Cuffed & Collared (14 page)

At lick five, he stopped and waited for her instructions.

“Excellent.” She pulled back and read the disappointment on his face. “Don’t look so sad. We’re both going to get what we’ve been waiting for.” She slid down to his groin and carefully rolled the condom on his raging hard-on. He hissed and bucked in her hand until she slapped his thigh. “Easy, now. I’m going to put you inside me, Kyle. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, please, Mistress,” he begged.

“All right.” She rose up over him and held his cock in position. “Remember, you don’t come until I tell you to. If you fail me on this, it will be a very long time before I’ll let you inside me again, if ever.”

He nodded mutely, and sure that her message was clear, sure that neither of them could stand to wait any longer, she placed the tip of his cock inside her cunt.

Once again, she stopped and waited to see if he would be able to contain himself. She wanted to laugh with glee when he stayed stock still, waiting for her to make the move. He was so frigging fantastic. Only a strong man could do what he was doing, and he was giving himself to her. The emotional high she felt from the power was almost enough to satisfy her. Almost. She sat down on him hard, seating him to the hilt within her, and to her unexpected delight, the tip of his cock hit her G-spot dead on. Her body shuddered, and she strained to hold back the orgasm.

“Not yet,” she muttered to herself, looking at Kyle through the slits of her lowered eyelids. He wore a similar expression, the effort of holding back evident on his face. “Suck me,” she commanded as she began pumping up and down on his hard length.

To make herself clear, she leaned over to offer him access to her breasts. She was relatively well-endowed, but still, he had to raise his head for his mouth to meet her nipples. Clever boy, he used his teeth to tug down the thin material of her camisole and expose her aching flesh. He fastened his lips on one puckered bud and began to suck at it greedily.

“Oh, oh God!” She groaned as the tension mounted unbearably within her.

She had to let go; she had to let go. A scream of pleasure burst out as her insides exploded. Her hands gripped the bedcovers, and the walls of her cunt gripped Kyle’s cock. She panted and mewed as waves of her climax built and crashed, over and over. And still, he sucked at her nipple, pushing the next wave higher and higher. How was he holding on? Where did he find the strength to do it? It must be killing him. She had to let him go, some part of her mind told her.

“Come now!” she cried out, and her eyes opened just enough to see his head drop back, and his mouth open. He bellowed and bucked, sending her over once more, and he didn’t stop until she went blind from the pleasure and collapsed on top of him.

Chapter Eight

This final scream was more of a mewl, a pitiful sound that told her he had given up and would welcome death. Well, that was fine, because she would give it to him soon. Blood gushed over her fingers. The feel of it, the smell of it made her wet, and she wanted to come while it remained coating her skin. But, no, that would be weak, and she wasn’t weak. Her victims were weak, unable to control themselves. She was stronger than they were and could wait for her pleasure.

She walked around the wooden frame—so convenient of him to have a dungeon to play in—and stuffed the offending mass of flesh inside the man. He barely twitched at the invasion, telling her that he was close to gone already. She would help him along, of course, a way of thanking him for playing so well with her this night. It had been more than he had been expecting, yet no more than he deserved.

Picking up her knife, she placed it against his throat.

****

The theme song from Hawaii Five-O blasted Kyle out of a sound sleep. Instinctively, he sought to tighten his grip on Regan, not sure yet what was happening, but she tore out of his arms and dove for the floor. He sat up in bed, wincing at the soreness of his ass, and watched her dig into the pocket of her pants for her phone.

“Hello?” She was down on her knees, leaning on her elbows, one hand propped up her head while the other held the phone. Her ass wiggled at him enticingly, allowing him a view of her pussy through those wicked crotchless panties she still wore. His cock amazingly stirred at the unintended invitation. Christ, was there no pleasing him these days? Apparently not where Regan Malloy was concerned.

Although she said little, he could hear the strain in her responses and knew, just knew, there had been another murder. His gut tightened with sympathy for this new man who had joined Jazz as a victim and with concern for Regan, who would undoubtedly leave the comfort and safety of his bed to investigate it.

