How to Punish Your Playboy (DommeNation #3) (11 page)

“I’m glad I packed so many skirts,” I said wistfully, positioning myself just above him. Aston was eyeing my chest, but I kept my vintage wrap blouse closed. For now. Slowly, I slid down on top of him, wanting to slam myself on him hard, but taking my time just to tease him.

I could hear a muffled groan from beneath the wad of panties.

Now that I was fully settled on top of him, I began to let loose a bit. I turned the radio up in the car since a Trickster City song was on and I freaking love them, and bounced up and down on top of him in time to the music. Aston’s eyes lolled in his head and he strained against his captivity in the sexiest way.

“You hate that you can’t grab my tits right now,” I teased, leaning forward and brushing my chest against his face.

He nodded. I fucked him harder.

“You hate that you can’t put your hands between us and rub my clit.”

He bucked harder, desperate for more leverage. I just grabbed my breast with one hand and touched myself with the other.

“Do you want permission to come?”

Aston shook his head no.

“Good boy,” I replied, shoving the low neckline of my shirt down and freeing my breasts. There was his reward, just like I’d learned in my little lesson today. Perhaps if he pleased me more he’d get something other than a little titty. I leaned toward him again and grazed my nipple against his mouth. He sucked it in hungrily and I raked my hands through his hair, coming hard. I thrashed against him for another moment, relishing the way his body satisfied my desperate needs, then I dismounted, putting my shirt back on properly.

I pulled the panties out of his mouth and tossed them into the backseat. Didn’t need them anyway. “You may speak.”

“Thank you, Mistress. I hope I pleased you.”

I nodded. “You did, and you were so well-behaved. What would you like for me to do to you, Dirty Playboy?”

He looked hesitant to speak.

“It’s okay, tell me what you want,” I said, leaning over. “I’m happy to reward such a good boy.”

“I—” he stammered, shifting in his seat. “I want you to taste me.”

I bit my lip. “You’ve earned it,” I said, reaching behind him to undo his cuffs. I was glad Sarah had taught me that lesson this morning—I may not have been so amenable to this after coming myself, but she had a good point. He needs to be rewarded well.

“May I keep the cuffs on?”

I smiled. “You really do like this, don’t you? You’re not just playing submissive.”

Aston nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”

So I opened my mouth and gave my good boy his reward.

We pulled into Chicago’s city limits around nine
PM
. We were tired from a long day of driving, even though our bodies were mostly idle.

Key word being mostly.

Despite the radio’s music and the occasional brush of Aston’s hand on my leg, there was a pervading uneasiness that had settled in my chest. Namely, the threat of Derek’s subpoena—something I’d pushed to the back of my mind but had lodged there like a thorn. I didn’t know if he was bluffing or not—I mean, he was full of shit most of the time—but if he really wanted to sue me, that was a legitimate threat. If he got what he wanted, I’d be owing money instead of having just over a hundred grand. And that’s not even counting the lawyer fees. Part of me was desperate to tell Aston what was going through my mind, but the idea that he’d be upset that he bought a car that may not have been legitimate was enough to make me keep my mouth shut. So we just drove along, alternating who took the wheel, and made pleasant small talk.

What I really wanted was another Aston-made meal, but because it was so late, he said we’d order room service once we got to the hotel. I was too tired to argue. Right now a warm meal in bed sounded pretty perfect.

“Let’s check into any one of these,” I said as we drove through town. I covered my yawning mouth. I wasn’t interested in where the place was located—as long as it didn’t look like it had bed bugs, I was in.

“It’s not far,” he said, checking his phone. Aston had taken the wheel after our little excursion.

“What’s not far?” I asked, looking around. “There have got to be ten hotels on this block.”

Aston shifted uncomfortably. “I, um, already made reservations.”

“What?”

“It was before we had all these talks,” he said, adjusting his collar. “My family always stays at Conrad Hotels wherever we are in the world. We belong to their points program, so it won’t be as pricey as it looks. Consider it something like frequent flyer miles.”

I stretched my neck, which was exhausted from looking out the passenger window half the day. “Fine,” I relented. “But only because of your special rewards card.”

Aston’s shoulders relaxed and we soon pulled up to the Conrad. It was certainly glitzy looking, and the cars parked in the valet spots out front were quite impressive. A vintage Jaguar, a concept-style Maserati, and a really sweet BMW M series. I hoped Johnny would be parked by them. He’d be a nice addition to the hotel’s collection.

