zack.”

  He places a scone on a plate and hands it to me. “I see,” he repeats.

  Does he?

  He gets to his feet. “I’m going to take a shower. Eat your breakfast. After breakfast, we’ll talk about what you have going on today, and plan when you’ll check in with me.”

  What did I expect? An argument? Well yeah. Maybe I did. Why, if he’s giving me exactly what I want, do I feel so sad?

  “Okay,” I say, taking a quick bite of scone and washing it down with coffee to swallow over the lump in my throat. I want to say yes, sir. But no.

  No.

  “I’m not sure we need to check in?” I ask, though my voice is curt. “I mean, the reality is, I’m good. You know? If anyone tries to hurt me, I’ll pepper spray them.” I polish off the scone, finish my coffee, and push myself out of bed.

  He eyes me thoughtfully, stroking his chin, nodding. “Right.”

  Why is he so calm about this? My head is going to explode, and my heart feels like it’s shattering. I want to whip my plate across the room and watch it fracture into a million pointy shards.

  I’ve taken a whipping from this man. I’ve been tied up and fucked senseless, gagged and degraded, and in some distant past, that was hot. That, I could take. Then why do I feel like the calm acceptance of what I’m telling him might break me? He crosses his arms and looks at me thoughtfully. “We’ll have rules at Verge,” he says, the barest trace of sarcasm in his tone. “Unless you want to stop that, too?”

  “No! I mean… I don’t think so,” I say.

  “Just so we’re clear, when we’re at the club, you’re submissive to me. Yes?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Yeah. Ok. I’m gonna shower. Finish breakfast, and then we’ll get going.” He pauses, his jaw clenches and he opens his mouth as if to say something, then shakes his head and leaves.