Surrender: Tales of Submission (4 page)

Unforgivable, that loss of control for a Dom.

Even now, he couldn't get the image of her rounded

ass, her skin pinking beautifully under his hands, out of his mind. That glorious mass of chestnut hair falling over the naked skin of her back. Fucking poetry, everything

about this woman.

He had to get back in there. Inexcusable to leave her

alone after her first play session. He had to pull himself together.

He ran a hand through his hair, dragged in a long

breath, blew it out, and headed back to the bedroom. She was draped across his bed, her pose languorous, utterly relaxed. The blanket he'd wrapped her in had fallen,

exposing one perfect breast. Unbelievable, that gorgeous skin, the areola a dusky pink, her darker pink nipple

swollen and so damn succulent all he wanted was to take it in his mouth…

Instead he bent over her, helped her to sit up and

take a few sips of water.

"How are you?"

"Fine. Great, if you really want to know." She smiled, dazzling him. Too beautiful.

"I'll keep you here a while, let you come down,

before I take you home."

"Home? Do I have to go?"

Her voice was a soft, husky sound. Hell, he'd keep

her here forever, if he could.

But of course, he couldn't do that.

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"Don't worry. You'll be here with me a while."

"Okay." The answer seemed to satisfy her. She closed her eyes, her dark lashes lying like a sooty fringe against her flushed cheeks.

He sat down on the bed, avoiding touching her. His

cock was as hard as it had ever been. He was still rock-hard an hour later when he helped her get dressed, put

her in his car and drove her home.

She was quiet in the car as they sped through the

dark city. He was grateful for her lambent sleepiness.

Grateful he didn't have to make conversation. His head

was too twisted up.

The point was driven further home when they

arrived at her building and he had to help her from the car and up the stairs, her warm little body pressed

against him all the way. The scent of her, the feel of her, was making his stomach tighten up.

He got her inside the apartment, quickly took in the

comfortable furnishings, the beautifully worn antiques.

He took her coat from her shoulders, sat her down on the overstuffed velvet sofa. Her long hair was mussed, her

eyes glazed, her lips a perfect cherry red, wanting to be kissed. But all he dared was a quick brush of his mouth across hers.

"You'll be fine," he told her. He didn't dare linger. He was too undone. He didn't trust himself.

"Yes, I'm fine. Wonderful. A little tired." She smiled sleepily.

"Okay. I'm going to let you get some rest then. I'll see you later."

He made his escape—for that's exactly what it was—

as quickly as he could down the old staircase, and onto the street. He got in his car, started the engine and drove home a little too fast.

Back at his place, he spent the rest of the night

pacing his living room, trying to figure out what was

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wrong with him. Why he could barely stand to leave her

at her apartment despite the driving need to flee.

He never became attached to a woman. Never had,

never would. He understood why he was like this, the

lone wolf. He had damn good reason to be. He'd had one

huge loss early in life, and he wasn't about to set himself up to go through that again. Ever. He'd successfully

avoided attachment since that god-awful night, so long

ago. So why was it so damn hard to let Skye go?

He strode to the sideboard in his dining room,

poured himself a scotch and threw it back. It burned

going down, a cleansing burn. He poured himself

another.

He was supposed to see her next Friday. He'd better

have his shit together by then. He would. Control was

key. The antithesis of weakness. He'd had years of

practice. He knew how to do it, how to keep his emotions at bay.

The problem was that he'd never been challenged in

quite this way before. While he told himself he could

handle this situation, he wasn't quite sure he believed it.

* * * *

floating outside her bedroom windows. Skye glanced at

the clock on her nightstand. Almost ten. Late for her. But she didn't want to get out of her warm bed yet. She

stretched, noticing how her arms and legs felt used, a

little sore. She ran a hand over her bottom and smiled at the tenderness of the skin there.

Why should this make her happy?

She didn't know. She only knew that it did.

She smoothed her hands over her body: her stomach,

her ribs, her breasts. Beneath her fingertips, her nipples came up hard. Her skin was hypersensitive everywhere,

as though her night with Adam had awoken something

in her.

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She wasn't thrilled that he'd been right about her.

She was too much attached to her own sense of control to be happy about that. But she couldn't deny the way her

body had responded to the things Adam had done to her.

Hell, she couldn't deny what it had done to her head.

And maybe to her heart.

But no, that was ridiculous. She hardly knew the

man.

I know everything I need to know.

Why was the voice in her head so damn smug?

Maybe because it was right? But what did she really

know? He was gorgeous, intelligent, articulate. He was

kinky. But no, that wasn't quite right. Adam was a true sensualist. She could see it in everything he did. The way he moved, the way he touched her, in the simple,

sensuous luxury of his home. The perfect man for her,

really. Except that this BDSM thing was a huge part of his life, and for her, it was a temporary experience. All they had was a little time together, a few days, perhaps a few weeks. By then, she would have this urge out of her

system, and whatever was going on between them would

be over. Just as it was supposed to be.

And he certainly hadn't given her any hint that this

would continue longer than was necessary for her to

understand what her desires were all about. Hell, they hadn't even slept together. What reason would he have to become attached to her? And why did she want him to

be?

Tears stung her eyes, just thinking about how he'd

stayed next to her on the bed after he'd spanked her last night. Just sat with her, stroking her hair. What kind of man did that? Then he'd dressed her, taken her home.

Every moment, every gesture, had been gentle, caring.