The valet opened my door and a bellhop quickly loaded our belongings into the luggage cart and waited beside us expectantly. The Aston that exited Johnny wasn’t the one who had entered. His posture was solid and erect, and the suave way he nodded at me from across the length of the car said he was a consummate rich boy. He was in his element—a young, dashing millionaire at home in a five-star luxury hotel.

When we arrived at the concierge desk, Aston opened his wallet and slid out his Conrad Select Guest card. The man scanned it and smiled at him with a graceful nod. “Welcome back to the Conrad, Mr. Delano.”

“Pleasure,” Aston replied smugly. He even sounded like a snob.

The concierge typed for a few moments, calling up our room details, and frowned at the screen. “I’m sorry, there seems to be a problem with the card you used to book the room.”

Aston frowned. “It’s not even close to the limit, I assure you.”

The man almost bowed, he was being so polite. “Mr. Delano, your presence here is an honor, but I’m afraid we’ll have to charge your room to another card.”

“Try again,” Aston said, handing the man his American Express Centurion.

The man swiped it, waited, and then his face fell. “Do you have another?”

Aston fumbled through his wallet. “I rarely use this one. It should be fine,” he grumbled as he took out a Discover card.

Again the concierge swiped. He glanced over his shoulder, concerned that his boss may be nearby and he’d lose his job over messing with Aston’s well-known family. “This one is denied as well.”

I looked at Aston and pulled his ear to my mouth. “Are these cards under your parents’ accounts?” I asked.

His face paled. Aston nodded.

“Use my debit card,” he said, pulling out his Bank of America card. “There’s cash in the account. We won’t have a problem.”

The concierge took the final card with a simpering smile and ran it through. His face brightened. “This one works, sir. Here’s your balance after deducting your member points,” he said, sliding a bill across the table. The number at the top was $950, but after points the room for two nights was $475. He was going to put us up in a room that was almost five hundred a night? I could have done the whole trip on just one thousand, max!

Aston snatched his card back and we walked to the elevator in silence. I wondered if he wanted to take back the money he’d slipped to the bellhop and valet. I didn’t know how much was in Aston’s checking account, but I knew it wouldn’t last forever. This trip was going to get a lot more frugal, fast.

“We didn’t have to stay here, you know,” I said.

He looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “We did.”

I didn’t want to push the subject, but he had to know that we had other options. He was just too stubborn to see them. I put my hand on his arm. “When they said your card didn’t work, I wouldn’t have minded going somewhere down the street. We should have saved money instead of—”

“We’re staying here and we’re going to enjoy it.”

We were nearly to our room, but I pushed Aston to the wall and looked in his eyes. “Two things—one: You do not interrupt your Mistress. Two: You do not tell me to do something and add that I’ll like it.”

His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t explain. I get it. We don’t have to talk about this yet. But just because you got the rug yanked out from under you doesn’t give you the right to talk to me like that.”

“Because you’re a Domme?”

“Because I’m a woman. Show some respect.”

His mouth clamped shut and he put his arms around me in apology. Give a little, take a little. I had a hunch that Aston would respond well to my firmness, and it looked like I was right. I allowed the embrace and reciprocated a bit. He was hurt. We’d talk inside.

Soon we arrived at our room—or suite—and I marveled. It was so modern, so chic. Everything was sleek lines and chrome, and the bathroom had a TV in the mirror. I tried not to gawk too obviously, but I was pretty stunned by the room’s luxury. I couldn’t even imagine how high the bed’s thread count was. Hell, I didn’t even know what a high thread count would be—two thousand? A hundred thousand? It wasn’t something I ever cared about. And truthfully, I don’t care about this. The fancy mirror or the sumptuous sheets.

I cared about the man on the sofa with his head in his hands.

“Let’s talk,” I said, sitting next to him. I put my hand on his knee and waited.

“I’m not sure if I’m ready,” he said, his voice cracking. I didn’t know if he was sad, angry, or hurt. Maybe all three. This was a real blow, possibly the first time anything like this had happened to him. Sure, his family didn’t treat him with enough respect, and part of me acknowledged that maybe he hadn’t earned it yet, but cutting off their son because he wanted to make his own decisions? That was just despicable.

“What would you like to do?” I asked, giving his leg a massage.