What time was it anyway? Tearing his eyes from the delectable sight of Regan’s backside, he glanced at his bedside clock. Four in the morning.

After their incredible sexual adventure the previous evening, he had cajoled her into staying the night with him. Once she had admitted her father wouldn’t find anything unusual in his cop daughter not coming home, he knew he had her. There was no reason not to stay, and with his arms finally free, he was able to wrap them around her and hug her tight to him. Such simple joy in holding a woman. His woman. Sleep had come as quickly as falling off a cliff.

Now, though, his brief fantasy of waking up with Regan the next morning and having breakfast with her was over. She signed off the call and, standing up, turned to give him a grave look.

“She’s struck again, hasn’t she?” he asked before Regan could say anything.

“Yes.” Her mouth flattened into a straight, grim line. “I have to go.” She grabbed up her pants and shirt from the floor and rummaged around in the bag of tricks. She pulled out a sports bra and cotton underwear. Mistress Regan was turning back into Sergeant Malloy. “I need to use your bathroom if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, take a shower,” he replied.

“No time, I’m afraid.” She disappeared into the bathroom.

He heard the water running and wished she were in the shower and he could join her. Another part of his fantasy that wasn’t going to come true any time soon. Instead, he got up gingerly from bed, testing the various aches and pains of his body by stretching his muscles. Damn, but she had worked him over good, and the weight of his body lying on his cuffed hands and arms had added a sweet agony to the ecstasy of being inside Regan’s pussy, of coming within her. The lingering discomfort, however, was much like the kind he felt after playing a rough sport. It made him feel strong and vital somehow.

He picked up the hand cuffs Regan had left on the nightstand and ran a finger along the silk border. It left no mark to evidence his captivity, and he supposed it was a good thing. Hard to explain bruised wrists to colleagues and clients. His ass, however, was a different story. Those hard blows that had sent him yelling into his gag and the sting of which he felt even now had to have left something on his flesh.

Moving to his closet doors, he opened the one with the mirror attached and turned to look over his shoulder. Yes, they were there, angry red welts that would torment him for days. He could take it. He smiled. It was like sporting a badge of honor, proof of his fortitude.

“Jesus!” Regan hurried over to him from the bathroom and bent down to inspect the damage. “I didn’t mean for it to be that bad. I’m sorry.” She looked at him with concerned eyes. “I got carried away.”

Leaning into her, he planted a soft kiss on her lips and smiled. “I like the fact that you got carried away.” When he saw that she was going to argue the point with him, he spoke quickly to override her. “Regan, last night was incredible, as if everything in my sex life up until then was merely a warm-up for what I really crave. You didn’t hurt me any more than I wanted to be hurt. You were magnificent, the perfect combination of sex kitten and authoritative woman. I’ve never been so relaxed in the bedroom. I didn’t have to plan or worry about performing adequately. I only had to obey and endure. It was liberating.”

He dared to run his thumb down her cheek and over her lips in a loving caress. It was important that he get this right, so she didn’t shy away from him out of a sense of guilt. “I want more. I want to see you again and not just for the sex.” This point was important, too. She had to understand she wasn’t merely a means of getting his rocks off. “I’d like to take you out for dinner and a movie if you’d like, or a show in the theater district. Whatever you want.”

Whatever you desire
. Pleasing Regan had become very important to him.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Really? You’re all right?” When he held her gaze and nodded, she visibly relaxed. “Okay, I want to see you again, too. I don’t know when, though. This case is escalating. I’ll call you when I can.”

With that, she closed the gap between them and grabbing his head with both hands, pulled him in for a punishing kiss. Her tongue invaded his mouth, swept every corner and pulled out again. Her teeth nipped and tugged his lower lip before she let him go.

Without another word, she turned and walked out of the bedroom. He followed her, naked and proud of how he was once more erect. He watched her strap on her gun, and a sick feeling wormed its way into his stomach. Her profession was a dangerous one, and she was about to go out in the middle of the night to view another mutilated body. The worry for her came fast and painfully but couldn’t be helped. He was sinking in deep with her, sexually and emotionally. She mattered to him, and he wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about this new attachment.

