Sophie (The Boss Book 8)

by Abigail Barnette

  “Don’t!” I cried out, still locked in my pretending. “Please don’t make me come, Sir! I don’t want to be bad!

  He added a third finger. Pain sliced through my pelvis at the sudden stretch, and it was enough to put me over. I wailed with despair as I came. He kept going, never slowing down despite my admittedly half-hearted attempts to twist away from him.

  “I’m not dirty!” I insisted. “Don’t make me come again!”

  A fourth finger. He lifted his mouth. “Your pussy is so tight now. I’ll barely get my fist in.”

  A cold sweat broke out over my body. “Yellow. I might have to safeword during that.”

  “Do you worry that I won’t stop?” Though he tried to keep his tone commanding, shaming, even, I heard my husband behind that question.

  “Of course not, Sir. I just don’t want to disappoint you.”

  The cushion shifted beneath me, then dipped with a heavier weight. His body pressed against mine; the zipper of his open fly chafed my skin. With one hand around my throat, he gently eased me up and leaned over me for a kiss that stole my breath away. When he lifted his head, he searched my face for a long moment. “You never disappoint me. You couldn’t possibly.”

  I rubbed my cheek against his arm. “Then let me be a good sub for you, Sir.”

  With another, far too brief kiss, he released me and slid back to the floor.

  “Now, where were we?”

  Those four fingers rammed into me without warning. Yes, that was exactly where we’d been. I screamed at the searing, burning pain, remembering too late that I might bring someone running. I sank my teeth into the back of the chair, tears leaking from my eyes.

  My safeword was the furthest thing from my mind. My neck corded with the strain of enduring the stretching, stabbing sensation of his too-wide hand forcing my cunt open. It contrasted sharply with the singing of my nerve endings beneath his tongue; he licked and teased my ass relentlessly.

  “I thought you weren’t enjoying yourself.” He tutted in admonishment. “I don’t think you’d mind lying here, getting fucked by the entire crew.”

  “Please, no!” I begged while wondering if Neil and El-Mudad would roleplay such a scenario for my birthday.

  “I wouldn’t even have to restrain you. You’d lie there and take every cock on offer.”

  “No!”

  “You’d tell yourself you were powerless. Too weak from coming. Too sore from having my hand in your cunt and my cock in your ass.” His fingers were inside of me up to the knuckles; he pushed the tip of his thumb into my asshole. “But you want it. You’re an insatiable little slut.”

  “Only for you, Sir!” I sobbed as he twisted and wriggled his fingers inside.

  “For whomever I wish to share you with,” he threatened. “Now, you’re going to come.”

  “I won’t!” Oh, I would. He would make sure of that.

  “Too late,” he warned, withdrawing his hand to give him access to my clit with his mouth once more. He peeled back the hood and sucked, setting up a rhythmic pulse and a wicked flick of his tongue. It took only seconds for my legs to stiffen and my back to bow.

  “Stop! Stop!” I pounded the back of the chair in a futile attempt to redirect the unbearable pressure climbing like wildfire to scorch through my veins. When the tension finally burst, I imagined the gush between my legs as lava; there was no way I hadn’t burned up from the inside.

  My already overwhelming climax turned into another, then another, until I forgot I was supposed to be pretending to hate them. When I repeated, “stop, stop, stop,” under my breath, it wasn’t for my Sir’s benefit. There were two directions I could go at that point, and I made a choice even as I went numb beneath his mouth. Safeword and stop the torment or let go and spiral down into total submission. Cease being a person with thoughts and feelings and preferences. Allow myself to become a blank canvas upon which Sir could paint another sadistic scene.

  I chose the latter.

  Did I feel the pain of his whole hand, thumb and all, now, nearly prying my hip bones apart? Yes, but it didn’t matter. It was my purpose to feel the pain he wanted me to feel, to satisfy his desires. “Sophie” didn’t exist beyond what Sir wished to exploit, abuse, wear out, torment. And I welcomed all of it, right up to his wrist.

  “Your cunt is so hungry for me.” He twisted his arm, pulling a scream from me that I once again muffled with the back of the chair. “You’re going to come again. And then, I’m going to fuck you.”