He looked at me, eyes puffy and glistening. “Sleep.”

I nodded, stood, and pulled him up. “Come with me,” I said, leading him into the suite’s opulent bedroom. It had a four-poster bed—something I mentally noted for a more appropriate time—and a giant wall of windows that looked out over the city. The speckle of lights cast from the other buildings illuminated the room just enough to find our way into the bed. Aston took off his clothes without pretense, without any sensuality, body and mind tired and ready for some rest. I disrobed and pulled on a tank top from my luggage. We crawled between the sheets together—no clue what the count was, but boy did they feel smooth and soft—and I spooned him.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” I said softly. “I may be tough on you, but you know it comes from a good place.”

I couldn’t see his face, but he nodded. His body was still tense, so I rubbed his muscles with my hands and he started to relax. Snuggling up in the warmth of him, I began to drift off to sleep, listening to the sounds of Aston’s heartbeat and the slow rhythm of his breath. I felt a quiet relief when he unburdened himself of his problems and relaxed fully into my protective embrace. I think we were starting to need each other.

WHEN I AWOKE,
I could sense it before I opened my eyes. That sizzling sound, like a symphony of cicadas outside my window. The smell that shot up my nostrils and sent messages of pleasure to my brain.

“Bacon?” I asked, then pushed my sleepy self to sitting.

Aston wasn’t next to me, so I swung out of bed and padded into the kitchen and living room area. Behind the kitchen’s granite island, Aston was preparing breakfast.

“I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, Mistress. I’m not finished yet,” he said, his back facing me.

“The smell of bacon cannot be ignored, even while asleep,” I answered, wrapping my arms around his waist.

“This is actually pancetta,” he replied, looking over his shoulder at me.

I yawned and stretched, taking another heady sniff. “It smells like bacon.”

“It’s like bacon. It’s an Italian cured meat,” he said, fully spinning around and facing me. “I was hoping breakfast could be a surprise. But you can watch if you like.”

“I’ll let you do your thing. But it better be good.” I meandered over to the couch and pretended I wasn’t at all interested in what he was concocting. “Are you ready to talk yet?” I asked. Aston turned toward me and picked up a tray from the juicer at his right. Damn, this hotel was fully loaded.

“Maybe after some orange-grapefruit juice with a rosemary sugar rim,” he said, bringing two glasses over to me. He put them on coasters and then plopped down on the couch.

I took a long sip of the tart, delicious drink and watched his face, waiting for him to speak.

“My parents suck.”

I didn’t respond. I thought it might be best for him to just vent without comment.

He sipped the juice, smiled despite the context, and put it down again. “I know I didn’t make them happy when I said I was going off on my own, but I never expected them to cut me off. I did as you said—made nice with them after I quit—but I guess it didn’t work.”

I nodded.

“I mean, I probably should have told them where I’d be. And I probably should have replied to their texts and their calls.”

Ah. So they aren’t just cold-hearted restaurateurs.

“It’s just that the way they reacted when I told them what I was doing, it was so . . . cruel.”

My eyebrows lifted.

“They mocked me. They told me I didn’t have the chops. That I was meant to be at the front of the house, greeting guests and making sure people saw the family when they came in. They said I had no clue about menu design, concepts, or even how to cook.”

Picking up the juice again, I took a refreshing pull. “This is incredible,” I mumbled, then took another chug.

He nodded. “I’d cook for them and they’d say not tonight. I’d leave leftovers in their fridge and they’d go uneaten, except on the holidays when it was just an absolute potluck smorgasbord. They have no idea what I am capable of. They won’t listen. They don’t want to know.”

I folded my hands and placed my chin on them, deep in thought. It was time to ask some questions to help him figure this out. “Have you ever shown them that you are a responsible person?”

Aston’s nose wrinkled. “What do you mean?”

“Have you ever acted responsibly? From what I recall, you’ve been in the social pages as quite the playboy, and you said yourself that when you were working at their restaurants all you’d do was drink and pick up girls.”

The nose wrinkle turned into a full frown. “I can’t believe you’re siding with them!”

I shook my head. “I’m not. I’m just trying to put myself in their shoes. If I had a son who was all talk, someone who took all the wrong advantages of his situation and utilized money in the way you’ve done—maybe like buying a half-million-dollar car on a whim—I’d probably cut you off if you ran away, too.”