Mind Games

by Cecilia Tan

  “Oh, thank God,” Derek said in relief for more reasons than one when Jim Riggs opened his eyes.

  “Helena,” he rasped.

  She kissed him again and dissolved into tears.

  DEREK’S HOUSE WAS CLOSER to the hospital than Wren’s, which was as good a reason as any to head there. They'd have to retrieve Wren’s car from behind the club tomorrow. Now, all she could think of was sleep.

  She undressed completely as soon as they were in the bedroom, and she dug through Derek’s closet for the softest old Oxford shirt she could find. She put it on for a nightshirt and soon they were brushing their teeth together in the master bathroom.

  Then they climbed into bed, and nestled into each other's arms.

  They lay quietly for a while, and Wren found herself now almost too tired to sleep. “I have a confession to make,” she said quietly, listening to his heart beat with one ear against his chest.

  “Oh?” He sounded bemused.

  “I figure I better tell you, since the next time we make love you'll probably find out anyway.” She said it jokingly, though she knew it was quite possibly true. “I stole something from the crime scene.”

  “You mean besides those clothes of his you took?”

  She nodded. “I took his diary.”

  “Wren...” His voice held a note of uncertainty.

  “I don’t know if it'll help me or not. But he knew a lot more about telepathic abilities than I do. He made it sound as if there was a lot to know, beyond just his own experience. I only glanced at it while you were getting dressed...”

  He silenced her with a kiss, then spoke. “Well, if you find anything in there that might hint where they went, it could come in handy.”

  And despite how well she knew him, despite having been melded to his thoughts mere hours ago, Wren discovered he could still surprise her. “You mean, we might go find them?”

  “Maybe,” he demurred. “Helena Riggs wants to press kidnapping charges. I don’t think we should deprive the police of their fun. But I thought you might want to try one more time to get your sister out of there.”

  Wren sighed. “It’s useless if she doesn’t want to go. But maybe she'll see the light about Evan. Who knows? If she’s pissed enough at him when she leaves, she might go tell the police herself.”

  She felt his grip squeeze her tighter. “If she planned to do something like that, don’t you think he’d read it in her mind?”

  “Oh.” Right. Wren shivered even in the warmth of his arms. “But even so. We can’t very well just kidnap her ourselves. I think she really does love him.”

  “Do you think he loves her back?”

  She thought back to the orgy, to the jungle of feelings that had tangled all around her. “I think... that he thinks that he does. And maybe that means that he does. I’m not sure.”

  He kissed her softly behind the ear. “Can you tell what I’m thinking now?”

  Wren closed her eyes and let him trail kisses down her neck. He should be easy to hear, like finding a familiar channel on the radio dial... a strong, nearby signal...

  He whispered it just as she locked on. “I love you, Wren Delacourt.”

  And I love you. Her hand traveled over the curve of his shoulder, down the planes of his back to the curve of his tailbone. Desire stirred in her and she pressed herself against him.

  They say an orgasm can sometimes cure insomnia, he thought. She could feel his cock stiffening against her leg and a low throb settled in her groin.

  I want you.

  I’m here. He shifted them so that his free hand could probe between her legs, stroking her until she was wet and moaning aloud. He slipped one finger in carefully.

  She could not hide the sensation she felt from him, not with thought and feeling flowing so freely between them. She was sore, her so-soft flesh battered by his so-hard cock earlier. And yet the slide of his finger awakened the hunger to have him again. He worked her clit with his thumb and her G-spot with the finger inside her and before long she was spasming against his hand, crying out and demanding more with both voice and mind.

  Your wish is my command, he thought, as he reached for a condom and lay back to roll it over the stiff flesh.

  Before he could climb atop her again, Wren straddled his legs. He could feel the spike of apprehension in him as he had a brief flash of Katy, his first love, looming over him this way, and...

  Wren moved into place, using one hand to guide the head of his cock back and forth in the ample wetness between her lips before easing down onto it.

