Pushing Her Buttons (2 page)

And then, staring at me like a hawk, he smacked that bare bottom and smacked it hard. The sound of the slap echoed in the empty hallway, winding through her cry. A shock wave snarled through my belly and I flinched. A glob of cream eased out against my will. I closed my legs on it.

His eyes, still trained on me, flared with satisfaction.

As though he had uncovered a pleasant truth.

I was still on the elevator when the doors slid shut.

Oh yes. I knew what kind of man he was and if I let him, he would destroy the mask I’d so carefully constructed.

So I wouldn’t let him.

I couldn’t.

Chapter Two

Saturday

I began to suspect he was stalking me. That he had some devious method to divine my every movement. For the very next day, when I stepped on the elevator, he was right behind me. With her.

He hadn’t been in the lobby when I’d entered. But when I stepped into the elevator, he managed to step in right behind me. As if he’d been waiting.

He fondled his floozy’s silk-clad hip and smiled at me. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. It set up a riot in my belly.

I dropped my gaze, of course. It was becoming a habit. And it annoyed me because nowhere else, in any other aspect of my life, would I flinch from ugly reality. I faced things head-on now. I took pride in that fact. My weakness here, with him, spoke volumes. And I didn’t want to hear what it said.

So I forced myself to tip up my chin and look straight at them, goring him with my determination, daring him to give it his best.

And he did.

This time, this trip, he didn’t bother with subtleties. As soon as the elevator doors slid shut, he pulled his woman against him so they both faced me. Horror and fascination skirled in my gut as his large hand slid to the bottom of her short dress and then back, dragging the hem up.

She wasn’t wearing any underwear, so quite quickly she was exposed. He whispered into her ear. She leaned back against him, slowly moving her legs apart. She was wearing spindly heels, the kind that makes women all helpless and wobbly, like newborn fawns. When she teetered, unbalanced, his hold on her, the arm across her belly, tightened.

He fondled her.

I stared, drool pooling, as he dandled her exposed vulva. He rubbed her with four fingers, opening her and revealing her clit, which he squeezed between thumb and forefinger. When she moaned, his response was swift and sharp. A resonating slap. Definitively placed.

“Hush,” he murmured. But for her heaving bosom, she stilled. “Do you like this?” he asked, a dark rumble. His searing gaze was locked on me. I knew he wasn’t talking to her.

My eyes flicked to his. I didn’t answer.

“Do you?” He smacked her again and again. With each slap, she twisted and squirmed. Her teeth tugged at her lush lower lip in the struggle to remain silent. “You should answer me when I ask you a question.”

He spread her legs wider still with his feet, nudging her to greater and greater peril. He rubbed her again and clasped her clit in a tight pinch. “She suffers, you see, when you don’t cooperate.”

He twisted gently and a fat dab of cream oozed from her cunt, dangling there.

God
, I thought with a shudder. She liked this. She loved being humiliated in front of a complete stranger, tantalized and teased.
The cunt.

Suddenly irritated beyond belief, I turned away. He laughed.

“Yes,” he hissed in that deep, hypnotic voice. “I think you like this. I think you like this a lot.”

He did something to her, that writhing woman in his arms—what it was remained a mystery because I had squeezed my eyes shut. She mewled like a feral cat.

“You like witnessing her punishment. Does it make your clit twitch to know I’m punishing her for you?” He chuckled again, probably because I’d squeezed my eyes shut even tighter. “Yes. I can see it does.” I heard a rustle of movement and then he was close, whispering hotly in my ear. “I can smell your arousal. Smell the honey dripping down your thighs.”

My eyes flew open. He was so close I could make out each lash. The dark rings around his golden irises were mesmerizing. His hot fragrant breath bathed my cheek.

“You hunger for this.” His fingertip—one single fingertip—circled my nipple. It ruched and pebbled. “You want to be punished in her place.” His nostrils flared and he leaned closer. “Come with us tonight. Come with us and I’ll let you hold the strap.”

A memory, buried deep, bubbled to the surface. The memory of a hot commanding man, a strap, my ass on fire and lashes of ecstasy. It nearly brought me to my knees.

