Rough Road (3 page)

“Breath play is an absolute hard limit. Other than that?” I shrug. “Let’s play it by ear.”

“Come here.” He leans back against my gaudy marble countertop and pulls me into the V of his legs. I resist a little bit to test the waters. He responds by tugging me firmly into place and wrapping his arms around my waist. God, he’s strong.

“I should warn you . . .” I put a hand up to stop him when he bends in for a kiss.

“What’s that?” He pauses, but doesn’t draw away.

“I’m not a naturally submissive guy. Just because you like to inflict pain and I like to take it doesn’t mean you aren’t going to have to make me.”

“Make you?” His eyebrows pull together as he studies me. I can almost see the gears turning. “Like, a rape fantasy?”

I shake my head. “No, but if you’re into that we can try it. It’s like this: I get off on pain, but I don’t get off on taking orders. I sometimes get off on humiliation, but it’s not my usual kink—you’d really have to get me in the mood. I’m not a submissive, I’m a masochist. You don’t have to force me, but I still might fight you. I don’t know why, but I like it like that.”

“So if I tell you we’re going to go into the bedroom and I want you to bend yourself over my knee and ask for a spanking?”

“I’ll tell you to go fuck yourself.” I spit the words out, my body starting to hum with adrenaline.

“You say the sweetest things.” He picks me up, roughly, and tosses me over his shoulder. It jostles me, sending pain echoing from my bruised shoulder all the way through my torso. My hard cock rubs against his chest, and a moan escapes me.

“Which way is your bedroom?”

“Fuck you.”

“I can probably find it on my own.” He shrugs, his shoulder jabbing into my gut, and then he carries me up the stairs. He finds my room easily, and he throws me down on the bed and starts pulling his clothes off. The impact jars my shoulder, and fuck if the pain doesn’t get me harder. I sit up and start to crawl away from him, but he grabs my ankle and hauls me back, landing a stinging slap on the outside of my thigh.

“Stay put,” he grunts, undressing faster.

The next thing I know, I’m flat on my back, and he’s on top of me, skin on skin, and it feels even better than the pain radiating out from my chest and shoulder. When he reaches between us and flicks my Prince Albert with a fingernail, I groan helplessly.

“I gotta see that up close,” he mutters. Strong hands pin me down to the bed for a moment. “Don’t move.”

I wiggle around to remind him about that whole not-naturally-submissive thing, a smile curling my lips up at the corners. He returns the smile, placing a hand on my chest and pushing enough to rev that dull ache of a bruise into something sharper.

“Tell me about these piercings,” he murmurs, making his way down my body with his hands, dry callused palms raising goose bumps over my chest and shoulders.

“There’s not much to tell. I like pain, and fuck me running, a Prince Albert hurts like hell when you get it done. There’s a sadist at my friend Keith’s BDSM club who’s really into cock and ball torture—he suggested it. The guiche ring is a little different, but it aches so nice when you pull on it.”
Take the hint.

Oh, man, does he. He flicks it, hard, then grips it between his thumb and index finger and tugs, sending a shiver down my spine. Then he reaches up to twist one of my nipples, making me arch into his hand.

“There are some—” I gasp as he pinches harder “—clothespins in the drawer.”

He opens the drawer and pulls them out, grabbing the lube and condoms while he’s in there. “Really, wooden clothespins?”

I smile. Sometimes simple works. “Yeah. I’ve been getting off with clothespins on my nipples since before I even knew there was such a thing as a nipple clamp.”

He studies one before clipping it to his thumb. Together we watch his thumb turn red, then white. I imagine that pressure around my nipples and bite back a whine of anticipation when he pulls it off his thumb.

He starts to play with my nipples—light, teasing touches. A tickle here, then a lick. He blows on the wet skin and then bites my chest above the nipple. The touch of his teeth sends my hips thrusting into the air. Fingertips return to my nipple, twisting, stretching, sensitizing it. Finally, I feel the pinch of the wooden clothespin closing over the skin. The pain is sharp and intense, and for a moment, I feel flushed all over like I’m going to come. He closes a hand around my cock and gives it a quick, rough tug.
Oh god, he’s good at this.

