Reckless Games

by M. J. Lowell

His fingers pinched my left nipple. “Whose tits?”

  “Yours.”

  His fingers skimmed down my stomach. “Whose pussy?”

  “Yours,” I moaned.

  He kicked my legs apart. “Say it louder.”

  “Yours.”

  I felt hot breath on my clit. “To lick?”

  “Yes,” I said. Begged. The thought of him kneeling in front of me, his head between my knees, made it hard to breathe.

  “To suck?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “To bite?”

  The thought thrilled me. “Yes.”

  I felt his teeth graze over me and my hips reared toward his mouth. “Oh, yes. Yes,” I gasped.

  He caught the greedy nub between his lips. The tip of his tongue flicked over me, sending trails of sparks radiating out in every direction. Each time his tongue moved eddies of pleasure whorled into life.

  He clamped down harder with his teeth and at the same moment one of his hands reached up and he began gently grinding my nipple between his thumb and pointer finger. The waves of sensation seemed to come from everywhere at once. I heard myself moaning, and it sounded as though it was from far away.

  He lifted his mouth from my clit and I whimpered with dismay. No, I wanted to cry. To beg.

  He chuckled. “Patience, my sweet one. Now I’m going to teach you to give yourself to me completely.”

  “I already have.”

  “That’s what you think.” He took my hand and held it out, and dripped a gel-like liquid onto my palm.

  “Rub it into my cock,” he said, guiding my touch to him. I was awed by its immense size, couldn’t close my hand around its girth. I used my fingertips to spread the gel, sliding up its impossible length, back and forth, exploring. It was exquisitely thick and hard, the skin smooth and soft. When I reached the tip I clasped my hands together with the hood between my palms and squeezed and was rewarded with a low, throaty sound from Rhys. His powerful hand came down to still mine. “You have to stop,” he said, his voice wound tight with effort. “Or I’m liable to forget who is in charge.”

  I flushed with pleasure.

  “Beware of making me too hard,” he warned. “You’re the one who will pay the price.”

  The thought of that huge rod inside me was like a jolt of electricity, turning up the heat of my desire.

  He said, “Stand up and bend over the stool.”

  I did as he told me and felt the leather seat against my chest, wet with my own moisture. My hands dangled near the stool’s legs where, I discovered, there were straps to hold onto. And as soon as I slipped my hands into them, they tightened around my wrists, binding me in place.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “You’ll need to be tied down for this. It is going to hurt. But then it will free you. If you can endure the pain you will get to a place of such acute pleasure you will never want to come back. You must give yourself over to it, give yourself over to me. Are you ready?”

  No, I thought. “Yes,” I breathed.

  I felt the satiny tip of his cock pressing against me – but not where I’d expected. Instead it was poised against my ass.

  My legs began to quiver with fright. “I’ve never—” I gasped as he entered me. Pain jutted through me, excruciating. My legs shook harder.

  “That was only the tip. Do you want me to stop?” He pulled my head back by my hair, stretching my neck, making me arch into his cock a little more. “Answer me, Tuesday.”

  It was agonizing, raw and stinging. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. Except I knew I wanted more. “Don’t stop,” I managed to say.

  His cock inched into me. “Do you want me to plunder you? Ravage you for my delight?”

  “Yes,” I wailed.

  “Do you want to yield yourself for my pleasure?”

  “I do,” I breathed, not knowing where the words came from but knowing they were true.

  He pushed his cock into me deeper. I screamed. Nothing had ever been this intense, this raw. I was in agony, on a rack. And yet I still wanted more.

  “That’s not even halfway,” he said. “I can stop now. We can stop this.” His voice was controlled but I could hear the effort it took and that thrilled me even more than going forward terrified me.

  “No.” I heard myself say. “I want you. I want you to take me.” Saying it, putting words to my desires, letting go of all my fear, was incredible.