  “Yes,” I cried out. “Yes, Sir, please fuck me.”

  “I thought you didn’t want it,” he taunted me. “I thought you weren’t a filthy little slut.”

  “I am,” I panted as he stroked my clit with his free hand. “I’m filthy! Please fuck me! Please fill me up with your cum, Sir!”

  “I will,” he promised. “You’ll get every inch of my cock and every bit of my cum. And you’re going to go to sleep dirty, just like the whore you are.”

  “Yes, please! I’ll never be a bratty sub again,” I promised.

  He chuckled darkly. “Oh, Sophie. I don’t believe you.”

  I didn’t believe me, either.

  The silence of the room amplified the obscene sound of my sopping cunt sucking and parting around his wrist. I moaned and lost myself in the gentle manipulation of my clitoris and the contrasting pain of Sir’s fist.

  “Come for me, Sophie. Show me what I do to you.” There were times when even my Sir could be gentle. And in those moments, my psyche plunged into joy so delicious that all the pain became a blessing, the humiliation love.

  I didn’t fight my orgasm. I let it happen because it was unreasonable to stand defiant in the face of inevitability.

  And because he wanted it. I gave Sir my orgasm, to own as he owned every one of my orgasms. His groan of appreciation was enough to bring me over the peak again, and he let me ride his hand until the last desperate clutches of my cunt around his wrist passed.

  Carefully, he took his hand from my pussy; I felt as though I gaped open, that he wouldn’t feel anything when he slid into me.

  “Rest a moment,” he ordered, and I slumped into the chair sideways. My thighs shook with muscle tremors. My throat hurt, both from dryness and screaming into the leather I’d bitten a hole through.

  Wow, going for the super expensive option worked out for you, didn’t it?

  Damn. I’d wanted to stay in subspace, to please my Sir, but already I felt that peaceful fog fading.

  Then he returned, fully nude, yet somehow more powerful than he had appeared fully clothed. He held a bottle of lube that he tossed into the chair and said, “On your hands and knees on the coffee table, please.”

  I looked doubtfully at the low circular piece of furniture. I almost suggested we pick a location I’d had the foresight to reinforce for weight, but he placed a hand on the back of my neck and growled, “Now,” beside my ear, and I scrambled to obey.

  “I’m going to fuck your pussy, Sophie.” His bare calves brushed mine as he climbed on behind me. “But I’m going to come in your ass. What do you say to that?”

  “You can come wherever you want to, Sir.” That answer would please him. And that was what I wanted to do. It was all I wanted to do.

  At that moment, it was my sole reason for existing.

  The massive head of his cock spread my bruised inner flesh; he wasn’t needlessly rough, but he wasn’t cautious, either. He slid in smoothly as deep as he could go, in no hurry to spare me the sting in my swollen tissues.

  “There, there,” he mocked me when I could no longer stifle my sobs. “Don’t worry; I won’t draw it out. I don’t want you to take any pleasure from this.”

  That was good because I wasn’t sure I could feel my clit anymore. Another orgasm seemed out of the question.

  Sir’s strokes quickened; I must have been an excellent sub indeed. He’d barely been inside of me for a few minutes before he pulled out, grabbed the lube, haphazardly applied it, and brutally drove into my
ass.

  Fireworks of agony exploded behind my eyelids. My guts cramped, and my arms gave out. I collapsed, but Sir held my hips in place. He thrust once, twice, then cursed and stiffened over my back. The twitches of his cock were all the more pleasurable, knowing that he’d promised me he would fill me up. He made good on that promise, grinding and flexing his hips as if to wring every last drop into me.

  “What do we say, Sophie?” he panted, still joined to me, supporting his weight on his hands on either side of me.

  “Thank you, Sir,” I responded obediently.

  He slipped from me and stood, offering a hand to help me up. The kiss he dropped on my forehead was laughably innocent.

  “Let’s get you into bed,” he instructed firmly, steering me with an arm around my shoulders. “Do you need anything?”

  “A shower?” I asked hopefully.

