The Willing (9 page)

I tested the crop against my palm. It stung when it hit skin, but it was flexible and wouldn't bruise him too badly. With that in mind, I applied my attention to the blank, beautiful canvas of his broad back. The skin was lightly dusted with freckles, but there were no scars, no marks that suggested a rough childhood. Whatever welts I left would be all mine.

The first swat of the crop sang with a whisper as it bit lightly at Oliver's shoulder blades. It was easy to aim the swat, but I held back, just barely letting the soft tip of the riding crop lick at his unblemished skin. For some people, just the suggestion of pain was enough to get them going. Others needed more.

I thought Oliver might fall into the first crowd, but even though his breath caught in his throat and he flinched a little with the blow, he was back to sitting ramrod straight in less than a second. I couldn't help marvel a little at his resolve, the strength of my conviction slightly shaken. As a result, the next swat was a little more punishing.

Oliver's shoulders rose and fell quickly with each and every inhale. He was unsettled because he hadn't been able to anticipate the pain, but that was all. He wasn't put off by it. I walked a soundless circle around him, watching his face for signs that he was bracing himself for another blow. Normally I'd wait until false comfort started to seep in before striking again, but Oliver was new, so I decided to be kind.

He gasped at the third strike, this time trembling a little as the crop struck down right between the wings of his shoulders.

I varied the strokes, conscious that if I struck hard enough, I could leave welts that would pull and hurt him in the morning. Oliver had been pretty adamant about marking and it was my job to comply. I delivered a series of swift, light swats across his spine and then stopped abruptly, letting the sting flare like a bruise. Oliver's breaths had grown ragged, jaw clenched as he tried to weather the urge to move out of my reach.

Impact play was as much about the pure pain as it was about resilience. Oliver wasn't bound, so should he wanted to he could always wrench the blindfold off his face. He could always climb to his feet, wrest the crop from my hands and put an end to his torment. I tried not to wonder what kept people on their knees. Not every client wanted to talk: the ones who did often told tales that left my hair standing on end.

Oliver flinched a little when I crouched behind him, my hand on his aching shoulder. "Where are you now?"

"Green," he sighed, wetting his lips. Then, more firmly: "Green. Keep going."

My palm pinched the back of his neck. I knew it had to hurt, but he was asking for it. My job, I told myself, pretending I drew no pleasure from the hiss that escaped his throat. So desperate.

"Aren't you a pretty sight," I taunted. "Flushed all pink for me..." Laughter spilled from my tongue, fake and full of false praise. What I really wanted to tell him was that he looked like a wet dream sitting there quiet for once. Hell, if I'd known he had it in him, I might have been nicer when we met at the hotel.

The truth was that seeing him like this was turning me on.

That could be a problem.

I shoved him down hard as I climbed to my feet, nudging him none too gently onto all fours. His cotton-covered ass was firm, probably from hours in his private gym or sculling—or whatever it was that wealthy dandies did to keep in shape. I shouldn't have looked. I was only human, though, so of course I did. I looked so long and hard I started to feel my breaths pick up the pace.

The next swat caught him right across the ass. I didn't spare the rod, but I knew a part of me wasn't striking him so much as trying to excise any flicker desire I might have felt for him. He'd asked me to avoid sexual contact, so fantasizing about running my hands over his bare skin wouldn't do. I wished I'd brought leather gloves along. We were too close and I felt my breaths catch pathetically in my chest as he trembled and whimpered for the pain. Christ, he was hot like this.

A swish of movement and the crop caught him across the backs of his thighs.

"Fuck!" Oliver growled, jerking forward on his arms.

I ran the flared tip of the riding crop over the hurt, knowing it was bit like scratching a scab: painful and comforting at the same time. "Was that
red
, Oliver?" I didn't think so, but I had to check for my sake and his.

It took him a moment to answer, but since he was shaking his head vigorously, I figured I was on the right track. Against my better judgment, I knelt beside him, my hands casting down his warm back. I could tell he definitely worked out, but I liked best the parts of him that weren't sculpted to perfection. Even the faint, pleasant fleshiness of his belly enticed me.

"Green," Oliver panted. He didn't sound so sure.

I stroked his hair. "You're doing great."

If he'd snarled at me then, maybe I would've stood a chance. He didn't. He only turned his head, lips parted around soft exhales. "More," he begged. I'd never imagined Oliver, of all people, could sound so wrecked. Admittedly, I hadn't given him much thought until yesterday—all my violent fantasies involved kneeing him in the crotch with little thought for anyone's pleasure. This was a good look on him, though. Uncannily so.

