Make Me (10 page)

Sleep eases from my mind and body like a heavy fog receding. My next round isn’t until late this afternoon, and Darko won’t be by for a couple hours yet. Flipping the pillow to get to the cool side, I sigh into the sheets.

Three days without seeing Darko have allowed my rational mind to take over, dulling the clarity I felt about submission over the past few days. Maybe I’m not really a sub, I’m just exceptional at following directions because I have a great eye for detail and a better memory than most people.

But if that was the case, why would it turn me on so much as well?

It’s more than that. There’s no point denying that I like the things Darko’s shown me. That self-delusion is in the rear-view mirror. But just because I like doing some submissive things, doesn’t mean I’m a submissive. There’s a difference between doing and being.

I’m having trouble picking apart the things he’s said, and that throws my logical self into a conniption fit. Finding healing in a place where bondage and domination and complete surrender are the norm seems counterintuitive, and yet I gave my control to Darko and positive things happened. Maybe I should do what he said and listen to my body for a while.

A dull pain from my ass cheek, more a warmth than anything, nudges my attention, and I shift my hips to press harder to the bed, releasing another more interesting throb from between my legs. Someone hit me with something and gave me that welt—now mostly healed. Why is that sexy when I’m not into pain?

Because Darko did it? Because his hands were the ones that rubbed my skin better? It means nothing outside of aftercare. He’d take care of anyone he was with—that doesn’t make me anyone special to him. He’d have held and rubbed them too...

The ache between my legs grows at the thought of him, of his eyes, his mouth, his hands. Lightness claims my limbs, I spread my legs, and my hands float down, barely skimming my skin through the fabric on the way. The satin nightie’s warm, the thin material barely dulling the sensation of my fingertips as they circle my clit, slowly, gently.

It’s not the first time I’ve gotten myself off while thinking about him in the last couple days. His touch has done something to me, woken up urges that can’t be denied. I’ve been like a teenage boy since the last scene, getting myself off a couple times a day.

The blankets are too restrictive, and I kick them off without stopping. Cool air greets sleep-warmed thighs, and I bend my knees and spread wider to feel the coolness everywhere. The nightgown follows gravity, falling down my thighs out of the way, but I tuck my fingers in the hem and curl it down, stroking the satin against myself even while the rest of me is exposed. Braless, my nipples are easily accessed through the fabric, and I squeeze first one then the other with my free hand, kneading the hard buds of flesh.

Pleasure swirls around me, growing with each press of my fingers, but so does an emptiness, a need for more. My mind flashes to the bag full of sex toys, but I don’t want to stop, can’t stop. God, I wish Darko was here with me right now. I pull the nightgown farther up until it’s around my waist and dip a finger lower, stroking the wet heat, bringing it back to my clit and rubbing slick circles that arch my back and point my toes, remembering the way his hand felt on my ass, rubbing the welt. But it’s not enough.

I drop my other hand down and slide a finger inside, pull it out, add another, push in as far as I can go and moan as I curl them to stroke my g-spot while still stimulating my clit. The added sensation has my hips bucking and I bite my lip, desperate to come, to feel release.

I’m rigid with tension, with the effort to come as quickly as I can because I fucking need to or I’ll explode. Every tremor moving my body rubs the tender spots of my back harder against the bed, reminding me of the sharp snaps of pain, of surprise, of his hands smoothing my skin, and I want it again, but with Darko going further this time.

My calf almost cramps, throwing me off rhythm, and I force myself to relax, adjust my hips and keep going. My pussy tightens around my fingers, close, so close, pressure builds in my lower back, a heaviness enters my lower torso.

A knock at the front door. “Sloane?”

I rip my hands away from myself, mere seconds from orgasm. Darko. The muffled voice and knock at the door have me fumbling to cover myself with the blanket, blushing and embarrassed to have been caught masturbating, even though I haven’t been seen.

“Yeah?” I call. My bedroom door is open and my apartment isn’t exactly enormous. Did he hear anything? Do I care?

“May I come in, or are we going to shout at one another through your door?” I hear a smile in his voice.

Hysterical anger at the denial of release makes me want to scream. He’s preventing me from coming—and yet I want him to come in and finish what I started. Hastily, I wrap a robe around me and head for the front door. My eyes try to pinch shut against the brightness, but I throw open the door and glare at him, unsure of whether to throw something at his face and tell him to get the hell out—or throw myself at him and tell him to fuck me.

He smiles. “Sorry for stopping by so early. I brought breakfast. We need to get an early start—something’s come up, and if we don’t do this now, it will have to wait until next week.”

Luckily, I’m so keyed up at the moment, anxiety over this news can’t touch me. “It’s fine. I’ll be right back.” Now’s better than next week. I rush past him into the bathroom. It’s going to be a long day.