One thing was certain, though. He wanted her safe. “Be careful,” he admonished as he held the door open for her.

“Always,” she assured him, and then she was gone. But the ache of his body stayed with him, and oddly enough, he found that comforting.

****

Regan blinked her eyelids to clear the blur from lack of sleep. The crime scene was hours old and had been invaded by dozens of cops and CSI types. The victim was still there, however, hanging from a wooden frame designed to torture a person. He had been left specifically for her to see once the local police had realized it might be connected to the Boston murders.

It was a grotesque sight. David Foster, a forty-two year old investment banker—single, no children—had been tortured to within an inch of his life before being castrated and nearly decapitated. All this was done in the privacy of his own dungeon in the basement of his beautiful home in the city of Newton, west of Boston. Apparently, Mr. Foster had been in the Femdom lifestyle for some time and had accumulated all manner of tools for punishment, some of which had been used on him. The room was sound-proofed, so unlike the other victims, no gag was stuffed into his mouth.

“She had the pleasure of hearing this one scream and beg,” Regan observed, and her stomach churned at the thought. Poor bastard. “She really went to town on him, too. She’s escalating, both in frequency and activities.”

“Had the time and the perfect location to satisfy her craving,” JoJo chimed in. The other woman had managed to beat Regan to the scene and had gotten the low-down from the local police.

“The roommate, Ben Cohen, was supposed to be gone all night, so she could have still been at it when the guy got home. As it was, he said he knew something was wrong right away because the alarm wasn’t set. He said Foster never went to bed without turning it on.”

“He knew to look for him down here?” Regan asked.

JoJo shrugged. “I didn’t get all the details yet.”

“Well, let’s go interview him.” Leading the way up the stairs, Regan left the pitiful remains of David Foster for the coroner’s office to bag and cart off. In the elegant living room, she found a much younger man with weepy red eyes sitting on the couch. She jerked her head to the uniformed officer standing nearby and waited until that woman had left the room before approaching the witness.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cohen. I’m Sergeant Regan Malloy of the Boston Police Department, and this is my partner, Detective Mathers. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Cohen turned those red eyes on her and blinked as if confused. “I don’t understand,” he said in a wobbly voice. “Why are the Boston police here?”

“Because we think there’s a connection between Mr. Foster’s death and two other murders in the city. May I sit down?” She sat on the couch about two feet away from him before he could respond to her rhetorical question.

He angled his body to see her better and probed her with sharp eyes. “Are you talking about those two men I heard about in the news?”

“Yes. We haven’t released details to protect our investigation, but the manner of death is similar to how Mr. Foster died.”

A violent shudder ran through Cohen, and he looked as if he might gag. “He was tortured, butchered, mutilated!”

“I know.” Regan kept her voice low and soothing to help stay the mounting panic she heard in her witness’s voice. “I know, and I’m very sorry, but we need your help to catch his killer.”

The young man looked away and took a visible breath. When he turned to her again, he appeared calmer. “What do you need to know?”

“First of all, can you tell me if you knew who he was seeing tonight?”

Cohen shook his head. “No, he was going to try to hook up with someone, of course. He tried to several nights a week. It keeps him on an even keel, he says—said.”

“Hook up with someone? Like a Dominatrix?” Regan probed gently. For all she knew the dungeon might have been something Cohen knew nothing about.

She needn’t have bothered with delicacy. “Sure, that was his thing, you know. David liked strong women. He liked to be tied up and played with. He liked pain.” Another shudder ripped through him. “Not that much pain, though. No way he agreed to that.”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” Regan said. “He did have the set up for it, however.”

“Yes, he showed it to me the first day I arrived. He wanted to make sure I understood what he was about, so I wouldn’t freak out over it.”

“How long have you lived here, Mr. Cohen?” It struck her as odd that a wealthy investment banker would need a roommate.