by Nia Farrell
She went very still, the moment that she realized she wasn’t alone.
“Good morning, Rose. I let you sleep in. Whenever you can drag yourself out of bed, we’ll go downstairs and exercise. Shower, and breakfast after that. I’m making French toast eggs today.”
“Mm. M’kay,” she yawned. “Give me a minute to wake up. I want to brush my teeth before we hit it. I swear, I can still taste that damn pickle.”
Michael chuckled. “I know you hated it, but let me tell you, seeing your lips wrapped around it looked sexy as fuck.” Unable to resist the temptation, he lowered his voice and whispered in her ear. “Of course, it’s small scale. And I guarantee, I’ll taste better.”
She shivered and hugged his pillow tighter.
“I’ll leave you alone. Meet me downstairs in fifteen.” He slapped her ass once for good measure, rolled out of bed, and took the burner phone downstairs with him. He couldn’t explain this edginess that he was feeling, but he didn’t want to worry Rose with it, either.
She made it downstairs in twelve minutes, wearing biker shorts and a tank top with a built-in sports bra. “Good girl,” he said, admiring her figure. “Keep this up, and I’ll have to think of a way to reward you.”
Rose beamed a smile at him. “Ooh, I like the sound of that!”
They worked out for an hour and showered separately. As soon as he was dressed, Michael put on coffee to brew and used four eggs and heavy cream to whip up a batch of French toast eggs, flavored, fried in butter, and drizzled with syrup. Rose looked skeptical until she took a bite.
“These don’t even taste like eggs,” she marveled. “No salt. No bread. Pretty impressive, Sir. I’ll be honest, I’ve never had anyone cook for me before. You’re spoiling me for other men.”
As good as that sounded, she hadn’t seen anything yet.
“You’ll get your turn,” he promised. “But where you’re cleaning the house, I thought I’d pull kitchen duty. Once everything has been gone over, we can set up a daily schedule for one or two rooms a day. The sooner you can take over meal prep, the quicker I can focus on work. I was hoping to get caught up soon, but so far that hasn’t happened.”
She bit her lip, looking guilty. “I’m sorry that you’re stuck here. I’m sure you have much better things than babysitting me. But in case I haven’t told you, thank you for finding me. For rescuing me. For keeping me safe. For loaning me your T-shirt last night. I didn’t think it would help, but it did, more than you know. So thank you.”
“Finish the dusting and bathrooms today, and I’ll give you a massage before bedtime,” he said. “I’ve been told that I’m a natural—and it may help you sleep.”
Her gaze dropped to his hands. She blushed profusely, as if she were imagining them on her body. “All right.” Her naturally mellifluous voice had grown suddenly husky.
“Chores today are to be done the same as yesterday—in the nude. I’ll be working in the living room while you clean. If you need help with anything, ask. I mean it. I’d rather be interrupted than have you put yourself at risk.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Michael smiled. “Good girl. Let’s get these dishes done.”
Chapter Thirteen
When Rose finished cleaning that afternoon, she looked for Michael to tell him and found him sitting on her bed, with her journal in his hand. She didn’t remember exactly what she’d written in the heat of the moment, but she hadn’t done a journal entry since venting. He was reading the last one—unfiltered, and written when she was so very pissed at him.
She was pretty sure that she cussed him out.
Mother fuck.
Oh, well. Too late now. He’d either welcome her raw honesty, or her candor would earn her another punishment. He was already eyeing kitchen utensils and naming other uses.
A wooden spoon paddle. A wire whip tawse. A rubber spatula for slapping her clit.
A stone pestle dildo.
She’d rather have his cock, but she’d be lucky to get it now.
Michael finished reading, closed the journal, and set it aside. Other than the worry line that quickly smoothed out, she saw no visible reaction to it, or to her, still naked and sweaty from doing housework. There was nothing to clue her in on what he thought. How he felt. What it would take to get back in his good graces.
“All done?” he asked.