  He thrust into me harder. Pain flared through me and then unfurled, opening into white-hot pleasure. I was on fire. I was the fire. I felt myself unbuckling, utterly open in every way, accommodating him, accommodating his power. The enormity of him. The enormity of his desire. “I want to feel you,” I demanded, not knowing how I’d spoken. “All the way. Fuck me all the way.”

  Rhys made a sound that was somewhere between a cry and a groan and jammed himself into me. His hands on either side of my hips squeezed and his voice, sounding like it was coming through clenched teeth, said, “My God, you’re going to undo me.”

  The sound of him, the feel of him, so close to the edge of control filled me with triumph, yet I was still ravenous for him. I pushed back into him, gasping with pleasure, gasping again as he moaned. “Stop,” he said, more a plea than a command. “Not yet. There’s more for you to feel.”

  “But I want—“ whatever I thought I wanted was gone from my mind the next moment as he slid his cock out of my ass and then back in, out and back in, two quick strokes and then—“Oh God!”—one long one. The rhythm against the raw interior of me was extraordinary, the pressure beyond intense. Having him inside me this way was different than anything I’d ever known or imagined.

  “I have to come,” I cried.

  “No,” he ordered. But his cock didn’t stop, kept pursuing its relentless savaging, quick, quick, long, quick, quick, long, each time sending up a stinging explosion of cruel pleasure.

  “Imagine if there was another cock to fill your pussy,” he said, and I felt a new ache now. He dragged his cock out, then pressed it in, quick, quick, long. “Another to pierce you here—” his fingers found their way inside of me “—and rub against your cunt.”

  The two sensations, him ripping me apart from the back and his fingers stretching me in front came together with nuclear force. And then he brought his thumb up and began stroking my clit. I thought I was going to die.

  “I have to come,” I told him.

  “No,” he ordered again, his cock moving in its fierce rhythm while his fingers danced inside me.

  I felt his sweat on my back, his hands on my hips. I shuddered and reared against him. “Now?” I begged.

  He was completely still for a second, and the stillness was an exquisite torture. “Now, sweetheart,” he said and rammed himself into me so deeply there was no place where he ended and I began.

  He gave a long, primitive cry. “Oh, Tuesday, my glorious temptress,” he panted, and shattered by the pleasure of his pleasure, I came, kicking and bucking, trying to take every inch, every morsel of him into me. Transported beyond pleasure, beyond pain, I surrendered, climaxing in a violent, blinding explosion of raw passion that kept pulling me deeper and deeper. Over the pounding of blood in my ears I heard a scream and realized it was mine.

  The pleasure closed over me, engulfed me completely, and everything went dark.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When I emerged from the darkness, I was curled in an enormous king-sized bed, naked and alone under a satin coverlet. In that first brief waking, I couldn’t remember where I was or what had happened, couldn’t remember what I was doing there.

  Then in a rush it came back to me, all of it. I flushed as the memories flooded my head – memories of sense, touch, smell, taste – but no sights, no images. The blindfold had remained on until the last.

  Now I could see, and I sat up and looked around. The bed was off to one side in a large, mahogany-paneled windowless room. The light was dim, coming only from a handful of wall sconces and the f
lickering remains of a dying fire in the fireplace – the smell of wood smoke had been real, not a sensory illusion. Various pieces of furniture were scattered around the room, a chaise and several chairs and a long table, unremarkable except that apart from the velvet-covered chaise each was upholstered in leather, and each seemed to have straps carefully affixed in strategic places. To one side I saw the stool Rhys had sat me on and then bent me over, the loops he’d tightened around my wrists, and a wave of heat washed over me.

  The wall opposite the bed was lined with cabinets, each with an old-fashioned keyhole, but only one had a key. I stepped off the bed, curious. The movement made me wince, but the pain brought another flash of remembered pleasure so intense that I gasped. I should have been mortified by what I’d done, what I’d allowed Rhys to do. But I felt— liberated. Hedonistic and free.

  And I wanted to do it all again. My body ached with excitement, ached to be touched, ached for his touch.

  I crossed to the cabinet and hesitated a moment before turning the key – was I opening Pandora’s Box?