  Oh yes, oh God yes. She felt every inch of him as he pressed gradually inside her, the soreness of her flesh transmuting into a sensation of pleasure as he filled her. As she rose and fell in a slow rhythm, she fell into a trance, each thrust like a deep, cleansing breath.

  She had no idea how long she fucked him that way, only that it felt good, so very good, her body half asleep but her desire awake, fully awake perhaps for the first time in her life. She lay atop him then, chest to chest, cheek to cheek, and he held her in place and thrust upward into her.

  Do you want to come again?

  No, she didn’t. She wanted him to fuck her to sleep, so she could dream that even while she slept, he was inside her, filling her. You’re my dream lover now.

  Yes, love, for as long as you'll have me.

  She closed her eyes and let herself sink deeper into her own flesh, her own mind, as he fucked her just that way, slow and steady, for a heartbeat, then for a minute, then for an hour... At some point he groaned heavily, shuddering against her, cock twitching and spasming deep inside her, and then again he resumed massaging her inside with his cock. She slipped into true sleep with him still inside.

  -The End-

  If you enjoyed Mind Games and would like to know about new releases coming up from author Cecilia Tan, hop onto her exclusive email news list!

  Join: http://bit.ly/ctannews

  About the Author

  CECILIA TAN IS THE winner of the RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice Award, Career Achievement Award, and Pioneer Award, and an inductee to the Saints & Sinners Writers Hall of Fame. Her career in erotic writing spans over 25 years and includes short story collections, novels, web serials, and creative nonfiction. She is the founder of Circlet Press and a longtime activist and educator in the BDSM community. Learn more at http://ceciliatan.comor follow her on Twitter (@ceciliatan) or Facebook.

  Also by Cecilia Tan:

  The Vanished Chronicles:

  Book One: Initiates of the Blood

  The Magic University Series:

  The Siren and the Sword

  The Tower and the Tears

  The Incubus and the Angel

  The Poet and the Prophecy

  Spellbinding

  The Secrets of a Rock Star Series:

  Taking the Lead

  Wild Licks

  Hard Rhythm

  The Struck by Lightning Series:

  Slow Surrender

  Slow Seduction

  Slow Satisfaction

  Black Feathers

  Daron’s Guitar Chronicles

  Edge Plays

  The Hot Streak

  The Prince’s Boy

  Royal Treatment

  Telepaths Don’t Need Safewords

  The Velderet

  White Flames

  Acknowledgments

  THANKS TO LORI PERKINS: every word of encouragement from you seems to turn into a book, including this one! To Marsha Philitas for excellent advice. To Shariann Lewitt for cheerleading, encouragement, and being a role model for me. To corwin for much inspiration as well as cooking so many fabulous dinners while I was writing this. To my LiveJournal friends for everything, and especially my first readers Patrick, dba, Marion, Lisa, Jean Roberta, and Eric. Thanks also to Bethany and Cynthia, my assistants at Circlet Press while this book was being written, without whose efforts I never would have had the mental capacity (or time) to actually finish the book.

  Cecilia
Tan Erotic Romance Sampler!

  Read chapter one of:

  Initiates of the Blood

  Magic University Book One: The Siren & The Sword

  Slow Surrender

  Initiates of the Blood

  Chapter One

  MIRA DIDN’T KNOW MUCH about St. Andrew, but she was thankful for the existence of the contraption that bore his name, so commonly found in dungeons like this one. When a man was bound to a St. Andrew’s cross, the curve of his shoulders enticed her. The X-shape spread his limbs invitingly and supported his torso, but left his head free to move, to hang in shame or exhaustion, to buck backward in agony or exultation. So convenient.