“Yes, Sir. All done. I was wondering if I could take a bath now. Soak my muscles for a bit. Ibuprofen would help, too, if you have one or two to spare.”
“Sure.” He rose from his seat on her bed. “Start your water. I’ll get your pills.”
Rose was neck-deep in the soaker tub when Michael returned with a tumbler of water and two tablets in his hand. She put the pills under her tongue, took a drink, and swallowed. The water tasted so good, she drained the glass before handing it back to him.
“Thank you, Sir,” she sighed, already feeling a difference, just from the heat of her bath. “I don’t think I drank enough today. The water hit the spot.”
“Good.” Setting the glass aside, he reached for the hem of his tee and whipped it over his head, revealing the magnificent miles of his chest.
Her breath seized when he reached for his fly, popped the button, and found his zipper pull.
“Michael? Sir,” she said slowly, listening to the snick of metal teeth parting ways, “what are you doing?”
“I promised you a massage.”
Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, he took them off with his jeans to hang on the bathroom door. “Scoot up.”
“But…but…you said tonight,” she stuttered.
“Plans change. Now scoot, Rose. I won’t ask again.”
The warning note in his tone was unmistakable. Sitting up, she bent her knees and shifted forward, making room for him to slide in behind her.
He’d washed her before, but sharing a bath felt like they were taking things to a whole new level. True to his word, he massaged her muscles, lathering his hands with her favorite shower gel and working his way down her neck, shoulders, arms, wrists, and hands. Then it was her back, from north to south, fingers working both sides of her spine.
Rose moaned at the feel of his talented hands. She caught her breath when he grasped her waist, pulled her back against the hard length of his body, and let her feel his arousal.
“Just lean back against me and relax,” he crooned, kneading her shoulders. Reaching around her, he massaged along her collar bones, paying special attention to the muscles just beneath them.
She inhaled sharply when he hit a sore spot.
“Tender?” he asked, an intimate murmur in her ear.
“Yes,” she managed, as distracted as she was by his touch, the feel of his body against hers, the knowledge that he was aroused, the dismay to think that she might never earn his cock, now that he had read what she’d written.
Better to know now than give herself ulcers worrying about it. She put her hands over his and pressed, stopping his massage. “I’ve screwed this up, haven’t I?” she whispered hoarsely, pushing the words past the tightness in her throat.
Michael sighed. “Why would you think that?”
“The journal. I was pretty harsh. I thought you’d be pissed at me.”
His fingers moved beneath hers, pressing, rubbing ever so slightly, back and forth. “Did I sound pissed?”
“No.”
“Did I act pissed?”
“No,” she said, “just…disappointed.”
“I was disappointed…in myself,” he admitted gruffly. “I lost your trust, and now I have to earn it back. I don’t know how, other than to show you. Like this. Letting you feel how much I want you but controlling myself. If you don’t trust anything else, believe that I will never take what’s yours to give. I would never force myself on you.”
Rose released the breath that she’d been holding. She hadn’t screwed things up. There was hope. Encouraged, she arched her back, pulled his hands down to cover her breasts, and pu
shed her erect nipples into his palms. “I know,” she said. “You wouldn’t. You won’t. But you’re making me crazy, forcing me to wait.”
Michael inhaled sharply and released it in a hot, harsh huff that ruffled her hair. “Rose….” He growled her name, but he left his hands exactly where she’d put them. “It’s only been three days.”
“For you, maybe. I’ve been waiting a helluva lot longer. Ever since that night that I made you stop calling me ‘cherub.’ Do you remember?”
He went still, thinking back. “Jesus Christ. I thought you were PMSing or something. As pissy as you got, I would have taken you over my knee and spanked you, if you hadn’t been Mad Dog’s little sister.”
“I was sixteen,” she whispered. “You’d been calling me cherub my whole life. I wanted you to see that I wasn’t a kid anymore.”
“Oh, I noticed,” he said, his cock twitching against her back. “You’d gone from a baby Angel to this coltish young filly rearing to break out of the starting gate and run. But you were still jail bait. You couldn’t give me what I need—what I demand—from my partners.”