But then the elevator dinged and I snapped out of the trance. Recalled myself.

I’d left that life. I’d left it for a reason.

It always began with passion and play but before long it devolved. Before long, he would slip dark degradation into the scene. Before long, the pain would become too emotional, too real.

I edged around the temptation and slipped into the hall. “I-I can’t.” Goddamn it. Again, I was lowering my gaze. It took nearly everything in me but I forced myself to look at him. I repeated my vow with conviction. “I can’t.”

A flash of disappointment washed over his expression but it quickly morphed into grim determination. “Pity.”

He took her hand, that woman who could, that woman who would, and tugged her after him, out of the elevator toward his penthouse. She teetered on her stiletto heels, holding on to him for balance.

I trailed along behind like a forlorn pup, wreathed in regret. I’d had to rip every vestige of passion from my life just to feel safe. And sometimes I hated it. My life. Empty as it was.

He stopped at his doors and speared me with a sharp look. “Think about this tonight, as you relax in the luxury of your loneliness. Think about what’s happening just across the hall and how it could’ve been yours.”

Gathering the delusion of indifference around me like a cloak, I swiped my card. Ignored how it trembled. The doors clicked open and, posthaste, I slipped inside. To hide.

His voice followed me. “Think about your punishment. And how much she will enjoy it in your stead.”

As the doors closed on him—on them—I nearly collapsed in relief. At least I thought it was relief. Of course it was.

I did enjoy the luxury of my loneliness. Hell, I’d earned it. Paid for it with the price of my first—and only—marriage. And perhaps a chunk of my soul. I damn well should enjoy it.

But as much as I tried not to, I did think about him. And I thought about her. And the punishment that should have been mine, if only I’d had the courage—or the stupidity—to accept it.

Sunday

For once, I didn’t spend the day at work. I forced myself to get out. Socialize. I had lunch with a couple friends and we took in an afternoon movie. Although, I haven’t a clue what it was about. Throughout the day, I kept drifting off into dark fantasies and darker ruminations.

When I returned home, he was waiting. We stepped on the elevator together.

Flicking my pashmina over my shoulder to illustrate my indifference, I glanced at him. He was mouthwateringly handsome in a cable-knit sweater and tan khaki pants. He tucked his fingers into his pockets and lounged against the wall of the elevator.

“Where’s your friend?” I asked. I tried not to sound snide. I don’t think I succeeded.

“Lola?”

Something prickled at my nape. “Is that her name?”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Unaccountably annoyed, I glared at him. Really. A man had no business being this attractive. “Where is she?”

He nodded upward, indicating his penthouse. “I told you she’d be punished.”

“But…” My breath caught. “That was yesterday!”

His gaze, suddenly serious, suddenly still, raked me. “She’ll be punished until you release her.”

“What?”

“Do you want to know what I did to her?”

“No.” A whisper.

He ignored me. “I tied her to the bed. Eased a butt plug into her pucker and a vibrator into her cunt. I had to tie it in because it kept shooting out—she’s that wet.” He grinned and winked, as though we were having a casual, everyday conversation about something completely ordinary and mundane. Like laundry. “It’s a great little vibrator with some very interesting settings. My favorite is particularly devious. Whenever she squeezes, it shuts off.” He leaned closer. Caged me. “Do you know what that means?”

I swallowed. “No.”

His tongue flicked out and dabbed at his lips. “It means she can’t come. She’s been lying up there all afternoon. Tied spread-eagle, in agony.” I flinched. His eyes narrowed. “Ah, you like to be tied spread-eagle, don’t you? To be utterly helpless. To thrash against your bonds. To be completely unable to touch yourself. Coming closer and closer to that ultimate release. And then, just when you get there, just when you can feel it coming…oops. The damn thing switches off.” He tsked. “You can imagine how frustrated she is by now.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Don’t you know?”

I shook my head. Tried to quiet the whispering wraiths scudding through my soul. Because somewhere deep inside, I did know.

