by Nia Farrell
He hadn’t meant for things to go this far, this fast.
Sebastian shoved aside the thought. Ashley wanted this. Wanted him. Sooner or later, what did it matter?
Wetting himself on her juices, he notched his glans in her opening and pushed inside, not stopping until he had worked most of his length into her tight, wet hole.
He smiled to feel it. Not every woman could handle nine inches.
He hadn’t been worried. If he couldn’t bury himself in her sex, there was always her ass. She’d taken his fingers and the plug beautifully. But he planned to save anal for later. They had all weekend. There were so many things he wanted to show her. So many kinks that he’d like her to try.
Grasping her hips in a bruising grip, he began to pound into her, setting off a series of orgasms that made her pussy gush, until her juices were running down her legs. Keeping one hand on her hip, he wrapped his fingers around her shoulder and snapped his pelvis, driving into her and hitting her G-spot. She came, hard, drenching them both with her juices.
“Yessss,” he grated. Continuing to fuck her, he brought her up to her next orgasm and kept her there, hovering on the precipice, until she was begging for release and he was ready to join her. He bit the base of her neck, twisted her nipple, and heaved inside, ripping a climax from her. He came, filling the end of his condom while her deliciously snug walls spasmed around him, milking his length.
She was perfect.
Before they’d met, he’d had his doubts. When he had expressed them to Sir Piers, Replay’s Master Dom had assured him that he would find Ashley Slade a pleasant surprise.
Sir Piers was right, as always. She was intelligent, curious, and very, very guarded. She had old scars and fresher wounds that were far from healed. She was fractured—but not broken. A recovering addict with a back injury that would never go away, limiting her on what they could do.
He’d never had a fragile submissive. The women he usually paired with on the RACK side of the resort could handle anything that he gave them and more. Given her medical history, it was possible that Ashley could not support the weight of his body when he finally took her to bed.
He kissed the place where his teeth had marked her and licked the petal softness of her skin. Still impaled on his cock, she moaned and pressed back, grinding against him.
“Give me a color, dragă.”
“Green, Master Sorin. Better than green. That was amazing.”
Indeed, it was.
A glance at the clock told him what he already knew. There was no time for a bath. A quick shower, dress, then they’d head back to wardrobe.
Pulling free, he took care of his condom in the en-suite. He returned with a fresh, warm washcloth for Ashley, wiping the sweat from her back and cleaning her juices from her thighs. He removed the anal plug before washing between her legs. Tossing the used cloth aside, he unfastened her ankles and wrists, checking the color and circulation of each one.
Done, he took hold of her shoulders and turned her towards him. “Shower,” he said, brushing his lips against her temple. “Then dress. If we don’t do anything else, we should make it to wardrobe with a few minutes to spare.”
Ashley rolled her shoulders and sighed. “Too bad,” she said, her voice still husky with arousal. “I love shower sex. And bathtub sex. Hot tub, swimming pool, ocean—just mention water, and I get wet. Better Pavlov’s dog than Schrödinger’s cat, I suppose.”
Sebastian smiled. If he wasn’t aware of her intelligence before, her casual use of scientific references would have clued him in.
Ashley Slade just became even more interesting.
Damn it.
He wasn’t looking for a permanent sub, and there was no way in hell that he could maintain anonymity with someone like her. He had agreed to be her Dominant, knowing that this weekend was all that they could ever have.
“Shower only,” he growled. “Tease me or try for more, and you’ll earn yourself a caning.”
“Yes, Master.” She said the right words, but he glimpsed the brat in her eyes, itching to disobey. He’d see how well she controlled her impulses.
Returning to the en-suite, this time with Ashley in tow, Sebastian turned on the shower, adjusted the temperature, and ordered her to wash while he started unbuttoning his shirt.
“Master Sorin, Mistress Jewell will want my hair ready to style. I need to put it up to keep it dry,” she said, biting that luscious lower lip of hers. “May I get a hairband, please, Master?”