The next clothespin closes over my other nipple and I close my eyes, catching my breath at the sharpness of it, that exhilarating instant when the pinch and swell of pain short-circuits everything else. A fight or flight response sending that wonderful rush of adrenaline through me. I want to fuck, to fight, to crawl out of my skin and into his.

Another tug on my guiche ring, and I snap my eyes open again, drawing in a deep breath—the sharpness in my nipples subsides, leaving me hungry for more sensation.

“Okay?” he asks softly, twisting the end of one pin, giving me exactly what I need.

I nod, my eyelids heavy with lust, my vision bright with endorphins. I feel high and giddy, a thousand contradictions in my body.

“Want to fuck,” I say, reaching for his cock. He twists the clothespin again, and my eyes start to roll back.

“Can I fuck you with these still on?”

I nod, anticipating the scrape and pull of being shoved into the mattress chest-first. “Hell, yeah.”

He flips me over, hands skimming down my back, spreading my cheeks, tickling the guiche from behind. Then a hard—really fucking hard—swat lands on my ass,

“You are so fucking hot,” he whispers, as if he’s surprised. “Hot little ass, all pink right here.” He slaps again over the same spot, not even trying to soften the blows. I wriggle. A hand spanking seems incredibly intimate right now, with clothespins digging into my chest as he shoves me harder against the bed. He slaps my ass again, the other cheek lighting up with the sting.

“You want me to fuck you? Fill this hot ass with my cock and ride you hard?”

“Fucking do it.” I glance over my shoulder at him, and the way he’s staring at me, eyes dark, lips open and drawing a ragged breath, something about it makes my own breath catch. He’s beautiful, not just pretty, but stunning, and right now, he’s all mine, talking dirty and raining slaps of sensation down on my ass.

“Mine.” He growls, reaching for the condom.

I close my eyes against the surprise of hearing my own thought from his lips. He spreads my stinging cheeks, then presses into me.

My body fights him at first, though I breathe deep and push back. He hauls me up to my knees and the changed angle makes everything slide just right. His big, warm chest covers my back, and his hand closes around my cock.

“So fucking sweet, Eddie.” He whispers into my ear. “Your ass is so sweet.” And then he grips my hips in his hands and fucks me hard.

I often dream of rough, raunchy sex, of a lover who treats me like something he wants to break. I fantasize about bruises on my skin and about hiding a bite mark from my friends. I long for someone to fuck me like he’s fucking me, slapping my ass and reaching around to twist at the clothespins.

All I would need to come like this would be to close my eyes and let the carnality of the moment take me. His cock pushing against my prostate on each thrust, his hands manipulating the pins on my oversensitive nipples, his teeth sinking into my shoulder.

“Want you to come.” He removes the first clothespin and the rush of pain and pleasure as the blood flows back into my nipple is exquisite. He moves my hand down to my cock, and I take the hint, fucking into my fist for him. My orgasm swells in me, building in intensity as he plays with the other clothespin. When I think it will actually kill me, he pulls off the clothespin, and I’m done, shooting between my fingers and shouting incoherently.

He fucks me harder, right through the sensation, and then he’s shouting too, his voice mixing with mine in some primal cacophony. Sweaty-man-fucking at its glorious finest.

We collapse to the bed in a tangle of limbs and sticky mess. I’m dimly aware of his hands on my body, rubbing and gentling me.

“That was so good, Eddie,” he praises me, running a hand over my chest. “Come here.” He engulfs me in a big hug, clutching me to all those hard muscles and kissing my forehead. He trails soft kisses over my eyelids, then leans back and tilts my chin.

I stare at him, see the tentative confusion in his face, then realize what he’s about to do just as his lips close over mine.

Jesus.

The kiss is sweet, but the sensual glide of his tongue into my mouth, the whispers of callused thumbs across my cheekbones, they sting something in me, drawing a well of emotion to the surface, and I’m kissing him back, gripping his head with one hand and tasting him. He groans, holding me close and shuddering under my hands. His skin is hot everywhere it touches mine, hot and bare like me. I’ve never felt so naked, so vulnerably open to another person as I do in this moment.