He teased my neck then let his palm trail over my chest. He found my jutting nipple—of course he did—and scraped it with a fingernail. “I’m telling you because the only way she’s ever going to find release is if
you
make her come.”

My gut dropped to my knees. “What?”

He was drawing a web around me. I could feel it tightening. The old hunger bubbled and spat.

His touch agonized me. Because all he did was stroke, oh so gently. And God help me, I wanted, needed more.

But I knew better than to ask.

“It won’t take much, my pet. Not at this point. A touch. Maybe a nibble or a suck. You can bring her torment to an end.” He caressed my thigh and my heart froze mid-beat. His long warm fingers slid over and up, just to the right. He found my center. Pressed.

Delight skittered along every nerve. I gasped, quivered, creamed. “I-I’m not going to m-make your girlfriend come.” Was my voice really that wobbly? That weak?

“Who said she’s my girlfriend?” He delved deeper, rubbed the crease in my slacks.

Everything within me clenched. Still, I found the strength to step away. He followed.

“I-I’m not going to do it.”

“Of course you will.” Oh dear. Had he opened the hook at my waist? Had he eased the zipper down? Were those his fingers sliding into the shadows between my legs? “You have to play by the rules.”

I commanded my legs to move, to walk away. They did not. “W-who said I wanted to play? I don’t. I don’t want to play.”

“Yes,” he murmured, hot into my ear. “Yes, you do. Look at you. How aroused you are. Do you think I can’t tell?”

Ah. A touch. Skin against skin. He nudged my swollen clit. Teasingly, he made a deeper pass, reveling in the flood of arousal he found.

“Come on. End it for her. You want to.”

“I’m not attracted to w-women.”

He laughed. “I know, sweetheart.” His fingers, three of them, slipped through the slick soup and eased, as one, into my weeping cunt. A slow, steady slide.

Good.
It felt so good. He filled me and stroked me and stoked the fire until it burst into a flame I could not deny.

“You aren’t doing it for her.” His voice quavered a little as I tightened around him. “You’ll do it for me. Because I want to watch.”

And so, God help me, I did it. When the elevator doors slid open, I went with him. He led me like a child through the double doors of his penthouse and back into his bedroom.

And there she was. On the bed. She was tied like he’d said, arms and legs held wide and firmly pinned to the four posters. She wore a blindfold and earphones. A fat vibrator poked out of her pussy. It was strapped to a belt at her waist to keep it from popping out as she writhed. And she did. Writhe.

“She can’t hear us.” He stepped up behind me, cupped my breasts and thumbed my nipples. “She’s listening to the audio of one of her favorite fuck films. It keeps her hot.”

She seized and cried out. The vibrator had just turned off.

“Ah. Poor thing.” He tugged at my pants. When they fell to the floor, I kicked them off. My panties followed.

He didn’t immediately fumble for my exposed pussy—as so many men might. Instead he rubbed his broad palms over my belly and my thighs, teasing me until I pressed back against him. His stony cock pulsed between my naked butt cheeks.

“She wants you to touch her,” he breathed into my hair. “Just like you ache for my touch, she aches for yours.”

“I can’t.” This, in a choked whisper.

“Yes. You can. Let me help you.” He took my hand and together we reached for her. I grazed her clit. It was engorged, slick.

She moaned, thrust up into the caress. “Please. Please let me come.” A trail of dry tears tracked her cheeks. She’d been begging for hours.

“Mmm.” His voice rumbled through me. “Do it again.”

I did. This time without his coaching.

He murmured his approval. “It’s so fat.” He stroked my clit, even as I stroked hers. “So very juicy. Wouldn’t you like to lick it? Take it between your lips and suck it?”

I tossed my head back, reveling in his touch. He knew just how to rub me, how hard, how long.

But then he stopped. I wriggled in the desperate attempt to find him again. He did not allow me to.

“Wouldn’t you?” he repeated, his tone harsh.

The rest of his question eluded me so I shook my head.

He smiled and stroked me again. The sensation was so strong I could barely stand. “Or would you rather rub against her like this? Make her come with the kiss of clit to clit?”