  The cabinet swung open to reveal a collection of— what I guessed you’d call accessories. Leather cuffs and harnesses hung neatly from a rack, along with a selection of flails and riding crops and other items whose purpose I could only guess at. I could hear Rhys’s voice in my head: You could say it’s my subconscious. The place where my most intimate fantasies play out. But it’s probably more accurate to describe it as a dungeon.

  I’d thought my experience here had been all-consuming, all-encompassing. I’d fainted with the intensity of it – fainted! I’d never fainted before. But the contents of this cabinet showed we’d only skimmed the surface of what might lurk in Rhys Carlyle’s subconscious.

  Meanwhile, my own subconscious was flashing bright red warning signs. With each new encounter, this man managed to bring out facets of me I hadn’t known existed, had me acting in ways I would have thought unthinkable mere days ago, willingly participating – begging to participate – in acts I’d never even imagined.

  I gave myself a shake, trying to clear my head. I located my messenger bag on a bedside table and pulled out my phone to check the time, startled to see it was after eight. I’d have to hurry to get home and shower and change before I was due at the club. And I hadn’t even gotten an answer to the single question I’d come here to ask, I thought to myself ruefully.

  I scanned the room for my clothes. My boots were lined up next to the chaise, and a black coat was draped over its back, but my jeans and sweater, not to mention my panties and bra, were nowhere to be found.

  I stood, frozen in place, trying to figure out how I was going to get home without any clothes. There was only one thing to be done. I reached for the coat.

  Mink, I realized as my hand met the incredibly silky fur. In fact— I checked the coat’s lining. Sure enough, the initials T.G. were stitched inside. It was Mrs. G’s coat.

  Very funny, Mr. Carlyle, I thought. But I had no choice. I shrugged into it.

  I’d never worn fur before – it wasn’t exactly in my budget – but the coat felt amazing, the satin lining wonderfully smooth and sensual against my bare skin. I pushed my feet into my boots, slung my messenger bag over my shoulder, and tried the door.

  At the last moment, I feared it would be locked, but it opened easily. I was in a long, non-descript corridor with an elevator at one end and a door marked Garage at the other. I headed for the elevator and pressed the Down button.

  The elevator arrived with a disarmingly prosaic beep, and the door slid open to reveal two men and a woman, all dressed in business suits. They were deep in conversation and barely seemed to notice me as I rode with them to the ground floor, where the elevator doors opened onto a generic lobby. I followed the three of them out of the building.

  Out of the building and onto the sidewalk, wearing nothing but boots, a mink coat, and the scent of my lover.

  My lover. The words sent a shiver through me. Rhys Carlyle was my lover.

  I couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

  I was a fool.

  Chapter Twenty

  I waited.

  I became a specialist in waiting. First I waited on the curb, not wanting to miss Davies when he pulled up in the Bentley. But there was no Bentley this time, no chauffeur to see me safely home.

  I waited by my phone, checking it for signs of life like a nervous parent with a newborn, to make sure I hadn’t missed a message from Val, that there wasn’t another Tuesday Granite delivery at her office.

  I waited for Tomorrow, dangling the word in front of my mind like the carrot before a mule. I waited as one brittle cold day disappeared into the next, blank calendar pages blown away by the winter wind.

  I waited until anticipation melted into confusion. The idea that I would never see Rhys again, never feel him again, never touch all of him, gradually began to settle in. It wasn’t an easy settling, like a light wrap on a cool summer evening. It was a heavy, dense shroud. At times it felt suffocating.

  I told myself it wasn’t Rhys Carlyle I longed for, whom I missed so desperately. I was grieving for my lost father, my lost mother, my lost childhood. For everything and everyone that was gone forever, that I’d never have back.

  And maybe all of that was true. But it was also him. I was missing the shape of him, the scent of him, the touch of him. The way the air itself seemed to crackle around him.

  Finally I waited to feel numb. Numb to the cold truth that I really was just a game to Rhys, that the connection I’d felt had been an illusion, something I’d dreamed up rather than confront the yawning loneliness of my life.