  He chuckled archly. “No. I already told you, you’ll be sleeping in this state. Am I not a man of my word, Sophie?”

  “You are, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.” I leaned into his body and let him half-drag me along; every fiber of every muscle in me was pulled. “But I do need to use the bathroom.”

  After Neil started the shower for himself, he gave me privacy to use the toilet–-of course, we weren’t intensely private people, so his sole purpose for not hopping right into the water was likely to tease me with something I wanted, but couldn’t have. And while I could still safeword and get a shower if I would subdrop without one, it was going to feel so abjectly degrading to climb into bed sweaty and sticky.

  When I emerged, Sir waited for me with a nightgown. A barely-there silk chemise that dipped low over my breasts and didn’t clear the bottom of my behind.

  “Put this on,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb El-Mudad, who slept peacefully and loudly, his grinding teeth filling the room with near-metallic screeching. “Raise your arms.”

  I let Sir dress me and take me into his arms. His lips brushed my temple. “You pleased me tonight, Sophie.”

  My heart soared; pleasing my Sir mattered more than anything else in the world.

  At least, right then.

  “Thank you, Sir. That’s all I needed to hear.” Tears crept into my voice.

  Lifting my chin with two fingers, Neil asked, “Do you need anything else?”

  Did I need any more care, any more love? That was the true meaning of his question.

  I shook my head. “No, sir. This is perfect. You’re perfect.”

  He kissed my cheek. “Go on. Climb into bed and dream about all those wicked things you let me do to you.”

  The day had been exhausting enough that there wasn’t even time for me to remember that I’d had sex once my head hit the pillow. Sometime later–-it seemed like hours instead of the minutes it likely had been–-Neil climbed into bed beside me, pulling me into his arms. I roused enough to tuck my head beneath his chin. His skin smelled clean and damp, and I breathed in a happy sigh, intending to drift off again.

  “Sophie?” he whispered tentatively.

  “Hmm?” was all I could manage.

  “When I say that you pleased me today…I want you to know that I didn’t mean just our play. I meant earlier, as well—the advice you gave me about all of this. And your willingness to listen. I know it’s normal for us, but believe me, it wasn’t something I was used to before us.” He paused. “I’m sorry. You were sleeping. I should economize my words. Thank you, Sophie. For being my wife.”

  I curled my fingers in his chest hair and listened to the beating of his heart beneath my ear. It had almost stopped, more than once. The sound was as precious to me as his statement, which carried the weight of our shared sorrows as well as his demons.

  I told him, “Thank you for being my husband.” In the silence of my heart, I added, thank you for choosing to stay.

  Chapter Eleven

  We arrived at El-Mudad’s friend’s island at dusk, disembarking the yacht for the speed boat to cross the lagoon. Island staff stood in two uniform lines flanking the wide dock, flashing perfect hospitality industry smiles.

  "No, seriously. Who owns this place?" I whispered to El-Mudad as we strolled toward the beach.

  "Let's just say he's a bookseller."

  He couldn't mean...

  "Do we each get our own hut?" Rashida asked, skipping past to walk backward while interrogating us. "Can we have a fire on the beach?"

  "They're not huts and not tonight," El-Mudad told her patiently. “You and Molly and your sister will stay in the main house with Mariposa and Olivia, and the three of us will be in private accommodations.”

  "But we're still going to do family time, right?" Rashida asked.

  I looked over my shoulder. Neil had been the last off the boat. He carried Olivia, deep in ragdoll level sleep. There was no way that man would miss out on family time.

  "We will. But let the grown-ups rest a bit, first. Vacations are tiring." El-Mudad flashed me a smile; he knew what Neil and I had gotten up to on that first night of sailing because I’d slept until nearly two in the afternoon the next day.

  Solar torches provided us a surprising amount of light as we approached the shore, where two men, a tanned blond who could have body doubled for Russell Howard and a tall, lean Asian guy with surfer-casual hair, waited for us. I'd expected them to be in some kind of uniform—the private island Neil and I had stayed on during our honeymoon had been staffed like an enthusiastic airport Ramada—but they wore board shorts and loose-fitting t-shirts.