“And what’s that?” Rose went still, waiting for his answer.
“Everything,” he said simply. “I play hard and fuck harder. Tell me, do you think you’ve earned my cock?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
“You’ll have to be more convincing than that, princess. Touch yourself for me. Rub that clit of yours.”
He flexed his hands and squeezed her breasts. Catching her nipples between his fingers, he pinched, pulled, and twisted them, sending a bolt of electricity to strike at her core.
Without her vibrator, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to come, but she did as he asked, until her hand started to cramp.
“I can’t,” she groaned. “I’ve never been able to—not without a vibrator. I don’t know why.”
Michael released her right nipple and slid his hand down the front of her body to cup her mound. He slid one finger deeper, finding her clit, rubbing it with one hand and tormenting her breast with the other.
She caught her breath when he pressed deeper, stroking her swollen folds and tracing her seam.
He angled his head until his mouth hovered above the notch of her neck and shoulder, his hot breath bathing her skin. He inhaled deeply, as if memorizing the scent of it—of her—and murmured in her ear. “Open your legs, princess, and let me in.”
Rose let her knees drift apart, giving him the access that he needed.
Parting her folds, Michael found her slit and slid it open with his middle finger. Poised on the threshold of discovery, he teased her with his fingertip, tempting her with the promise of more.
“Please,” she whispered, glad that he couldn’t see the blush warming her face.
He gave it to her, inch by inch, until he was knuckle-deep inside her.
“Tight,” he rasped. “God, you’re so fucking tight. Virgin pussy and virgin ass. Do you know what a turn-on that is, to know I’ll be your first?”
Of course, she did. His body didn’t lie. The hot, hard truth of it was dredging channels in her back.
He started to move his finger, out and in, slowly at first, gradually lengthening his strokes until he was fucking her with it. He bit her neck and licked the hurt. “If we do this,” he said, a dark promise in his voice, “you can expect pleasure, pain, and ultimate possession. Your mouth, your pussy, your ass…I won’t stop until I’ve claimed them all. Are you sure you’re ready? Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Yes, Sir. Oh, please, Sir.…”
He bit the base of her neck like a stallion, hard enough to mark her, teased her clit with his thumb, and brought her to a shattering climax.
The water drained while he dried them both off. Every stroke of the towel against her skin was done with utmost care. She stood, rooted in place, trembling with anticipation, heady with thoughts of what he might want, what he would do. How he would take her, and make her his own.
When he’d hung the wet towels and turned back to her, there was no mistaking the hunger in his eyes. Michael stalked towards her like a wolf, eyeing her like his prey, his brilliant blue gaze sweeping her from head to toe. His nostrils flared, filled with the scent of her arousal. In one bold move, he pulled her tightly against him with his left arm, fisted her hair with his right hand, and tugged back, forcing her face up. Lowering his, he took her mouth like he would take her body. It was a fierce, carnal claiming, complete possession, leaving nothing untouched or untasted.
He grabbed her ass and lifted. Rose clung to his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her into her bedroom, grasped her arms, and lowered her onto her bed. “Stay,” he growled.
Michael went back into the en-suite and came out with clean towels and his leather belt. “I’ve got to raid the kitchen for lube and hope like hell I can find condoms.” Reaching, he caught her wrists and drew them up to cross above her head. He leaned down and brushed her lips with his. “Perfect. Don’t move, or you’ll feel my belt on your bottom.”
Rose stayed exactly as he left her. It felt like forever before he came back into the room with a bottle of olive oil, a roll of paper towels, and a bake pan filled with kitchen tools and condoms. Setting the pan beside the bed, he doubled his belt and thwacked his thigh. Her protest died when he smiled like the devil and sat on the bed near her head.
“Arms down,” he rumbled. “I’m going to cuff your wrists.”
He put the end of the leather through the buckle, fit it to her left wrist, then brought the belt up and around her other one before feeding it back through the buckle from the opposite direction. The belt formed a figure eight, with the buckle in the center, separating her hands.
