Secrets: Curvy Submissive & Older Dom (Submission Island Book 3)

by Q. Zayne

  “Good, so good, Cleo.” He rested his body over my burning ass. “Oh, damn you’re hot. I have to take you now.”

  He unzipped. I heard the reassuring sound of him opening and applying a condom. His fingers teased me.

  “You’re so ready, beautiful.”

  I felt drenched, open and aching for him.

  “Yes, Marcus. I want you.”

  He thrust into me, abrupt and hard, the way I liked it best.

  I moaned from the force of it.

  Marcus grabbed my hips and controlled me, fucking me onto him and fucking his cock into me at the same time, deep, sharp penetration that made me gasp. The bulk of his cock hit me just right on the tender spot inside and made me gush.

  I juiced so much, it felt like a geyser of spray

  “Master, if you keep doing that, I’m going to soak the chair.”

  “Do it. Do it, my Cleopatra. Spend all over the chair and the floor, and yourself and me!” He gripped my hair and bit my throat.

  He sucked and bit, right where a vampire would claim me. His biting pushed me out of control. His cock rammed just right and I geysered as he ordered, my juice splattering my legs.

  He ground his cock deep, roared, and grabbed me with his arms. He squeezed me against his body and came, pumping deep inside me.

  I gripped him inside, pulsing with him. His powerful arms and thighs held me, his heart thudding against my burning wings.

  “Oh, oh, Marcus.”

  “Cleo. My beauty. You please me so well.” He kissed his bite on my throat, giving me chills.

  The Scar

  I felt so cared for as I rested in his arms in bed. The only thing that seemed off was that we were still in the spanking room in the Mansion of Desire. It reminded me of a therapy office, aside from the bed. What kind of home did he have? What kind of life? Being so removed from his life might be what made our time together possible, but I couldn’t help wanting to know. I suspected he was beyond wealthy.

  I ran my finger through the hair on his chest. I encountered a scar.

  “What’s this?” I blurted it before I thought. I blushed. I shouldn’t ask personal questions.

  He stilled my hand with his, drew it away from the thick scar tissue that told of a deep wound.

  “It’s from an accident. Paramedics marveled than I lived.” His voice sounded husky with untold pain.

  I rose up on my elbow. His grimace told me there was more to the story.

  “A few years ago.” I didn’t mean to say it. The wound healed and faded, but it wasn’t an old scar. I rested my hand on it.

  “Yes.” He sighed. “I should have died. The car went out of control on black ice. We were on the way home from a Christmas visit to my wife’s parents.” He swallowed. “The car went off the road, hit a boulder. The impact killed Emily and Amy, my wife and daughter.”

  “Oh, no.” I covered my mouth.

  “I couldn’t believe it. I kept trying CPR. So much blood, and Amy’s head hung wrong. Emily’s skull fractures were severe. The coroner told me that if by a miracle she’d lived, she would have been too brain damaged to function or ever know me. It took a long time for the rescue crew to find us. They had to cut apart the car to get us out of the wreck. I was in shock the whole time, kept urging them to help Emily and Amy. I couldn’t grasp they were dead.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I wanted to take it back, my inquisitiveness that caused him pain. Yet it was the first outer-life thing I learned about him. I lay there, torn, staring at his scar, thankful that he survived. The black ice could have taken his life, and I would never have met him to have these exquisite days. Selfish me. Tears threatened.

  “I guess I’m too tough to kill.” He squeezed me, his smile crooked, forced.

  “I meant—.”

  “It’s alright, Cleo.” He patted my hand. “I’m a haunted man. You may as well know it.”

  “It’s okay. I mean, it’s part of who you are.” I stopped talking and kissed his shoulder. I wanted him to know I accepted him, this and everything.

  “We married here, on the island.” He arched his brows. “Before Isabella opened the sex club.”

  “You and Emily got married here?” My curiosity strained at the reigns, but none of this was any of my business. Did they have a dominant-submissive relationship? Was he still in love with her?

