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

A smile inched halfway up his cheek. I knotted the end of the rope to one of the seat belt anchors and wound it around the back of the seat. My chest pressed full up against his as my arms worked to feed the rope to the other side. He smelled like pine and sugar and I wanted to moan right there, straddling him, flush against his hard body. I clenched my teeth to keep the sounds inside and eased back, winding the rope around his chest and then back around the seat. We sat like this, close then apart, for nearly a minute. I felt him harden and squirm with each rotation until I finally reached the end of the skein. I knotted it with a pretty bow and sat back to examine my handiwork. Pretty decent for a first-timer.

“Not bad,” I said, leaning back, putting my arms on the dashboard behind me. I was still straddling him and he could probably see up my skirt, but he wasn’t looking. His eyes were fixed on the anchor tattoo on my forearm. Here we go. All those times Derek had told me I looked too tough to take out to a fancy place came flooding back, and I felt my face redden.

“I . . . like your tattoo,” he said awkwardly, as though he didn’t know if he liked it or not. He wasn’t exactly the type that went after rockabilly chicks. The only tattoo I bet he ever saw was your run of the mill butterfly tramp stamp.

“I’m glad,” I replied, pleased with his reaction, “because if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you see all of them.”

His breath hitched. “How many do you have?” he asked with an arch of an eyebrow.

“Just the right amount,” I replied, leaning forward, inhaling the sweet, woodsy smell again.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “I didn’t expect to like this.” Aston wiggled under the ropes, rolling his shoulders. I did, I wanted to say.

I sat up and slinked my hands up my skirt, hooking my thumbs under my panties. “You talk too much,” I said, sliding them off my legs and balling them into a wad.

His mouth made an “ooh” shape, but he kept the sound inside. It was too late; I still wanted to stifle him. Probably not his fault at all, it was mainly leftover from all the times I had fantasized about shutting Derek up. For the first time in a long time, I pushed the thought of him from my head in favor of someone else. I didn’t want to think about Derek anymore . . . or ever again. I was a new woman now. A woman in control.

“Open up,” I said, and stuffed the lacy garment into his mouth. His eyes widened for a moment, then fell half-hidden behind his lids. He lifted his hips toward me and groaned softly, the noise escaping through the silky scrap.

“Easy there,” I lectured, fingering his gold chain, which was tipped with a horn charm at the end. I turned my attention back to Aston. “Don’t make me blindfold you, too.” I slid fully onto his lap and felt his legs tremble beneath mine. I bit my lip and squirmed. This was going to be fun. I leaned toward my bag to grab another rope, my chest mere inches from his wide eyes, when a sharp piece of cardboard poked my wrist.

“Ow!” I squeaked, grabbing the sharp paper. “Is this yours?”

He nodded as I looked down. It was larger than a business card. I read the words and gasped.

“Wait, this is a wedding invitation, marked for today at four,” I noted. It was three thirty.

He made a muffled sound and tried to speak. I pulled my panties out of his mouth.

“I told you before—I wanted you to show me the ropes, and I also could use a date.”

“I thought you meant,” I stammered, looking at the clock, then him all tied up and hard, and then back at the invitation. “This looks fancy. And so do you. I need a dress!”

I hopped out of his lap and moved to run back upstairs to the apartment.

“You’re just going to leave me like this?” he yelped.

I tapped my forehead. “Silly me. I suppose you can watch,” I said, moving to untie him, then headed to the apartment.

“Nice place,” he said, shutting the door behind him.

“I didn’t ask,” I said, grabbing some aloe lotion from the coffee table drawer and handing it to him. “Here. For the cuff marks,” I clarified. I had always read that aftercare was important after bondagey-type activities. Look at me being all legit. In reality, it was in the drawer because of last week’s sunburn, but he didn’t have to know that.

Aston smirked and adjusted his sleeves. “Not a problem.” His eyes met mine and he disarmed me with a wide, sincere smile.

I looked away, surprised by how all this was making me feel. “I meant it’s soothing. In case they burned a bit. Want a drink?” I asked, heading to the bar. Sarah kept nothing except cucumber water to drink, but I personally had an affinity for brown liquors.

“What’ve you got?” he asked.

“Mostly scotch.”

He chuckled. “Like the taste of expensive men in your mouth, huh?”

I stifled a gasp. He was practically begging me to take him over my knee and spank him silly. This was amazing!

My tone darkened in response. “Let’s skip drinks. We don’t have much time and I need you to come with me,” I said, walking toward my bedroom to access my closet.

He followed me as I walked past Sarah’s black leather sofa into my bedroom. “I don’t want the lotion, by the way. I, um, kind of like . . .”

“What?” I asked. I turned to open my closet. He was behind me, sitting on the bed. “The handcuffs? The ropes?” I asked, flipping through some dresses, deciding. I didn’t even ask where we were going. For all I knew it could be black tie, and if that was the case, I’d be fucked. And I was still a bit miffed that I wasn’t actually fucked already.

