Going Down (23 page)

“Master. Oh shit, Master!”

“Down. Quiet. You're my toy tonight, do you understand?” A light slap of her ass cheek punctuated his command. “My possession.”

“Yes. Oh yes.”

No longer shattering. Instead she melted and melted and melted some more as he bent her knee and began sucking on her toes. The bed would have to absorb and hold her because no way was she capable of gathering a single muscle. Shiver after shiver after shiver rolled through her. How could she dissolve and shudder at the same time? Did it matter?

His lips closed around one toe after another. At the same time, he stroked and kneaded her calf and his elbow pressed against her tailbone, and she was more him than a separate human being.

“You're killing me. You know that, don't you?”

He lifted his head. “Do I?”

“You have to. My God, I—”

“You've been
killed
before. What makes this time different?”

Damn him for bringing up her history again! Hurt and angry, she tried to straighten her knee only to have him grip her ankle and press her leg against his midsection. “I asked you not to bring up my past. If you can't handle—”

“You're the only thing I'm interested in handling, slave. I want you tamed. Shivering and hungry and licking my feet while you beg me to fuck you.”

Excited by the image he'd just drawn, she turned toward him. “You think you can make me beg?”

“I don't know, but I'm sure as hell going to try.”

Before she could put the words together to challenge him to live up to his promise, he'd released her foot and placed her leg back on the bed. That done, he spread her legs and ran his nails up one inner thigh, over her sex, down the other thigh.

And she screamed. No ladylike moan or sigh this time but a scream and a squall, primal hunger turning her voice rough. “My turn!” she managed. “Damn it, my turn!”

“No.” Placing his hands on her ass cheeks, he pulled them apart. “You're my slave and this is how I want it. Do you understand? I'll play with you for as long as I want.”

Until I'm insane?

“Understand!” He slapped her buttocks.

“Yes, Master, yes.”

“Good. Because I need this to be right for you, different from every—forget I said that. You're incredible. So beautiful.”

Her rear hole was hardly beautiful, but if that's what he wanted to say, she'd take the words into her.

With her legs widely spread, he had no trouble running a finger into her offered opening. Caught by him, she squirmed, whimpered, and waited.

“Relax, slave. Loosen your muscles. Remember who this ass belongs to and that your owner has every right to it.”

“I'm trying.”

“I know you are, my pet.” His finger dove deeper, held her. “And I appreciate the effort. Now, listen to me. Listen and obey. You'll do that, won't you?”

Subservience swept over her, wrapped itself around her limbs, bound them together. “Yes, Master.”

“There aren't any bounds this time. Do you know why that is?”

A different pressure tore her mind from the question. Two fingers were now in her. The second, a middle finger she thought, had invaded her pussy. “Relax, relax,” he chanted when her cunt muscles closed down on him. “You can do that because your master tells you to and it's what you want, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now relax. Float. Don't rush.”

How strange it was to be told to float instead of having sex thrown at her. Maybe she should tell him, thank him, but as his
slave,
her role was to respond to his commands, not initiate conversation.

Without him telling her to, she lifted her pelvis and increased his access to her. His finger in her remained a quiet warmth, not so much an invasion as a welcome visitor. Much of the time her muscles remained slack and equally quiet, but occasionally and without warning, a spasm caused her to clench him. When that happened, he waited her out while whispering for her to relax, and when she'd done as he'd ordered, he rewarded her by sliding both fingers deeper in their respective caves.

“I'm going to leave you now,” he said, his voice like a breeze on a still pond. “I want you to wait a minute and then turn over onto your back. You can do that, can't you?”

Leave? Where are you going?
“Y—es.”

“Good.” His fingers made a slow retreat that nearly had her begging, and yet when she was empty, a strange peacefulness slid over her. She nearly boasted that she'd mastered the art of relaxation but settled for listening to her body's messages. Sexually she was on alert; that was a given. But she could be patient.

And if he was gone too long, she might fall asleep.

How long had she been heeding her inner whispering? Although she couldn't come up with the answer, she gathered her strength and rolled onto her back, not trying to take her towel with her. Somehow she'd wound up mostly sideways on the bed with her legs dangling over the edge. Instead of correcting things, she looked around. There weren't any lights on, but Reeve must have gone into the bathroom because a sliver of light oozed out of it to define the bed and furniture. She loved expensive bedding, especially silk, but she was on the quilted covering so didn't know what kind of sheets she'd find. Maybe, if she was here long enough, she'd learn.

What was ahead of them? Would she and Reeve be welcomed back to The Slavers? If not, how could she possibly find the women she was committed to help, and if the answer was yes, did Reeve have a plan?

The sound of bare feet on carpet freed her from unwanted thoughts. Reeve, naked, was coming out of the bathroom. Because he'd left the light on, he was backlit, a shadow among shadows. Twisting to the side a little, she watched his slow but sure approach.

Instead of climbing onto the bed next to her, he knelt on the floor between her dangling feet where she could no longer see him. Gripping her legs, he pulled her toward him until her buttocks were near the edge. With no pillow under her head, she stared at the ceiling.

And waited.

“Are you still relaxed? Easy in your skin?”

Because his breath slid over her belly, relaxed was hardly the label she'd put on herself. Still she nodded.

“I don't think so, not entirely anyway.” That said, he spread his hands over her belly and pressed down so she felt sandwiched between him and the bed. Her searching fingers found his hair; she held on. “You're tense.”