He nodded, seeing the logic of it. There was no sense making extra work for the wardrobe staff if they could avoid it, and he preferred to keep on Jewell’s good side.
“Go,” he said, “but be quick.”
Sebastian took off his pants and laid them with his shirt on the foot of her bed. It only took Ashley a minute to find her toiletry case and bring it into her bedroom. He was just stepping out of his boxer briefs when she paused in the doorway, the light of appreciation in her eyes for what she saw.
He was certain that it mirrored his own.
She had a beautiful body, toned and fit, a few pounds under what he’d prefer to see on her, but stunning nonetheless. He was glad to see that she protected that fair skin of hers, avoiding tanning beds and overexposure to the sun. Her nearly waist-length hair was naturally blonde. The neatly-trimmed triangle of crisp curls below her pierced navel was mere shades darker.
Her nipples surprised him. Rather than being a pale rose or pink, they were a shade of brown that would fit perfectly with her Siamese cat fetishwear, if she decided to join in the pet play.
Seeing his body’s reaction to her, Ashley shook herself and hurried into the en-suite, setting her small zippered case on the marble counter and finding the covered elastic band that she needed. In a move worthy of Brock O’Hurn, she put her hair in a knot at the top of her head and stepped into the shower.
Sebastian was right behind her.
Despite his burgeoning erection, he had told her no sex, and he meant it. Still, it was an ego stroke when one of Hollywood’s hottest young actresses couldn’t take her eyes off his body.
As tempted as he was to wash her, he kept his hands to himself, lathering up and rinsing off in near-record time. Seeing that he was all business, Ashley did the same, hugging the marble-tiled wall and keeping clear of the rain showerheads. When she was ready to rinse off, she stepped in front of a set of body jets and sluiced herself clean.
He turned off the water when she was done. Reaching through the shower door, he nabbed two towels and handed her one. They both dried with brisk efficiency.
Gathering his clothes, Sebastian took them into the living room where Ashley had shed hers. He dressed while he watched her do the same.
A quick look at the clock confirmed that they were on track for time. “As soon as you are ready, we need to leave,” he said. It wouldn’t take long for him to get in character, but she had hair and makeup to do, too.
“Yes, Master Sorin. May I use the restroom before we head down?” She bit her lip and blushed becomingly.
Some Doms would have insisted on watching, but she had behaved herself in the shower and done everything that he had asked. Feeling generous, he answered, “You may. Be quick.”
“Yes, Sir.”
She returned shortly, looking grateful that he had allowed her privacy. “Ready,” she said, the remnants of her blush still pinking her cheeks.
He found it rather charming. On screen, she did her own nude shots and sex scenes rather than use a body double. She had portrayed intimate acts in front of cameras and crews, with a number of male co-stars. The world had watched her all but make love, and yet she could still blush like an ingénue.
Upon reaching the wardrobe department, they went their separate ways. Mistress Jewell had dressed him in 1930s black tie fashion. After donning his boxers, socks, and garters, he put on a white, high-wing collared shirt, closed the front, and fastened the four buttons on each cuff. His trousers came next. In 1930s fashi
on, the full-cut black pants matched the peaked-lapel, one-button tuxedo that he wore over a white, single-breasted evening waistcoat. Black patent-leather Oxfords and a black bow tie completed his ensemble.
Ashley took longer to get ready, but the results were well worth the wait. She was stunning. Her hair was swept back and caught up in a loose French roll. A floor-length satin gown hugged her curves. When she walked toward him, he caught glimpses of pointed-toe high heels with crossing ankle straps. Their light bronze color was a close match to her dress.
“Beautiful,” he said, thinking that, although she must know it, she would surely like to hear it. “The music won’t begin for another thirty minutes. Dinner will be served once it starts. We should finish well ahead of the main floor show. I want you to eat what you can. You’ll need it for the night ahead. One last thing.”