“The cuff marks. I liked how they felt,” he answered, his voice slightly husky. “And I liked what it represented.”

I spun, an emerald-green dress still in my hand. “What does it represent?” I asked, eyes narrowed. As much fun as we were having, Aston hadn’t been honest with me this whole time. I was slightly embarrassed by misreading his submissive tendencies and intentions, but now that he was in my bedroom, would things still go where I wanted? Should I hold him off?

“Struggle,” he answered. “I’m not used to that. Things for me are usually . . . easy.”

“No shit,” I answered. He was only confirming what I had thought about him from the beginning. He was spoiled. And yes, the new me would be a very good remedy for that. Unfortunately, the fucking clock was going to get in the way of any kind of real discipline for now. And I had a whole bag of Sarah’s toys I wanted to play with.

“That one’s perfect,” he said.

I held up the green dress. “This?”

He nodded.

I shoved it back in the closet and pulled out a cobalt-blue one. “I want to wear this one,” I replied, asserting myself.

He chuckled. “Of course you do.”

“You think this is funny now, Aston,” I replied, concocting a snappy response while stalking toward him. This intimidation stuff was hard, but damn was it fun. “But I’m going to take you down from your ivory tower sooner or later.”

He leaned back on my bed and crossed his legs. “We’ve got about five minutes. The venue is about ten miles from here and the bride’s a total diva. It’ll start late.”

“That’s long enough for a lesson in self-restraint,” I said, heading across my room to the changing screen in the corner. I mainly used it for decoration, but I had a little idea how it could be useful now. I pulled a sash from one of my dresses and tossed it to him.

Aston examined the fabric with wide eyes. Exchanging my espadrilles for shiny black pumps, I walked over to him and he smiled, giving my legs a once-over. I squinted at him and his face fell. Good, he was learning to take cues. “Put your hands above your head,” I said, and wound the sash around his wrists, pinning him to my headboard. I could smell his sugar-and-pine scent as my breasts grazed his face. I now understood why Sarah loved this so much—the intimacy as you tied him up, the rush of making him wait.

“This won’t hold me,” he said, wagging an eyebrow.

I suppressed a giggle and frowned instead. “Then I’ll have to get a little more . . . inventive.” I grabbed the bondage tape roll and some scissors. When I returned, his eyes broadened. I looked down. Shit, it was duct tape, not vinyl bondage tape, which stuck only to itself. Whatever, I had to improvise now.

“Oh yeah,” I said, nodding, “duct tape can fix anything.” Stretching out about two feet, I cut a long piece and wrapped it around the tied sash. I gripped the ends and gave the makeshift restraint a tug. It wasn’t going to budge. “And now, it’s time for you to watch me.”

I crossed the room again, throwing in a little extra wiggle and bounce. My finger hit the play button on my stereo and I flipped through a few songs before I found the right one. It was jazzy and sexy and would be perfect for a little burlesque show, which was something else I did on occasion in addition to the pinup modeling. I grabbed a feather fan from my dresser and held it in front of me as I grooved slowly to the music.

“Fuck yeah,” I heard Aston mutter. “Are you putting on a show?”

I slid the feathers down my neck and did my pinup smile. “Sort of.”

“Self-restraint, I get it now. I’m tied to your headboard so I can’t . . .”

I nodded and began to undo the halter top, holding the fan in front of my chest, obscuring his view.

“You’re evil,” he moaned.

“You have no idea.” I shrugged and shimmied out of the shirt, waving the white feathered fan in front of my breasts. He bit his lip.

“You said you wanted to see more tattoos,” I taunted, turning around and dropping the fan. I exposed my back to him, which depicted a large cherry tree in bloom.

I heard him breathing hard, so I swirled my backside a bit more. I’d always loved dancing, and paired with my skills from burlesque shows, I was pretty sure I was teaching Aston quite the lesson in holding back. I loved every second of it.

“Let me out,” he whispered. He was squirming, aroused and panting.

“Do you really want that?”

“Yes,” he said. “And no.” He glanced down. I hooked my thumbs into my skirt and swayed my hips, dipping the fabric lower to show him some more artwork. In place of a traditional tramp stamp, I had a large turquoise bow right between the two dimples of my lower back.

I picked up the fan and held it beneath the bow and slipped out of my skirt, exposing my legs. Okay, and maybe a little cheek. Just a little. I was supposed to be holding authority over him and stuff, so showing off all the goodies would defeat that. Or at least, so I thought.

“Ditch the fan,” he said.

I frowned and walked behind the screen. “Talking out of turn? Show’s over, Dirty Playboy.”

“No!” he shouted. “I’m sorry . . . Mistress Veronika. I meant, please ditch the fan so I can see your beautiful body. If I’m worthy.”

