Perfect Vision (The Vision Series Book 2)

by L. M. Halloran

  When I look at him now, I see more than the promise of punishment. More than a man I respect and desire, who plays my body like an instrument made for his hands. He’s multi-dimensional. Imperfect. Emotional. Human. Warm and sensitive, mature and thoughtful. I’m not sure how much longer I can protect my heart. Or if I want to.

  Vulnerability didn’t use to scare me. My parents encouraged it when I was young, helped us map our emotions and communicate them in positive, loving ways. As an adult, I enjoyed the freedom and intimacy of it in my marriage. Or thought I did—before I fucked everything up. After, I was resigned to never experiencing that freedom again.

  Now, by some trick of fate, here it is—a man who heard the absolute worst about me and isn’t running. Or if he’s running, it’s to me instead of away. Those words… they rocked me, illuminating deeper crevices of pain.

  Paul ran.

  He didn’t want to hear my apologies. Couldn’t. That night, after telling me I wasn’t the woman he thought I was, that he didn’t know me at all, he took his car keys and slammed the front door on his way out. I didn’t hear from him for three days. At that time, they were the worst three days of my life.

  I had no idea what was in store for me.

  My guilt hasn’t been diminished by my confession. It’s still there, round and hard and dark on my timeline. A black diamond nothing can scratch. I failed Paul. Failed us. And after he died, my shame was so great I couldn’t tell my parents what really happened. Not even Paris knows everything. The bargain I made. The sacrifice.

  I told myself it was to protect them, but in reality I was protecting myself. Shielding myself from the truth.

  There’s no running from the past, but until today, it never occurred to me to run toward it. Dominic Cross is either the wisest or most foolhardy man alive.

  Wherever you go, there you are.

  “Again.”

  “I can’t, Dominic. I—”

  “Again!”

  Cursing under my breath, I lift my arms, the muscles quivering like jello. The boxing gloves weigh a hundred pounds each. Sweat stings my eyes. My shoulders burn, my abs burn. Everything burns.

  “Any day, kitten.”

  “For the love of—”

  “One more set and I’ll fuck you tonight.”

  I flush bright red as musical laughter floats to us from outside the boxing ring. “Oy, Dominic!” calls Liam. “Give her something she actually wants!”

  I aim a feeble swing at the pads attached to Dominic’s hands. He bats me away like I’m a bothersome fly. I stumble, righting myself with a groan. In contrast to my pathetic state, Dominic bounces lightly on the balls of his feet.

  “You’re a savage,” I pant.

  “You’re weak,” he taunts, effortlessly dancing toward me and back. Muscles ripple on his bare chest; knowing him, it’s an intentional distraction. “I thought you were taking self-defense classes. You do know yoga doesn’t count, right?”

  I swing wildly. Miss him by an embarrassing distance and almost fall again. Dominic grins, eyes twinkling. Wiping sweat from my eyes with my forearm, I scowl.

  “Let’s see you take ten cold hits from a cane, Mr. Tough Guy.”

  His smile turns devilish. “I’d put that on the table, but there’s no way you’d follow through.”

  He’s right, the bastard. Not in a million years could I do to him what he does to me. Even the thought of caning him makes my stomach turn.

  I look over at Liam, whose garage-turned-home-gym provides the backdrop to my misery. “What are you getting out of this?”

  He laughs. “Free entertainment.”

  Surrendering to gravity, I crumple to the mat. The bruises on my ass protest, but right now they’re the least of my pains. “I’m done. I can’t feel my arms.”

  Dominic drops to a crouch before me, athletic shorts stretching over a certain part of his anatomy. “Eyes up, kitten,” he says with mirth.

  Though rare for me, I disobey. “You’re not, uh, wearing underwear.”

  Liam explodes in laughter. “You’ve just noticed? How the hell did you miss his giant cock flapping around in those shorts?”

  “Feel free to get lost,” growls Dominic.

  “Bah! You’re no fun. I’ve got a date, anyway. See you at Crossroads later?”

  Dominic pauses while removing the pads from his hands and glances down at me. “Not sure yet.”

  Liam aims a cheeky wink my way. “All right, then. Lock up when you leave.” Whistling, he saunters across the garage and into the house.