  But numb was now impossible. Rhys Carlyle might have been gone from my life, but he had awakened something in me, a dragon that wouldn’t rest. The old Lucy, the Lucy who so carefully kept the world at arm’s length, was gone, but now I felt both exposed and like I no longer knew myself.

  I threw myself into work, eager for distraction. At least it wasn’t hard to keep busy. The holidays are always hectic for DJs, and I played an engagement party, an all-night fraternity party, and an endless string of Christmas parties, watching the festivities around me like they were movies I’d seen before, my headphones providing an oasis of privacy in the midst of the laughing, chattering throngs.

  I was impassive, withdrawn. And yet wherever I went, I seemed to draw people to me – draw men to me.

  It was if I radiated a newfound magnetism, as if they could sense the dragon within and were intrigued by its power. Men talked to me everywhere – on the street and in the subway, at the club and when I stopped for coffee, asking for my number, inviting me for dinner.

  I tried going out for drinks with a caterer from one of the parties I worked, a handsome wannabe actor with an engaging charm, but I left the bar abruptly, shaken when he placed a casual hand on my knee. I rode home with tears streaming down my face.

  Seven different times I woke wrapped in the mink coat, desperate to find Rhys’s scent in the thick fur but with no memory of taking it from the closet, of putting it on.

  Only one thing became clear as the days went by, and that was the unavoidable, glaring fact that Rhys Carlyle wasn’t wasting a second thinking about me. Every morning brought a new onslaught of party pictures and gossip items to add to my corkboard.

  He didn’t confine himself to a single party on any given evening. Instead he went to three or four and was photographed at them all, often with more than one woman. He even managed to generate scandal en route, like the Miami flight delayed because he’d absconded with the stewardess from first class, or the high-speed yacht chase to outrun the angry husband of his companion – who was, of course, a glamorous curvy blonde.

  The blind items were painfully transparent. “What billionaire bad boy shut down a strip club for a private party?” “Which oh-so-eligible but very naughty bachelor outbid his lover’s husband at Christie’s?” From Monaco to Malibu, Paris to Palm Beach, there wasn’t an A-List party or A-List blonde Rhys C
arlyle passed up.

  Even if he had wanted to think about me, to find me, to see me, he couldn’t possibly have found the time.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I’d canceled Monday morning coffee once and Friday morning coffee twice, but Val wouldn’t let me get away with canceling Monday a second time. I came straight from working an all-nighter, and when I walked into Brooklyn Roasting Company she was already in line.

  “Why, hello, ghost of friendship past,” she said as I joined her. She took in my costume and raised an eyebrow. “You look like death warmed over. Please tell me that hickey is real but the wings are fake.”

  “All fake,” I said.

  “What are you supposed to be?”

  I shrugged. “It was a zombie-fairy-themed Christmas party. The event planner handled wardrobe.”

  The man in front of us in line, dressed in expensive jeans and a Rag and Bone jacket, said, “I think you look great.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered in my least encouraging tone. He turned back around, suddenly fascinated by the pastries in the display case.

  Val gave me her “What do you think you’re doing, young lady” look. “He’s cute and appears to be employed,” she said. “Why did you shut him down?”

  “I’m too busy.”

  Val let that pass, saying instead, “You’re not too busy for Christmas. You’re expected at six for Christmas Eve dinner, and pack a bag because you’re sleeping over so you don’t miss out on presents and Christmas lunch and all of the other Diego family Yuletide festivities.”

  “That’s really nice of you, but I told Nico I’d go to the movies with him on Christmas Day.”

  Val mimed answering a phone. “Hello? Nobel Prize Committee? Really? I’ll tell her.” She covered the imaginary mouthpiece with her palm. “They’re calling from Stockholm to say you’ve won the Lamest Idea In History Prize.”

  “I can’t just abandon Nico.”

  Val sighed. “Fine. Tell him to join us. ”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m always sure. But he’s not invited for the sleepover part. I have to draw the line somewhere.”