I drag my lips away and bury my face in his shoulder while I catch my breath. I don’t want to see a good-bye in his eyes.

“Can I get you something to drink, honey?” he asks. “If you tell me where to find it, I’ll fix something warm.”

He’s staying.
I don’t examine the rush of relief that runs through me.

“There’s tea in the cupboard above the stove. And an electric kettle.”

He disappears for several minutes. I hear sounds from the kitchen, but I lie on the bed and float on the aches and pains still thrumming through my body.

When he reappears, the spicy-sweet scent of my favorite tea precedes him into the room. He smiles, ducking his head. “I put sugar in it, I hope that’s okay?”

I give him a boneless nod and start to sit up.

“Whoa.” He sets the tea down, pulls on his boxers, and slides into bed behind me, my back to his chest. Placing the cup in my hands, he wraps his fingers around mine to make sure I don’t drop it, and holds me while I take the first cautious sip. It’s not too hot, and it’s sweet, sweeter than I would make for myself, but good. I drink more deeply, then lower the cup to my lap and let my head loll back against his shoulder.

“That was amazing,” I tell him, a smile tilting my lips up. “You were amazing.”

“It was fun.” He kisses the side of my head. “I’d love to do it again.”

My heart sinks a little because yes, I would too, but he’s twenty-four years old and I’m too old, too jaded for him.

“I don’t know whether it’s a good idea,” I admit.

“Shhhh. Don’t think too much,” he whispers. “We can talk about it tomorrow. Just let me hold you awhile.”

And that I can do. I snuggle deeper into his embrace and sip at the tea, enjoying the warmth flooding my limbs and the achy souvenirs of our lovemaking on my skin.

I wake to the sound of rhythmic breathing—snoring? No. I lift my head enough to see a moving form backlit by gray window light. Yoga. Wish is doing yoga.

I glance at the clock.

“Oh God, you’re exercising? At five in the morning? That’ll teach me to let a sadist spend the night.”

I pull the pillow over my head, blocking out the noises and the light.

My body hurts. Everywhere. And while some of it is a good hurt—I clench my ass cheeks and feel the pleasant sensitivity of a few light bruises—most of it is a holy-fuck-I-crashed-my-car hurt. Which is most certainly
not
.

“Good morning, S-Class.” He pulls the pillow off my head. “How ya feeling?”

“Like I smashed up a $150k car with me inside. Ow. I don’t know which hurts more, me or my pride.”

His hand traces down my naked back. “You want me to call someone? I’d offer to stay, but I have to be at work at six thirty.”

“You’re as bad as Ben,” I grumble. “Morning people.” I grab for the pillow, but he holds it out of reach. He really is a fucking sadist.

“Who’s Ben? Who you were on the phone with when you cracked up your car?”

“Ugh, now? We have to talk about him
now
?” I peek over my shoulder, and he’s smiling at me, all serene like “coffee before talkie” isn’t even a thing in his worldview.

“Well, I need a shower, and then I gotta get out of here. But we could meet for dinner later and you could tell me about him then? I’m guessing he’s either your brother, a fuck buddy, or a friendly ex.”

I groan, and not only because I need to stop this talk of dating before it gets off the ground, but because these days Ben truly is more like a brother than a lover to me. It doesn’t even matter that I don’t want him that way; it still hurts that someone else is closer to him than I am. But maybe not as much as it hurt yesterday. “He’s my best friend. There, nothing to talk about. We—you and me—we can’t date, Wish.”

His hand pauses its stroking on my back, then resumes again slower, lighter. “Why not? I’m not in the closet, and I would guess you aren’t either. We’re hot as fuck in bed together, and I like you. I think you like me, or at least, you smile at me a lot, but that could be gas I suppose.”

I give an offended snort, but my heart isn’t in it, and I end up laughing instead. Damn him for being so sassy and cute I can’t help myself. I roll onto my back, wincing in not-sexy pain. “Because, lovely, you are twenty-four years old. I’m nearly twice your age and that creates an awkward power dynamic for me. I like you. I had a great time last night. But you should date someone closer to your own age. Someone in the same stage of life.”