Sebastian pulled a long, flat jeweler’s box from his pocket and removed the lid, revealing a silver chain with a lock that fastened in front. “Although we’ve never had a problem with unattached Doms hitting on unwilling subs, I want you to wear this. It will let patrons know at a glance that you are under someone’s protection.”
Mine.
She looked up to meet his gaze. Her eyes were wide with surprise, and pleasure. “Of course. Would you mind…?”
He was already pulling the BDSM piece free of the box. Undoing the clasp, he draped it around her and fastened it in the front. The chain was sized so that the lock nestled in the hollow of her throat.
Stepping back, he eyed her with a connoisseur’s appreciation and felt his body stir. Patience, he told himself. This evening was just a prelude, a series of scenes that he hoped would draw her more deeply to him and inspire the trust required for what he had planned.
Tonight, he would have her body.
Tomorrow, he wanted her blood.
Chapter Five
The two of them were seated at a private table on the far side of the Nightclub Room. Sir Piers, his wife, and six others shared a larger table close to the stage, where a swing band had been playing for nearly an hour. Soon, the floor show would begin.
Ashley looked over the rim of her water goblet and met Master Sorin’s gaze. The man was so intense. When he focused his attention on her, she could feel the pulse of sexual energy linking them, drawing them together like a magnet.
It was all she could do to sit still.
Thank God, he hadn’t made her wear the anal plug. Her seat would be soaked for sure.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “Tell me about Leigh Ann Dixon.”
Master Sorin had been relatively quiet while they ate their steak and lobster dinners. If he wanted her life’s story, she would need to do thumbnail sketches to finish before the dancing started.
“I was a typical middle child,” she told him, keeping her voice just loud enough to be heard above the music. “Needy. Always looking for attention. For affirmation. For praise. I was daddy’s girl and loved hanging out with him. I was a tomboy, which appalled my mother. She wanted me to act like every other girl my age and thought community theatre would be good for me. From the first time I stepped on stage, I was hooked. One of the local boys was making his name on Broadway. He saw me perform when he came home for a visit, gave my parents his agent’s number, and told them to drop his name. A month later, I did my first commercial. Within two months, I was cast in an indie film about a veteran who loses his fight with PTSD and commits suicide. I played the twelve-year-old daughter he left behind.”
Master Sorin nodded. “I’ve heard of it but, I confess, I have yet to watch it.”
Ashley smiled softly, remembering her first supporting role. “It’s one of those little indie gems. I was nominated for a Golden Globe. Maybe if I’d made the Oscars….”
Another career goal that she had yet to achieve. She sighed.
“I got bit parts here and there, but it was hard, not living in LA. My mom and dad talked it over, and it was agreed that Mom, my little sister, and I should move to California, along with whoever else wanted to come. My dad stayed where I grew up, near Kansas City. My younger brother stayed, too. My older brother was in college by then, so it was the three of us, trying to make a go of things. It was rough. Dad sent a monthly allowance, more when he was able. Even with my mom working two jobs, we pretty much lived on peanut butter sandwiches and Ramen noodles. I helped where I could, waitressing, babysitting, walking people’s dogs. It was sheer luck that a producer saw me scolding the neighbor’s Airedale when we were headed for the park and all he wanted was a hot dog from a cart. They’d been looking to cast a role. She thought that I’d be perfect for the fifteen-year-old delusional stalker of pop star Hunter Cameron. I went in, did a cold read with Hunter—complete with tears—and got the part. I’ve been working in the industry ever since.”
“You filmed here.”
“Yes,” she said, shifting in her seat. The failure of A Royal Affair and her subsequent breakup with Cade were still sore spots with her. “We rented the resort and filmed in the Versailles Room. At the end of the shoot, I watched the BDSM demonstrations and found myself wanting to learn more.”
“You shall,” he rumbled, eyeing her intently. “The weekend has only begun. What happens here, when the dance is done, is nothing compared to what you’ll see on the RACK side of the resort. I look forward to being your guide.”
“Thank you, Master Sorin. I’ll try my best to act the part of your submissive. I would hate to be an embarrassment to you.”