Double-checking the fit, Michael wrapped the length around to the top, slipped it through the belt loop, and pulled it, eliminating any slack, before threading it one last time through the buckle.
It was the kinkiest, cleverest thing she’d ever seen.
“Now, arms back where they were and keep them there. Otherwise I’m going to have to tie you up, and I’d rather save that for later.
Not this first time, when he’d go where no man had gone before.
He put his hand over her throat in a show of possession. “Before we get started, I need your safewords. One to slow down, if things are moving too fast. Another to stop—but remember, if you use it, we’re done. Play ends and aftercare begins, but I’ll want to know what happened and why, so that I can avoid it in the future. Now, princess, what are your safewords?”
She thought of all the arguments she’d listened to growing up, with her brothers rooting for a movie franchise and Michael trying to persuade them that television had birthed the ultimate sci-fi classic. “Phasers to slow. Red shirts to stop,” she said.
He crooked a grin and nodded. “Phasers to slow, red shirts to stop. Who knew you were my kind of woman?”
Chapter Fourteen
Michael slowly swept her with his gaze, a new lambency in his eyes when he focused on her chest. Grabbing the bake pan of kitchen utensils, he put it on the other pillow, then stretched out on the bed. Lying on his left side facing her, he propped himself on his bent arm and fondled her breasts with his right hand, squeezing, lifting, molding them with his fingers, shaping them to his whim. He caught a nipple, pinched and pulled, twisted and tugged until they were fully, painfully erect.
Reaching in the cake pan, he opened the teeth of a plastic chip clip and clamped it on her nipple. A bolt of pleasure and pain shot through her system. Her blood ran south, swelling her folds and making them pulse with each quickened beat of her heart.
He repeated it on the other side.
His next toy was a wide, fluffy, gray-brown feather that he’d robbed from the feather duster. Michael drew it down her throat and between her breasts, stroking each one in turn, a series of concentric circles that left a field of gooseflesh in his wake.
He tickled her sides—until he remembered that sh
e wasn’t ticklish there. Focusing on her belly, he dragged the feather back and forth, making each pass lower than the last, until he reached her clean-shaven mound.
“Close your eyes,” he ordered. “Keep them closed until I say otherwise. We’ll save the blindfold for next time.”
Rose shivered at the promise in his voice.
Being effectually robbed of sight heightened her other senses. His respiration had shifted, had gotten deeper, heavier with his growing arousal. When he ordered her to part her legs, she could smell the musk of his sex, and the scent of hers. She felt the wetness of her body’s response, cool air, warm breath, a feather, then his mouth—oh, God, his mouth.
His tongue.
Michael positioned himself between her thighs, lifted her legs over his shoulders, and feasted on her like a starving man. He munched on her swollen lips, licked the seam, and drove his tongue inside her, tasting her, fucking her with it. She felt his finger fill her tight passage, then the pinch and stretch of a second one.
She moaned at the sensations. The plastic teeth biting her nipples, the plundering fingers, the ravenous mouth. A familiar tension took hold. She was close. So close.
“Please,” she begged him. “Please!”
Michael lashed her clit with his tongue, fastened his mouth over it, and bound them together with sweet, searing suction that made her writhe beneath him. “Don’t stop,” she begged him. “I’m so close….”
He pressed his thumb against her sphincter, and she exploded, stiffening, then bucking against his face while a series of orgasms wracked her body, bathing them both with her juices. He drank what he could, and licked up the rest.
Michael lowered her legs and knelt up between them. Bending down, he took a clip off of her nipple and fastened his mouth on the tip of her breast, suckling it, seeking to ease the pain. He paid the same attention to the other side, then tossed the clips back in the bake pan.
Rose felt the shift of the mattress when he moved the pan off the bed. The next thing she heard was the crinkle of foil, the opening tear, the long roll down. Settling himself between her legs, he stroked her seam and parted her folds with his cock, wetting it, then notching the head in her opening.