  “How do you really feel?” asks Dominic, brushing a sweaty lock of hair off my forehead. The graze of his hot fingertips sparks a warm, drifting sensation in my belly.

  “Pretty good.” Surprisingly, I mean it. “Hungry. Like really hungry.”

  Grabbing my gloves, he hauls me to my feet, ignoring my muttered curse as muscles scream. He starts unwrapping my hands. “Food, then sleep for my brave kitten.”

  “Sleep?”

  Dark, sparkling eyes flicker up to my face. “Depends.”

  My breath comes short. “On what?”

  “On whether you can run a mile.” He glances at his watch, then nods toward the treadmill.

  I gape. “Right now?”

  Slow, wicked smile. “How bad do you want me?”

  A rough, disbelieving laugh barks out of me. But it only takes another few seconds for me to toss my loose gloves on the ground and hobble to the treadmill.

  Jamming my finger into the start button, I grumble, “That cock better taste like candy and vibrate.”

  To the sound of Dominic’s booming laugh, I run.

  Strong hands work over my skin, melting knots in my legs and back. I’m far past any embarrassment at my periodic, unrestrained groans of pleasure.

  “Ohh, right there.”

  Dominic goes after a knot in my shoulder blade. The pain is exquisite. I breathe through the bright pulsing, sighing as the tension unravels. His hands retreat. Sheets rustle.

  “Turn over.”

  I flop onto my back, yawning as I blink my eyes open. Dominic’s soft smile greets me. “That was wonderful, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  His gaze drops, tracing my throat and down, lingering on my breasts. I’ve been naked before him so many times—been denied the full pleasure of his body—it doesn’t occur to me that tonight’s any different. The afternoon was just a tease. His specialty, maybe even more so than pain. He’ll tuck me in and leave like always.

  Only… he’s not leaving.

  Awareness frissons down my spine, wrapping around my torso and stiffening my nipples. A broad, tanned hand cups one breast, kneading and plucking the tip. I squirm, arousal turning on like a flipped switch. My legs squeeze beneath the thin sheet covering my lower half.

  Time slows, pauses for my memory to capture the moment. Candlelight in the shadowed bedroom, the scent of coconut oil and lavender. The soft waves of his dark hair. Thick lashes shadowing midnight eyes, the curve of firm lips. Broad shoulders rising, then falling as he sighs. The soothing warmth of his hand on me, familiar and not. He’s never caressed me without some part of me being immobilized.

  I’m afraid to say the wrong thing, make the wrong move. Afraid he’ll leave, and this small, precious space between us will vanish like smoke. Afraid, too, of that space. Of how badly I want to dive into it, regardless of whether or not I remember how to swim.

  His hand slides across my ribs to my other breast, owning it with the same commanding touch. “London,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. Tormented eyes find mine. “Tell me you want this.”

  The fog of arousal clears momentarily, and I finally understand. He isn’t asking if I want to have sex—he’s asking if I want to make love. My heart burns, an inferno of need and twisted hope. Brilliant light shines in its darkest corners, searing through shadows and webs of fear. I’m powerless over the truth. And I don’t care anymore.

  I cover his hand with mine. “Everythi
ng I have left to give is yours to take. I’m yours, Dominic.”

  36

  I’m kneeling on the bed, waiting for him. Toes tucked, knees spread, sitting on my heels with my head bowed and my hands laced together behind my neck. It’s not the first time I’ve been in this position, but it feels that way. The give of the mattress under my knees makes the position difficult to maintain. The burn in my overused muscles has gone from unpleasant to excruciating. Then again, at this point I’d be willing to walk over hot coals for sex with Dominic Cross.

  “You’re shaking, kitten,” he purrs from somewhere in the room. I think he’s in the armchair beside the window, but I don’t dare look up.

  “Yes, sir. I want you, sir.”

  “What exactly do you want? Tell me the truth.”

  I suck in a breath, my mind filling with carnal images. Him behind me, my ankles tied to the bedposts as he drives into me. Face-to-face, slow and needy and vanilla. Tied up and dangling from the ceiling at the exact height necessary for…

  “Say it.”