I may or may not have done a discreet fist pump at this statement.

I flicked on a light and illuminated my naked silhouette, still obscured by the screen.

“Oh. Or that. Definitely that.”

I put my hands on top of my head and rocked back and forth to the music. I heard him sigh. I turned my profile to him, giving him more of a show, and wound my body with the tempo. Give a little, take a little. If I wanted to, I could have smacked his ass by now. Part of me liked the challenge of undoing him without my touch. I held the dress over my head and slipped into the satiny fabric. I took extra time pulling it over my curves, dipping and smoothing, throwing in a little gyration here and there.

“How are we doing on time, Aston?” I asked. I’d need a few minutes to put on my nighttime makeup.

“Let’s stay here,” he panted. “Fuck the wedding.”

I laughed. “Oh, we didn’t interrupt that car business for nothing. You’re taking me out. Plus, won’t your family be disappointed?”

“A friend’s wedding. They’ll get over it.”

I stepped out from behind the screen and his jaw dropped. “You look amazing.”

I glanced down and shrugged. I got this dress from a shoot when I first started modeling—I’d never be able to afford it myself. Plus it took a month of eating not much more than veggies to slink myself into it without having to use pliers to zip it up. It was a vintage wiggle dress, uber tight all the way to the knees with a sweetheart neckline at the top and lace cap sleeves. “I need a zip,” I said, turning around.

“Um, I’m a little tied up at the moment,” he said, voice hitching.

I walked toward him. “What’s the magic word?” I asked, bent over him, lips inches from his. I raked my nails through his long bangs, pushing them back into his face. His hair was soft and I felt a tiny bead of sweat on his forehead. I smiled.

“Please,” he whispered.

I took the end of the duct tape in my hand and pulled.

He screamed.

“Oh shitballs!” I yelped. Shit, shit, shit, don’t blow your cover, Veronika. I looked down at the duct tape and there was a fringe of light brown hair.

“I . . . didn’t like your hairy wrists,” I declared.

“Excuse me?”

I swallowed hard. “Subs should have clean-shaven arms so as to aid in the bondage process,” I said.

He sighed. “Just warn me next time, okay Mistress?”

A laugh caught in my throat. He bought it. I took a few minutes to work on my makeup and hair, and then we headed to the car.

“SO WE GO
south for a bit on Route 1 and then head onto 138 East, not a terribly long ride,” he said as we approached the car.

Of course the wedding was there. Newport, Rhode Island, was known for its decadent mansions and thriving yacht community. I felt a bit like a fish out of water going there, but I took a deep breath and steadied myself, tossing the keys his way. He caught them in one smooth motion.

“So I’ve finally earned the privilege to drive my own car?” he asked, placing a hand on my back.

I answered with a cool, measured response. “You’ll need to test-drive it. Newport’s far enough away to get a good feel for how it handles on both secondary roads and highways.”

Aston opened the passenger door for me, something I didn’t expect. “Thank you,” I offered, tying a kerchief around my hair so as to not show up to a socialite wedding looking like a tattooed bride of Frankenstein. Hell, if my hair was blue like it was last year, I’d look like Marge Simpson.

I looked over at Aston, who was feeling around the seat and the console, trying to get a handle on how the car operated. When he saw me looking, he smiled. “I like the whole old-fashioned thing,” he noted.

“Are you talking about the car or me?” I asked.

“Both,” he laughed, “but mostly you.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call me old-fashioned,” I said dryly, “considering I’ve tied you up twice now.” If Dommes gave out awards, I’d be angling for Rookie of the Year. I needed to ask Sarah if that was a thing.

He blushed. “I mean your look. It’s unique but, I don’t know how to say it. I’ve never taken a . . . woman like you to a wedding.”

My breath caught in my throat. I scowled.

“What’s wrong?”

Biting my lip, I considered telling him I was starting to feel a bit self-conscious. But I was making progress with him. Hell, he’d just opened the door for me. “I’m not used to events like this, and I have a feeling I’m going to stick out,” I said. “Not to mention the last wedding I went to was my brother’s, which was a year before he died.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

My chest seized as I realized I was revealing something painful to a stranger. It felt foreign but liberating, which seemed to be the theme of the day. “It’s why I picked the veteran’s auction. Harrison was killed in action,” I answered. I closed my eyes and pushed out thoughts of my brother.

“I’m so sorry,” Aston said, reaching toward me and taking my hand.

I sighed. “I miss him. He’s actually the reason I began dressing like a pinup—when his fellow soldiers told me they still did USO shows, I wanted to do an old-school tribute.” This made him smile sadly. “I’m glad the sale of this car is going to help other military families,” I said, dabbing my eye.
Crap, do not smudge your makeup or cry in front of your new submissive
.

His smile dropped a fraction. “We don’t have to do any of this.”