  Mira trailed the suede tresses of her softest flogger across the shoulders of the man she’d chosen to play with and was rewarded by the shiver down his bare back. A beautiful back. He was a well-made specimen, athletic but not overbuilt, his dark hair prone to curl where it had grown past his ears, providing a comfortable thicket to sink her fingers into. She pulled his head back and turned it so she could take a kiss from his mouth. Even though he hummed pleasingly into the kiss, his lips were still firm and full of the natural resistance that Mira couldn’t wait to beat out of him.

  In time. It had been months—six? already?—since she’d last done this and she would not rush. She let go of his hair and ran her nails lightly down his back, waking the skin, making him arch like a cat, the wrist restraints rattling as he did. She stopped when she reached the waistband of his underwear. In a public nightclub like this, people’s dangly bits were not allowed to, well, dangle. Six nights a week this place was for drinking and dancing, but on the seventh it was for people who preferred the dance of pleasure and pain. Mira ran her palm over one cloth-covered buttock. The black briefs were stretchy and smooth. She tugged his underwear into an impromptu thong, exposing both cheeks. She smacked each one playfully and heard his chuckle over the background throb of music.

  “Clive,” she said, into his ear. Before they went any deeper, she wanted to remind herself of his name and of one other important thing: “What’s your safeword?”

  “It doesn’t matter, since you won’t be hearing me say it,” he answered.

  Mira smacked him a bit harder. “Cheeky boy. I’m testing your memory. You told me you had a word you preferred. Were you lying to me to make me think you’re more experienced than you are?”

  That produced a hearty laugh. “No, no, my lady. The word is ‘divinity.’”

  Well, it’s better than aardvark, she thought. That had been her safeword when she first got into the scene. When she was too young to know the difference between being attracted to a sexy dom and actually being submissive.

  She knew better now. She pressed a line of kisses along the top of Clive’s shoulder, the pristine skin she’d soon be covering with welts. Mira didn’t regret having played submissive for a couple of hot doms back in the day. It had been fun to be tied up and spanked and have sex six ways from Sunday. But to be the one holding the whip? Much more satisfying. Even when there wouldn’t necessarily be sex to follow. Meeting new people at a dungeon night like this often led to some casual play in public, but not necessarily anything more. As a rule Mira didn’t go home with them, at least not the first time.

  She certainly didn’t think she’d be going home with this one. Tonight she was just dipping her leather-booted toe back in the water after too long away. She was looking for some casual play, nothing more, and Clive was aesthetically pleasing.

  Mira stepped back and trailed the suede over his back again, then checked behind her. Sometimes bystanders got swiped by the backswing if they were too close, but it was early and the club wasn’t crowded yet. A suburban couple stood quietly nearby, a vampirish figure of unknown gender leaned against a column; no one else was close enough to be paying attention. The throbbing techno music seemed louder than usual without the typical chatter from the bar and noise of other scenes drowning it out. Mira swung the flogger in a slow circle, striking Clive’s back lightly on each pass. Bit by bit she ramped up the speed and the force of each blow.

  Clive’s body rocked slightly as he fell into her rhythm, as his skin turned pink, then red. Was his mind going through changes, as well? Mira wondered. The ones with the deepest submissive streaks could let a dominant lead them into a zone of selfless abandon, where they no longer belonged to themselves but to the dom.

  You didn’t come here to get a stray puppy, she reminded herself. Besides, Clive was too much of a cheeky bastard to fall into that category, wasn’t he? He was funny and confident and not like her last submissive at all, except perhaps in the looks department.

  It was downright beautiful, the way Clive’s chest heaved and his shoulders bunched as the “soft” flogger began to sting where Mira snapped it hard against his skin. She switched to the heavier flogger and plied it up and down, from buttocks to shoulders, gradually nudging him from pleasure to pain—or was it the other way around?—increasing the intensity until she was swinging with both hands, full force, the leather thudding against his back.

  He took everything she threw at him, soaking it in with gorgeous abandon. His hands, which had been clenched fists, opened like flowers blooming, reaching for the sky. Had his pain transformed to ecstasy? Seemed likely.