He was just doing his job.

Yes, of course. It was that irrational, girlish part of her that thought she'd read something more there. A part 32

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of her she'd closed off a long time ago.

It seemed Adam Dunne was loosening the tight hold

she'd always kept over her emotions. Opening her up.

Breaking her open. He frankly scared the hell out of her.

But she would go back to him next Friday night.

She wouldn't miss it for all the world.

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She rode the same route in the cab to Adam's house

she had the week before, but she felt completely

different. This time she had some idea of what might

happen there. She knew the scent of him, the feel of his hands on her skin. She was soaking wet by the time she

reached his door.

He'd made her wait the week, to give her time to

think. To figure out if this was working for her. To be certain that this was what she truly wanted.

She'd never wanted anything so much in her life.

The week had been pure torture. Adam had called

her a couple of times. Friendly conversations, about

work, the usual things people talked about who were

getting to know one another. She'd found out what a

huge art fan he was, that he played hockey on the

weekends. Such normal activities for such an unusual

man.

When she got to his house and he answered his door,

he was just as absurdly handsome as he'd been before.

He seemed more deliciously imposing tonight as he

smiled wickedly, turned and led her into the dining room this time. He was dressed all in black. The color of sin.

The lighting in the house was dim, but she could still

see the carved legs of the antique dining table. All of the chairs had been pulled away to ring the edge of the

room. No artwork, just enormous, ornately framed

mirrors on every wall. On a heavy, antique sideboard,

tall silver candelabras held ivory tapers, the flames

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making their shadows dance.

He turned to her. "Take your clothes off, Skye. And get on the table."

He reached out and slid his hand around the back of

her neck, heating her skin up instantly. Her body filled with the aching need to please him. She began to remove her clothing, her hands shaking. Her mind emptied out,

allowing her to let go. With the last shred of reason, she realized it was Adam's mere presence that was doing this to her head.

Soon she was naked, and he smiled down at her, his

smoky blue eyes glittering. He moved in closer, until she could feel the heat emanating from him. The faint, male scent of him was making her dizzy. She closed her eyes.

"Get up on the table now, Skye. Come, I'll help you."

He took her hand, steadied her while she climbed

onto the cool, wood surface.

"Lie on your back," he told her, pushing her down just enough for her to understand completely that he was in control.

The table was hard and silky at the same time. And

she felt as naked as she ever had in her life. Naked and strangely beautiful. Even more so when Adam began to

run his hands over her body: her stomach, her thighs, her arms. They finally closed around her wrists, locking them into a pair of padded leather cuffs.

She gasped.

"It's all right, Skye. Trust me. The binding will only free you more."

By the time he'd cuffed both wrists and ankles, her

heart was racing. But the vee between her thighs was

soaked and pulsing with need. She pulled on the cuffs,

testing them. He must have cuffed her to the table legs somehow. She couldn't move, her arms and legs spread

wide. She loved it.

He stood over her, stroking her skin again, his touch

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lighting tiny fires of desire all over her. When he took her nipples between his fingers and rolled them, she

sighed with pleasure. When he pinched them hard, she

moaned in pain. But it all felt good. He kept at it,

tugging, pinching. Sensation shot through her body, her sex. She wished he would use those clever fingers

between her legs.

Please…

He gathered her breasts in his hands, pushing them

together.

"Too damn perfect," he muttered. Then he let her go and turned away.

She had one small moment of panic simply because

he was no longer touching her. But soon he turned back

to her, leaned in close to her face and told her, "Stay as still as you can, Skye. This is going to hurt."

* * * *

words, exactly the effect he'd been after. Not that it was a lie, of course. This
was
going to hurt.

He pulled from his pocket a tiny, red, plastic

clothespin he'd picked up at a crafts store. Amazing the things one could find there. Or in a supermarket, a

hardware store. Pervertibles, he liked to call them, these everyday objects that could so easily be turned into

instruments of torture.

Leaning over Skye's bound body, he smoothed a few

fingers over the soft skin at the edge of her left breast. An exquisitely sensitive area, he knew. He pinched the skin together lightly between his fingers, pulled a bit, and fastened the tiny clothespin there. He smiled when she

sucked in a sharp breath.

"Breathe into it, Skye. It'll get a bit worse before it gets better. I'm going to put a lot more of these on you."

He pulled a few more of the pins from his pocket,

and created a small arc of them down the side of her

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breast. Every pin caused a small, satisfying gasp. He

loved the sound of it, that whisper-soft noise coming

from between her plump, red lips. And Christ, those

lips…all he could think of when he looked at her mouth

was pushing his cock in, fucking that lush mouth. His

cock filled, hardened.

Control.

Yes, he needed to control himself. He'd thought this

would be easier, without her hot little body pressed

against him. But it didn't seem to matter. Just looking at her was challenging his self-control.

Focus.

He moved in again and began a line of the wicked

little pins down the side of her right breast. By the time he was done, she was panting hard. He stepped back to

look at his handiwork.

"Beautiful."

And she was. So fucking beautiful he could hardly

stand to look at her. Bound to the table, her legs spread wide so that he could see her pink pussy lips, damp and inviting as hell. And the pins pinching her skin. He knew it hurt, could see it in the dilation of her pupils, in the sharp cadence of her breath. He wanted to hurt her. He

wanted to bring her pleasure. He wanted to do

everything to her. For her.