  “I want to touch you, sir,” I blurt. “I want to suck your cock. I want your arms around me as I ride you and you bite my breasts. I want you to kiss me and fuck me and make me come.” I gasp into silence, a hot blush blooming under my skin. As much as I’ve thought the words, I’ve never in my life spoken so brazenly.

  After a pregnant pause, I hear the music of his belt buckle. “Your wish is my command. Come here, London.”

  My mouth waters as I scramble off the bed. I was right—he’s in the big leather armchair—and when I get a good look at him I almost trip. Shirtless, his hair mussed, candlelight making poetry of his face and torso. Slouched with his elbow propped on the armrest, one fist supports his head while the other lazily strokes the most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen.

  “Any day.” His voice is wry and satisfied.

  “Yes, sir,” I breathe, falling to my knees between his spread legs.

  “Hands behind your back. Good girl. Come get it.”

  The first taste of him on my tongue is perfection—salt and musk and power and servitude. When he breaches my lips, I’m the one who groans in pleasure. And when he hits the back of my throat and I gag and swallow, his voice comes strangled and dark, “Fuck, that’s good.”

  I find a rhythm that makes his hips twitch, alternating my attention between the thick, flared head and testing the limits of my deep-throating skills. His fingers thread through my hair, gripping hard, sending crackles of pain through my body and drenching my inner thighs. When he takes control, I relinquish it gladly.

  Never has submission been more empowering than now, with his breathy grunts above me, the muscles of his thighs quivering. His filthy whispers of how beautiful I look doing what he’s wanted for so long—choking on his cock. I’ve never been so turned on in my life, and when he draws my head away, I whimper in protest.

  Gentle hands cup my face, thumb dipping into my mouth, fingers wiping saliva from my chin. Panting, I stare up at him. Whatever he sees in my eyes brings an unrivaled intensity to his expression. I can only imagine I look exactly how I feel—devoted, trusting.

  In love.

  The revelation shimmers through me, finding no resistance. And suddenly my loving him is a foregone conclusion—a fact divorced from fear, regret, and grief. It doesn’t feel new or even surprising. Of course fate brought me here. I belong with him. To him.

  “I feel it too,” he whispers, then sweeps me up into his lap. I throw my arms around his neck, my head turning, our mouths meeting in seamless, soul-melting grace.

  He tastes like home.

  For endless, blissful minutes, he devours the offering of my mouth and gives my hands free rein. I read him like Braille, caressing the hollows and swells of muscle. His throat. Behind his ears. Hollow of his bellybutton. Ridges of his abdomen. The smattering of dark hair on his chest and arms. I lose myself in his artistry until he dips fingers between my legs. I gasp into his mouth, reverting to carnal need.

  With a low groan, he propels us to standing. I hang from his shoulders, my palms memorizing the pull of muscles in his back as he walks us to the bed. Kicking off his pants, he sits once more with me in his lap, scooting back until he leans against the headboard. Gravity rewards me with friction and hardness where I need it most. I grind against him, mindlessly seeking my deepest urge.

  Dominic hisses, teeth sinking into the meat between my shoulder and neck.

  “Take what you want.”

  My hands dive between us, my eyes following as I fit him to my entrance. He draws my hair back and up, clenching it in a fist, and we watch together as I sink slowly down. To my shock and pleasure, he breaks first, his head falling back against the headboard.

  “So fucking tight,” he growls.

  And it is—a tight fit. Exactly as I knew it would be and so much more. I clench around him, already close to climax from what feels like the longest foreplay known to man. When I’m fully seated, I go still, gasping at the sensation that’s so much deeper than physical penetration. My nails dig helplessly into his shoulders. Against my better judgement, I look up, straight into his eyes.

  His thumb traces my lower lip. “Hi,” he whispers.

  A tear spills down my cheek. “Please,” I breathe, not knowing what I’m asking for.

  But he knows.

  My throat is captured by a strong hand. His other traps my wrists at the small of my back, pulling until I’m curved back, strung tight as a bowstring. I shudder in relief at the strain in my shoulders, the pressure on my airway.

  “Get to work, kitten.”