Darko led me into my bedroom and closed the door behind me. No instructions or directions were given. It’s probably best to wait for direction. As in round one, if I’m not told to step forward, the command is to stand still by the door, so I stand and wait, hands clasped behind my back. Round two is off to a nice start, and honestly, I’m a little relieved to get started.

I could barely look at him during breakfast, scared I’d ask him to fuck me—not like this is helping take my mind off sex. The thought of this scene was the sole thing that enabled me to keep my hands to myself. Curiosity about what was next beat my leftover lust from before breakfast.

Now he’s standing in my bedroom with his back to me. Darko clears his throat and turns. I smile but swallow back the greeting that touches my lips, remembering just in time that right now we aren’t new friends having a drink and he didn’t give me permission to speak.

“Hello, Sloane.” His voice isn’t as friendly as his eyes.

Do I greet him back? Is he just talking at me and not expecting answers unless he orders me to speak? Indecision stalls my words. He’s more intimidating in Dom mode, sexier but not as approachable. I want to please him.

He crosses his arms. “You may reply.”

“Hello, Sir.”

“You were a very good girl and did an excellent job in our first scene together.”

I duck my head as pleasure rises, knowing I pleased him. “I tried, Sir.”

“So modest. Take five steps forward and stop.”

I comply.

“Very nice.” His steps toward me are deliberate, slow, measured. His gaze sweeps from my head to toes and back again. “How flexible are you?”

He saw my forms, so he already knows, but I answer. “I’m fairly flexible, Sir.”

“Show me.”

“May I remove my shoes first?”

“No.” He winks at me and I take that as a challenge.

Thankful Darko insisted I limber up after breakfast, I take one step closer, turn my back to him, and let gravity pull me down, spreading my legs into a front split.

“The splits? That’s it?” He sounds almost bored.

“No, Sir.” I lean back until the top of my head rests on the back of my leg and smile, now able to see his face, though, from this position, the room is upside down. Unfortunately, my skirt’s basically turned into a belt, and I reach to cover myself.

“Do. Not. Move.” The sudden change in his tone jolts through me like a kick to the sternum.

I freeze exactly where I am, hands awkwardly at my sides, not quite touching the floor, core muscles clenching to keep me steady. I want to cover my ass and brace myself on the floor with my hands but can’t move until he tells me to.

That voice. Is it something he’s learned to cultivate over time or is it innate? That tone overrules everything in my mind, short-circuits my own will, demands I obey.

And I like it.

Oh, I know I could stop at any minute, but it’s a hell of a rush wondering what he’ll order me to do next. Wondering what he wants me to do to him, for him. It’s a vocal quality that forces me to do as I’m told but promises I’m going to enjoy the hell out of doing it.

Darko steps around me, moving toward the door, to my front. I follow with my gaze as far as I’m able, but he’s out of sight in three steps. His touch is so soft I don’t realize he’s been caressing my leg until his hand reaches my kneecap. “You have very nice legs.”

How far up will his hand go? “Thank you, Sir.” I gasp and try not to flinch away when he tickles behind my knee.

“Someone’s ticklish.”

“Yes, Sir.”

His touch moves higher, and the ticklishness turns into something else. But he skips up to squeeze my hip instead. “You must be getting lightheaded—that’s an interesting variation of Hanumanasana. You may sit up.”

He knows yoga and knows I know it too—I’d included that in the intake forms under special skills. Will this help me? As directed, I sit, but keep my hands where they were, shoulders tense from holding them so awkwardly.

“Stand.”

I stand, trying to look graceful transitioning from splits to my feet.

He crosses his arms and smiles. “Dandayamana Dhanurasana.”

Danda
shit
. What yoga pose is that? I take a step to stall for time. Of all the times to go blank.
Come on, Sloane, breathe. Focus.
Two more breaths and—Standing Bow Pulling! I nearly punch the air with glee but move into the pose instead, grabbing the ankle of the leg I raise behind my head, and stretching my other hand out in front of me, fingers together, palm parallel to the floor.

Darko trails his hand down the bowed curve of my back and lightly taps my ass. I jump, shocked by the reactive snap of pleasure, which throws my balance off and I wobble to the side but recover by waving my arms. “I’m sorry, Sir!” My heart jumps into my mouth, choking me with fear and regret. Am I going to be punished for that? Will he stop the scene?

“Hug the bedpost.”

Which one? Instead of asking, I stride to the nearest one and embrace it like a long-lost relative, hastened by the flatness of his voice.

“Spread your legs.”

I do as I’m told.

Strong hands peel back the hem of my short dress, pulling it higher and higher until it’s tucked into my bra and my ass is uncovered again. The carved wooden post digs into my chest as I squeeze harder, feeling way too exposed. Darko tugs my lacy panties down to my ankles and the vulnerable feeling intensifies.

But so does the anticipation.

His chest is firm against my back and his teeth are anything but gentle, nipping at my neck at the same moment his fingers swoop around and pinch my nipple.

This is my punishment? It feels more like a reward.