  “Yes. It was the year after Alphonse’s death. Isabella invited us to come stay with her. We were engaged, but hadn’t set the date.” He rested his hand on mine. “We loved it here. The ruins enchanted Emily. She set herself to digging into the island’s history, ancient and colonial. It was the happiest I ever saw her. She’d had a breakdown and was prone to depression.” He cleared his throat. “Are you sure you want to hear about this?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “Emily was a journalist. She was assaulted in Egypt by several men while covering an uprising in Cairo. That’s where we met, in Cairo. She was fierce.” He closed his eyes. “She’d stayed to finish the story, and she did. But she had nightmares, and jumped at unexpected sounds. I took her to a friend who treats PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. She became calmer, able to sleep, less prone to the startle response. I like to think I helped her feel safe. After a few months, we became closer. I proposed, and she accepted. We—she conceived our daughter here. We decided we wanted to celebrate our family by marrying here. We did it in the ruins, at the altar.”

  A chill went through me. I envisioned Marcus claiming his bride at those blood-soaked stones. An atavistic, superstitious part of my mind homed in on their wedding ritual. It suggested a connection between their ceremony in the ruins and his wife and daughter’s deaths. It seemed significant they met in Egypt, my mother’s homeland. Jealousy squirmed over her place in his heart. Nonetheless, I respected Emily. One of the oldest, harshest punishments toward women who go out of bounds failed to stop her work. I agreed with Marcus. Emily was fierce. I swallowed and flattened my hand against the scar, wishing I could take away all his pain.

  “Are you alright? I feel terrible for blundering into your loss.” I bit my lip.

  He patted my hand, more like a friend of the family than a lover. He’d withdrawn in his grief.

  “I couldn’t talk about it much the first couple of years. Loss is never over, but it fades. I miss them. On Amy’s birthday, I drink too much, about the only time I do. I imagine her how she’d be if she lived, wonder what she’d like most in school, what she’d want to grow up to become. She was three.” His voice broke.

  I got my arm around him and squeezed his shoulder. There were no words for such grief. I pressed closer, comforted him with my body. How did he know Isabella?

  “That’s devastating, to lose them both.” I pictured him trapped in the car with their broken bodies. Panicked, trying to bring them back. He went through not only loss, but trauma. I sensed more than grief from him, the slick, cold pain of guilt flowed from him in storm waves. “It wasn’t your fault, Marcus. Black ice is deadly.”

  He shook his head, beyond speaking. If I drove the car and my loved ones died in an accident, I’d never get over it, never stop feeling at fault. Would Marcus ever absolve himself of their deaths?

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple straining under his dark stubble below his beard.

  On impulse, I kissed his scar. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to make everything better, even though I didn’t believe I could. Embedded in me like a template, Jane Eyre took on Mr. Rochester. I wasn’t looking for a wounded man, but I found this one. In a deep sense, he found me. Could we make anything of what we were now, together?

  I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to hope. But I didn’t want to stop wanting, either.

  “Forgive me, Cleo. This isn’t how I would have wanted our time together to end today.” His lips brushed my temple.

  “It’s alright, Marcus. It’s real. I’m glad you told me. I’m sorry I revived your grief.”

  “I’ll live. I have a knack for it.” He sounded bitte
r.

  I understood why. Surviving is tough. Despite the fractures in my relationship with my mother, I had my share of survivor guilt about her. I didn’t speak of it. It was too early in our knowing each other to risk sounding as though I was comparing tragedies. Every loss is different. It was enough for today to have opened his. I still saw the three of them in the car, even though I didn’t know how his family looked. Envisioning his daughter even younger than I’d supposed added to the horror. Three years old, at the center of his life and heart, and nothing he could do for her. Her life ended in the crushed car. It broke my heart.

  I held him in that timeless room without windows where nothing in the outside world could touch us.

  We remained in each other’s arms, taking a siesta late into the day.

  When I awakened, he was gone.

  A note propped next to my clothes read, ‘I treasure the gift of your submission. Your dance goes deep. Soon, M.’

  I pressed it between my breasts. I passed that test.

  Once I dressed, I found Chuck watching for me from the jungle outside The Mansion of Desire. He walked me back to my suite without comment. As I suspected, discretion was part of his job.