  With a ragged moan, I swirl my hips, seeking and finding a rhythm that makes my eyes roll skyward. Dominic murmurs approval, his mouth falling to my breasts. He’s gentle at first, licking and sucking, worshipping my nipples. Then, as I move faster and harder against him, his teeth sink deeply into soft flesh. Marking me without apology, knowing exactly how much I can take. The pressure on my neck increases, my oxygen slowly diminishing.

  “Oh, fuck, fuck,” I chant.

  “Do you want to come?” he growls.

  “Yes, please, sir, please.”

  “Say it first.”

  Teeth graze one ultra-sensitive nipple, then the other. Our bodies slide into that space of pure synchronicity, moving together like ripples over water. My orgasm barrels toward me, unstoppable, and for the first time, I doubt my ability to obey him.

  An anguished wail rises inside me. “Please!” I scream.

  With a yank of my wrists and push of his body, I careen onto my back. My legs find purchase on his hips, the only remaining control I have. Even my voice doesn’t belong to me anymore, emerging in hoarse groans. Dominic hovers above me, his chest sliding against mine, his thrusts now impossibly deeper and harder.

  “Look at me, London,” he snarls. “Tell me, and you can come.” The second I open my eyes and see his—dark as sin and hot as fire—I lose the fight.

  “I love you,” I sob.

  And with the admission comes my release. Cataclysmic. Too hot and bright. My bones melt to liquid pleasure.

  “Thank you,” he whispers.

  With a final, jerking thrust, he spills inside me. Each quiver of his body hits me like a drug, blissful and sedating. I float, half-asleep yet more conscious than I’ve been in years, as he releases my wrists and gently draws my hands out from behind my back.

  Dropping his elbows to either side of my shoulders, he presses his forehead to mine. Sweat from his brow drips onto my cheek and mixes with my tears.

  “Told you I’d fuck the truth out of you.”

  I laugh, then sob.

  His lips find mine and he whispers against them, “I love you, too.”

  37

  Cinder is here.

  “Time to deliver your end of the bargain.”

  When I don’t immediately move, I’m yanked roughly from the ground. Broken, silent dolls watch. Maybe they’re glad to be rid of me, despite the recently delivered commo
dities.

  As I’m hauled forward, I glance back. Meet the teenager’s jaded eyes. Find some satisfaction in the sight of her cuddled with the toddler beneath a thick blanket on a simple, military-style cot.

  She mouths, “Thank you.”

  I nod. Numb to the pain of Cinder’s grip. Numb to the ache in my bones. My itching skin. My brokenness. I know where I’m going. Who’s waiting for me. I’d rather die than give him what he wants.

  So I’m numb.

  Empty.

  Gone.

  38

  Dominic’s bedroom is my favorite place in the loft, and not just because of what happens inside its boundaries. Or the bed he had specially made for seemingly endless variations of bondage, only a fraction of which I’ve experienced. Or the reinforced hooks in the ceiling. Or the silver chains dangling on the rightmost wall beside a display of his favored whips and floggers, clamps and ropes.

  Every once in a while when I walk into the room, I imagine what an average, sane, well-adjusted woman might think seeing his private domain. The shock, the budding disgust. I imagine their outrage, their righteous pseudo-feminism, and it makes me laugh. Because they don’t know what I do—never have I felt more powerful than I do when submitting to him. Power isn’t about control, like we’ve been taught all our lives. I know now that true power is freedom of choice. Freedom to trust. Freedom to own your wants, give life to desire, and embrace yourself exactly as you are.

  But none of those are the main reason I love his bedroom. Oddly, I love it because it reminds me of my old room in my parents’ house, long since converted into a meditation/yoga room. But it holds a special place in my memory, as it was the first and last bedroom I decorated during my formative years. There’d never been a reason before since we moved so often, always renting in case a new opportunity for spiritual evolution presented itself to my parents.

  But the summer before Paris’s senior year of high school and my junior one, they decided it was time to put down roots. Their decision may or may not have had something to do with the ultimatum Paris and I delivered: we stay in Naples, a town about an hour south of Rochester, New York, until both of us leave for college, or we ask our boyfriends to get us pregnant. On the other hand, our parents had found a close group of likeminded friends in the year we’d been there, and maybe they were tired of moving just like we were. Either way, the reason was far less important than the result—the stability we craved.