His perfect, chiseled lips crooked in a deviant’s smile. “Any action that reflects badly on me merely gives me a reason to punish you, dragă. I warn you, I should like that very much.”
“Dragă,” she repeated. “You’ve called me that a number of times now. What does it mean?”
Master Sorin cradled his goblet of wine in his hand. Having allowed himself only one, he was making it last. “It is Romanian for dear, or sweetheart. My dear would be dragă mea. My mother was Romanian. She was a talented gymnast when she was younger. She would likely have been an Olympian if an injury hadn’t cut short her career. My father was considered wealthy, a Lithuanian businessman with a vested interest in sports. He had seen my mother perform. When he heard that she was hurt, he made certain that she had the very best surgeons. My father was older, but they fell in love, married, and had three sons before he died. A brain aneurysm,” he said. “He was working late, as was his wont, and never came home. They found him sitting at his desk. My oldest brother took over the company. My younger brother stayed to help. It was my mother’s situation, though, that got me interested in medicine, the idea that someone had the skills to help her heal. I hoped that I could one day do the same and became a doctor.”
“A very young doctor,” she said. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”
He lowered his gaze to her mouth. His dark eyes flashed. “Don’t,” he said. “Think about wrapping those lips around my cock instead. Think about me fucking your face. Think about me taking every orifice before the weekend is through.”
Her mouth. Her pussy. Her ass.
The dark promise in his voice made her tremble with need.
Fortunately, the server came to bus their table, and the floor show began. A pair of first-person impersonators danced as Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in a thirty-minute performance that was spellbinding. When they had finished, the patrons and staff who’d attended were free to put on their own show. Submissives started shedding clothes and serving their Dominants’ needs. Master Sorin let her watch for a while before deciding that it was his turn.
“Kneel, dragă. Take me out and suck me dry.”
Ashley had never had public sex. Fake sex, yes. She’d gone through the motions in front of cameras, directors, and crews. But this…?
She swallowed hard.
Master Sorin pinned her with his gaze. “Is there a problem? Do you wish to be punished?”
“No, Master Sorin,” she croaked.
“D
elay only makes it worse. Do it,” he said sternly. “Now!”
Master Sorin repositioned his chair with his left side to the table and his back against the wall. She appreciated that he would make this easier for her. This way, she would see only him and not have to face the crowd.
Ashley rose and knelt before him.
Focusing on her Master, she unfastened his slacks and freed his erection. Taking him in hand, she lapped the precum that was pooled on the tip, then swirled her tongue around his velvety crown. Breath hissed between his teeth when she teased the sensitive point underneath it.
Emboldened by his response, she wrapped her lips around his shaft and went down on that meaty nine-inch length of his, taking in as much as she could, teasing him with her tongue and hollowing her cheeks as she sucked him. Adjusting her angle let her take even more of him in. Finally, she worked her way to what she wanted. Being deep in her throat made him groan with pleasure.
Up to that point, he had given her freedom and let her work. Now he grasped the sides of her head, held her in place, and started fucking her face. He didn’t stop until he had emptied himself inside her mouth.
Somehow, she managed to swallow it all.
When she had sucked him dry, she released him with an audible pop, kissed his crown, and sat back on her heels.
Master Sorin leaned forward. Hooking a finger under her chin, he tilted up her face.
Seeing the satisfaction on his, she smiled softly.
He framed her face in his hands. Bending down his dark head, he pressed his forehead to hers.
“How is your back, dragă?” he asked.
“Complaining,” she answered honestly. If only she weren’t allergic to Naproxen, she could have hours more of relief. “I took ibuprofen after our shower, but it’s pretty much worn off. The bottle is in my locker in wardrobe. I had planned to take some more when we change for the French Terror.”
“Make certain that you do,” he rumbled. “Otherwise, you will earn another punishment.”
The dark promise in his voice made her shiver. He wasn’t going to forget how she had balked at giving him head. At some point, he would demand an accounting, and she would pay in pounds of flesh.