  I sneaked a glance at my guide’s preoccupied face. I’d forgotten to tell Marcus about my experience on the altar. Given the connection with his deceased wife, I didn't want to disclose my vision. He didn't need more guilt and pain.

  Garden of Secrets

  That evening, the moon illuminated my suite. It was so bright, I felt I belonged outside instead of inside the manor. I couldn’t sleep. Knowing my time on the island was coming to an end made me restless. I wanted to take risks, go as far as I dared here, but not be reckless. I sensed if I didn’t push myself, go for my desires, I’d regret it forever.

  Out on the balcony, the silvery light on the volcano taunted me. In the jungle below it, the altar and the spirits surrounding it waited. Events here seemed too—fated. Marcus and Emily wed at that altar and he lost her and his daughter in such a horrible way. I shuddered, haunted by his stricken face, flashes of blood. The ancient Maya gods hungered for blood. So many rituals offered them blood, from the tongue, the cock, and the heart. I gripped the railing and leaned out, but I couldn’t see the ruins. A distant growl warned me the jaguar hunted. I pressed my fingers to my throat, pressed harder, to bring back the feel of his teeth. This island had teeth.

  I wanted to learn its secrets, and mine, before I returned to the mundane world that numbed me. A gleam caught my eye. Bird wings soaring above the trees passed across the moon. I’d always been sensitive, prone to seeing things others didn’t know were there. Mom trained me not to show it, not to tell. Chuck was one of the few people who saw my sensitivity to the unseen and accepted it in me. It nagged at me that he meant for me to tell Marcus about the sacrificed girl I experienced on the altar.

  Marcus’ stricken face when I asked about his scar lanced through me. I didn’t want to cause him pain. I wanted only to give him pleasure, for as long as we had. Squeezing my eyes shut and stretching my spine, I wished it could be a long, long, time. I wanted forever. I wanted my happily ever after at last. My twenty-ninth birthday crept closer by the day and I’d met the most worthy, phenomenal man.

  Damn, why couldn’t real life ever be like a fairy tale?

  Some part of me stayed on alert, longing for Marcus to appear and take me in his arms. No matter what we did, how far we went, I wanted more. I wanted him more than chocolate, more than coffee, more than an exquisite glass of wine with a perfect meal. I ached for his touch, his presence. My need for him went beyond lust. I wanted to wake up to him, heal him, meld with him. He was ahead of me in age, yet I pictured growing old with him. We'd swing on a porch overhung with wisteria on a silky summer day, our fingers entwined. I strained to see anyone moving in the darkness. He wasn’t there. I had no reason to believe he was coming for me, no matter how much I wished he would. No balcony scene for me, tonight. I stepped away from the railing and back into the suite.

  I paced and ended up at the dresser. I wasn’t going to sleep.

  Brushing my hair, I schooled my mind to abandon my obsession. Having a master was a fantasy come true, but it was a fantasy. Knowing more about my mystery man made it clearer that he was unattainable. I could never replace the wife he lost. He was far from over her. But maybe, my heart whispered.

  He was testing me. That could mean he wanted something with me, too. 'My beauty,' he called me. Tenderness lodged in my breast. Heat crept between my legs. With difficulty, I put Marcus and the snarl of what we were to each other out of my mind.

  I came here to explore me. Not to fall in love with a mysterious stranger playing a part. I couldn’t dismiss all I felt for him, but I packed it away as well as I could.

  I slipped into a long, dark dress and ballet flats that suited the mood of the night. With my wavy hair flowing over my breasts and down my back, I looked like a Rubenesque vampire. I added dark scarlet lips for the fun of it. I didn’t expect to see anyone. Being at a club dedicated to eroticism and fantasy brought out my theatrical side. If the weather wasn’t so sultry I’d want to finish the outfit with a cape.

  I smoothed the fluid fabric over my hips, enjoying how it caressed my curves as I moved. The neckline had a deep plunge, showing off my breasts to good advantage, all creamy cleavage. My colony of freckles, increasing despite daily sunscreen, faded in the cold light. In the mirror, my eyes seemed to glow. With my full, dark lips, I looked ready to feed on the living. Biting Marcus’ neck would be sweet. The thought made me grin. I touched my throat where he bit me. So much for putting him out of my mind.