  She let him catch his breath as she ran her fingernails lightly down his arms, then took it away again as she scratched down his back, leaving gasps and shivers in her wake. He was lovely. So lovely.

  She made a decision. “Clive. Remember when I mentioned my single-tailed whip?”

  He nodded while he gathered enough breath to speak. “Yes, of course.”

  “And remember when I said I rarely used it with someone I didn’t know?”

  “Yes, my lady?” His voice held a hopeful note that made her blood surge, warm and lustful.

  She probed. “I thought I detected a little disappointment coming from you when I said that.”

  “Yes, my lady. I...I would love to feel your whip.”

  “Have you been whipped before?”

  There was something too quick, too automatic about his answer. “Yes, my lady.”

  “Is there anything you need to tell me before I start?”

  Just as quick: “No, my lady.”

  Well, he was a consenting adult. If there was something he needed to say, she hoped it was something that could be said afterward with no ill consequences. Maybe he was simply eager and trying to not seem too eager. As if she might dangle the temptation and then pull it away. Plenty of doms played that way.

  Not Mira. “Since it’s our first time with the whip,” Mira what are you saying? ‘First time?’ Have you already made up your mind you’re going to play with him again? “I am only going to give you three strokes.”

  “Only three?” He sounded positively plaintive.

  “Greedy boy. I’ll give you the chance to safeword out after each one.”

  This time there was a moment of hesitation before he said, “Ah. Yes, my lady.”

  Yes, angel, this is going to hurt. She stroked his luxurious half-curls, damp now with sweat.

  There were ways to use a whip sensually, gently. That was not what she was going to do. He seemed to understand, but to be sure, she sank her hand into his hair again and bent his face toward her. Looking him in the eye, she said, “I may draw blood.”

  His answer surprised her—“I would be honored if you did”—and again she felt a surge of desire for him, lust and possessiveness and dominance cresting all at once. It had been too long since she’d felt like this. The music and the murmured conversations of the other clubgoers receded, as if she and Clive were enclosed in a world of their own. She wanted to kiss him once more, but resisted, holding his gaze and letting the feeling coalesce, hoarding it.

  Even as she uncoiled the short whip from her bag, even as she stepped back to measure the distance, she felt the connection between them, as the envelope of their private world stretched and expanded.

  She tease
d him first, of course. She cracked the whip in the air in front of her and was gratified to see his response: a moan and an undulation of his spine as if he had caught a sensual lick of stimulation out of the air. When he humped the wooden cross, Mira let herself imagine he was sheathed in someone else, a slaveboy or slavegirl from her imaginary harem. In that moment she pictured herself the exotic queen of a faraway world, testing the mettle of her captain of the guard.

  Her grin was as predatory as the look in her eye. She cracked the whip again, this time to one side of his ear, and the humping increased in speed and force. Yes, Clive apparently did like whips a great deal.

  Mira was practiced enough with whips to give demonstrations to BDSM community groups. One of the best demonstrations began with a volunteer from the audience holding a banana at his belt buckle. She would sensually wrap the whip around the fruit again and again until the man was lulled, unsuspecting...and on the next stroke, blast the tip of the banana clean off with a hard crack.

  That was usually the finale. Only if the volunteer had nerves of steel would she be able to show the next step, slicing the banana down, inch by inch. Or if she had brought her own submissive to hold the banana.

  This is not the time to be thinking about Guy. Or any old failures.

  Mira cracked the whip once more, this time over her head, then struck Clive squarely on one buttock, leaving an instantly visible dark red mark. Clive threw his head back and opened his mouth like a wolf howling, but no sound came forth. He shook against the wood of the cross.

  She waited until he was still again, until he had prepared himself, before she painted the matching stripe on the other buttock, the welt again leaping into view against his skin. She wanted to touch the marks, to run her hands over those ultra-tender spots, to dig her nails in and feel him scream. A wicked thought sped by: You could do that whether he’s on the cross or between your legs...