  "Mr. Ati?" The blond stepped forward, hand extended. "Welcome to Paradise."

  El-Mudad slapped his palm against the man’s in an enthusiastic handshake. "Troy?"

  "That's me," the man said with a broad smile and a surprisingly Canadian accent. "And this is Jackson."

  The other guy leaned forward and fist bumped El-Mudad. "Recreation coordinator. If you need a boat or an excursion while you're here, I'm the man to talk to."

  "And I'm everything else," Troy said. "If you need anything, any time, give us a call at headquarters, and my staff or I can help you out."

  "Right now, what we need are our beds." My legs were still shaky from our harrowing approach; I wasn’t a big fan of little boats. "Which way would those be?"

  "Absolutely," Troy said as if that were an answer to the question. He pointed toward a path of stone steps that led up from the beach in one direction, then to a winding path into the trees. "The main house is up there, that's where we have the kids set up, and the three of you are in the villa on the other side of the island. We can grab you a golf cart—"

  "I think it would behoove us to walk," Neil said, handing Olivia off to Mariposa. She made a disgruntled noise but didn't wake. “Perhaps for our au pair?”

  "Nobody wanted to drive us anywhere," Rashida grumbled.

  "Your legs are young," El-Mudad said placidly. "Go on, girls. We'll see you for breakfast."

  "And then laying on the beach and reading with no one to bother me?" Amal asked. It was rhetorical, of course. Amal would do whatever she wanted. It was one of the things I so admired about her.

  Mariposa followed a staff-member up the path, where a golf cart zoomed up with a single word over Troy’s radio. She carried Olivia on her hip like a basket of laundry as, to my surprise, Amal joined Molly in dashing across the sand in an undignified manner.

  El-Mudad noticed, too. "It's good to have your sister here. Amal needs someone to remind her that she's not..."

  "A chronically jaded, thrice-divorced socialite?" Neil offered.

  "That's...pretty specific," I said. "Not wrong, necessarily, but specific."

  We followed the path behind Troy, who gave us an informative, enthusiastic history of the island. It cleverly glossed over colonization; maybe Columbus hadn’t taken the time to screw this place up.

  It wasn't a long walk, and Neil had been right; the stroll gave my equilibrium time to adjust. By the time we rounded the curve that revealed the villa in all its glory, I no longer
felt like the ground was moving. Good thing, too, since the sight of where we'd be staying would have toppled me sideways.

  "Oh, wow," I breathed. The "villa" was actually two buildings connected by an expansive stone patio with a huge raised firepit. The largest building, a white, flat-roofed, single-story block that matched the sand’s shade, had a glass wall facing the sea and what looked like a dining room and kitchen inside. Shallow steps terraced the front of the building and blended seamlessly with the glittering white, textured stone of the outdoor seating area. The patio narrowed to a point at the water's edge, where it met a long dock leading out to another, smaller building, a miniature version of the one on the shore.

  "That's your bedroom," Troy said, pointing down the dock as we stepped onto the patio. "Over there, that's the main living quarters, your dining room, kitchen, water closet, and then out on the dock, you have your bedroom, another lounging area, and a full bath. You can swim from your bedroom; we just ask that you be aware that there are sharks in these waters that are most active around dawn and dusk."

  I’ll be damned if I’m getting in there, I communicated to Neil with my eyebrows.

  "The outdoor shower and freshwater soaking tub are located in the grotto, which is just down that path," Troy continued, his speech pitching upward as he reached the end of his smoothly delivered lines. "And the meal you requested is being prepared at the main house."

  "Have it brought to our dining room, please," Neil said, cracking his neck. "And plenty of ice and Perrier."

  “And give the girls whatever they want,” I added.

  "Absolutely.” If Troy said that word one more time, it would be his official catchphrase.

  "Shall we?" Neil put out his arm to me as Troy headed back down the path, mumbling into his walkie-talkie.

  The dock was equipped with railings, thank god, because the ink dark of the sea played vertigo-inducing tricks on my eyes. I leaned on Neil to guide me and closed my eyes until we reached the door.