  With care, I unlatched the suite’s heavy old door. My sense of naughtiness that echoed how I felt sneaking out while my parents slept. I wanted to evade Chuck. As much as I liked him, I didn’t want to risk a repeat of the kiss, and I wanted to be alone.

  In the hall, I listened. No one stirred. I closed the door with great care. The constant presence of someone official made me feel under surveillance. Did Isabella have something to hide? All was not as it seemed at Submission Island. The remote location and high security could be a front for something more illicit than BDSM sex.

  Tip-toeing along the hall, I listened for footsteps. Another unsettling fact about Submission Island: I had yet to see another guest. Discretion and privacy were one thing. How could Isabella run a 'world class resort' and have so few guests that they never saw each other? It might be deliberate. Orchestrated scheduling and the guides ensured no one crossed each other’s paths. I shook my hair back. I didn’t think that was the case.

  I had the eerie sense I was the only guest. Despite the warm, moist air caressing my skin, I shivered. I tip-toed down the stairs. The sense of naughtiness felt delicious. I could confess the next time I saw Marcus.

  I didn’t have to be bad to get spanked, but what would it be like if he wanted to teach me a lesson? Did his connection to the island extend to being protective of it? I wanted to find out.

  Slipping out the front door felt like escape. I rushed past the fountain into the trimmed bushes that surrounded the formal garden. It was my first sight of it at night. I marveled at the gardener’s design, the choice of white flowers at strategic spots. They glowed, floating in the darkness. The moon flowers added drama to the landscape designed to be best viewed at night.

  Unable to resist the temptation, I strode to the labyrinth. I wouldn’t go in, but I wanted a closer look. Its existence seemed a special triumph here. The maze's trimmed giant hedges contrasted with the surrounding jungle’s disorder. It symbolized civilization verses the chaotic influence of desire. Passion could fell kingdoms, lay waste to dynasties, end families and lives.

  Shakespeare’s heroines played through my mind. Juliet died with her Romeo, Ophelia in her watery grave of purity and symbolic blossoms. My feminist professor suggested saucy Kate was never tamed. Kate the 'shrew' played the game, allowing her husband his illusion of utter dominance. That interpretatio
n appealed to me far more than the usual story of a woman losing herself for a man. I enjoyed bodice rippers from Mom’s day. I savored nastier recent books where the heroine finds her alpha man. The trend in passive heroines who put up with abusive assholes irritated me. I couldn’t relate to a heroine sacrificing everything—if there was much to her life in the first place—to be what the alpha dictates.

  If the cost of love was to become a woman without a spine—submissive in the bedroom and out of it—I’d rather do without love. I supposed that was part of the lure of sadomasochism clubs. I negotiated with a man and played an entertaining adventure within defined parameters. Clubs offered relief without entanglement.

  I entered the labyrinth, setting one foot into the shadows. The lure of experiencing it in the moonlight drew me in, one step after another. I’d walk in a few steps, not take any turnings. I didn’t want to get lost.

  Within a few steps a pale figure confronted me. The god Pan, stepping from a niche in the hedge, his pipes to his mouth, lips pursed. The sculptor’s artistry with the life-size figure extended to the long fur of his haunches. It looked silky. He stood on cloven hooves, like another figure associated with sexuality. That was something to think about, the roots of Satan. It surprised me how Pan could look so cherubic and so seductive. The heavy-lidded eyes and full mouth gave him the look of a sensuous Mediterranean man. His physique was smaller and more bestial than the kind of man who drew my heat. I imagined him feeding me olives to a wood nymph. He'd feast between her plump thighs, and mount her with his haunches' brutal power.

  I shook myself and walked past, catching a glimpse of his furry ass. No matter where I went, I saw symbolism and stories that extended back to the ancients. It was like a compulsion or a curse. My over-active brain served as a barrier between me and most people. Between that and my abundant body, what hope did I have of love? Love was overrated. Romantic love as we imagined it didn’t exist throughout most of human history. It was a construct, the same as capitalism was a construct. I did fine without a man.