“You—know why.”

“Because your pussy is in front of me and you don't know what I'm going to do?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Fuck me,” she said with her eyes closed, and her fingers threatening to cramp. “I need you to fuck me.”

“Can you be patient?”

“I'll try, Master.”

“Then that's what I want you to do, try. But I'm not going to make it easy for you because there are things I need and want.” With that, he spread her legs and slid into the V he'd made for himself. His fingers inched lower and lower on her mons, approaching what she had scant control over.

He was a butterfly, a faint breeze. By turn his fingers and breath teased her labia and danced over her clit. Then just as the touches eased her toward the edge, he pulled back, quieted. During those times, his fingertips put her in mind of a tiny feather. There was just enough contact that she couldn't dismiss it.

He stirred, hands and breath on the move again, but now he'd left her sex and was concentrating on her inner thighs. His fingers walked over silken, living flesh while she tugged on his hair and tried to bury her nails in his shoulders. All the same time, she moved her hips and shoulders and stared at the ceiling and made keening sounds.

“Cover your breasts,” he ordered. “Make them feel good.”

They already did, but the moment she cupped them, they throbbed. Head thrashing, she fought the assault on her thighs by kneading and lightly pinching her breasts. A molten river flowed up from her legs to embrace her untouched cunt. She swam in dark heat, floated somewhere, drifted within inches of a climax only to pull back because once she'd fallen over the edge, she might stay there until insanity owned her.

Another change, fingers now under her buttocks. Lifting her so his mouth could close in on her pussy.

Reality tore through her with a firebrand's strength. No matter how fiercely she squeezed her nipples, her mind remained locked on the tongue dancing over her labial lips and dipping into her for a drink of her flowing juices. He wasn't immune; his grip on her ass and quick, deep breathing gave him away. But he wasn't the one under assault, yet.

“Let me, let me—your turn,” she got out. “I want to—do you.”

“Not tonight.” He didn't bother lifting his head. “Tonight's about my learning everything I can about you.”

Hadn't he already stripped her naked in every way there was? Maybe not, she amended as he went back to work. When he ran his tongue over her shaved mons and from there to her pussy, she dug into the sides of her breasts. He flicked, barely flicked her clit, and then went back to drinking of her offering. After another flick, he sucked a labial lip into his mouth, and she nearly drew blood on herself. Pain stood between her and experiencing everything he was doing to her so she released her breasts and covered the hands on her buttocks with her own.

“Killing me. You're killing me.”

“Not going to happen, Saree. I don't want you dead.” He stopped, licked, then licked again, on the space between her cunt and ass this time.

“Don't don't don't.”

“Quiet. Quiet.” He mouthed her other outer lip. “Tell me what you're feeling. That's all. An explanation.”

Oh shit, his teeth brushing her clit. “Killing,” she blurted even though he was gone before she could get the word out. “You're killing me.”

“That, or bringing you to life?”

Another teeth stroke. Another lift of her buttocks off the bed and rapid breathing as if she were in labor. “Life. Oh shit, life!”

Much as she wanted to know what he was thinking and feeling, she couldn't form the necessary words to ask. A core requirement in what she did for a living called for her to climax for the camera. For their part, those whose job it was to make that happen practically manhandled her clit. In contrast to relentless mechanical or human assaults on her most sensitive organ, Reeve was gentle. She jumped every time he breathed on or touched her clit, but for the first time in so long she couldn't remember, her trigger wasn't being overloaded.

Was it possible? He understood that she didn't want an explosion wrenched out of her?

That instead she needed to be handled as if her sexuality was a fragile thing?

Digging her elbows into the bed, she pushed herself closer to him. Much more and she'd be in danger of falling off, but that was all right because he was there to protect and stop her. Losing herself in the wonder of having turned her body and maybe more over to the man she should fear most in life, she stroked her sides, breasts, belly. He continued to feather her sex with kisses, to lightly stroke her inner thighs and the join between pelvis and leg. He knew how to keep the pressure firm so he wasn't tickling her, and yet his fingers felt like silk running over her flesh. She whimpered and called out sounds without meaning.

And sometimes she laced her fingers through his and they held hands before one or the other retreated from what might be the most intimate gesture of all.

His hands now rested on her belly, holding her in place, pushing down with pressure that demanded acknowledgment. “What?” she whispered.

“If you could fuck any way you want, what would be your first choice?”

“I love it all.”

“But when the choice is yours, what is it?”

The answer, to her surprise, came easily. “Man on top. Nothing fancy. Basic missionary, that's it, basic and uncomplicated.”

“With or without ropes?”

“Without.” She didn't have to think before saying the word. “Sex. Just sex.”

Silent again, he pushed her back onto the bed. He kept pushing until now her head was near the edge. “What—”

“Hush, slave. Don't speak, just experience.”

Of course. After all, this was moment by moment, breath by breath, nothing choreographed or planned. She'd never imagined his hands could be so gentle or that she'd trust him this much. He knew her ticklish spots, the places with a direct connection to her pussy, even areas that needed nothing more than a light pressure. He circled an ear with his fingernail, covered the pulse at her temple, and held it there for a long time as if checking her heart rate. Then he rested his thumb in the hollow of her throat, gently reminding her that greater pressure would cut off her ability to breathe, and still she trusted him.