I knew I wasn't supposed to be drawing satisfaction from our play; that it wasn't about me. It made no difference. "You sure about that, boy?"

He nodded, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "You can... if you'd like to hit harder..."

Shit
. I swallowed hard. I tried not to imagine him undone under my whip. We were running before we'd learned to walk together. I weighed the request, suddenly grateful that he couldn't see my heating face.

"Head down," I said. "Brace yourself." I had seen doms and dominas alike fall short of their forewarnings; I wasn't one of them.

The crop drew high with a whisper and as I brought it down on Oliver's ass, I clutched him by the nape like a disobedient pup. He wasn't pinned so much as guided into position, forced to suffer the torrent of my blows with very little pause for breath.

He tried to be silent. I could hear him gasp between whacks, his white-knuckled fists digging into the soft carpet, but it didn't last. I caught him across the backs of the calves and he keened out loud, head tossed back as he nearly levered into the path of my striking arm.

"Did I say you could move?" I gritted out.

Poor Oliver aborted the movement, a desperate whine on his swollen lips. God, how I wanted to kiss him.

I struck him across the small of his back, going for all-out agony as he crumbled to the floor. Two more strokes across his ass cheeks, and then slowly, I took to grazing his flanks with sharp, little swats. Those weren't meant to hurt, but Oliver wheezed with the impact all the same. He quaked when I ran a hand through his hair, as if expecting me to pull.

It was possible he wanted me to. It sure was pretty tempting.

I bit back the urge as I undid the blindfold. He didn't open his eyes to me or lift his head to let me remove the strip of black cloth. He looked wrecked. Gone. I wondered who it was he'd done this for in the past. What had happened to them.

More importantly, what would happen to me? That was one thought I couldn't afford right now. I turned my attention back to my would-be submissive. "Are you with me, Oliver?" My voice was softer now, still hopefully exuding control but no longer taking him to task for failing to give the appropriate response.

Oliver hummed a breath. "G-green."

I smiled. "Good man." My fingers carded gently through his hair as I waited for him to fall back to earth. This wasn't subdrop; I knew I hadn't taken him far enough for that, but all the same Oliver would be exhausted and achy after our play. I wasn't cruel enough to walk away and leave him to recover on his own.

  Eventually, he shifted onto his side, offering me his back. I released him and he sat up slowly. The blindfold dropped away like shed skin. "You need a hand?" I asked, timidly holding back.

Oliver shook his head. "Mind waiting downstairs?" His voice was rough with use, his skin radiating heat from the blood I'd drawn to the surface.

"I don't think--"

"Please," he insisted. He wouldn't—or couldn't—face me. Even a novice knew that avoidance wasn't encouraging after a session. It hinted at unanticipated trouble, at trust broken or boundaries ignored.

Then again, jumping to conclusions was just as dangerous.
This is
, I reminded myself,
Oliver fucking Shepherd
. He'd scoffed and told me he knew what he was getting into when I offered to take things slow. He'd been right there, asking for more.

I dug my heels in. "Oliver, don't be silly… Let me help you up." Despite my better judgment and absent any indication he wanted my hands on him, I reached for his wrist.

The rebuke was whip-sharp and abrupt. Oliver flinched and drew away from me as if stung. "I don't need your
help
," he hissed. It would have been more convincing if his eyes hadn't been red with unshed tears. I'd always thought there was something sexy about men who cried, but getting them there could be a fine seesaw.

"Oliver..."
Maybe I should rethink the subdrop thing
, I thought bitterly, worried that I had misjudged his limits. Or worse, that I had bulldozed right over them to satisfy my own desire to have him squirm and cry out for me.

He was already standing—without my help, as he'd intended—and paid me no heed. I only caught a brief glimpse of his face as he disappeared into the bathroom. It wasn't his flushed cheeks that drew my attention, though.

A fairly obvious wet spot darkened the front of his briefs. Nothing confusing about that: Oliver had enjoyed himself—maybe even a little too much.

I picked myself up off the floor and grabbed my shoes. I didn't know where Oliver normally stored the blindfold and crop, so I just laid them back on the bed next to the unused nipple clamps.

Downstairs, the sitting room was unchanged since my last visit. I nearly made a beeline for the decanter on the sideboard by the couch when suddenly I realized I wasn't alone.

The woman had been facing away from the door as I came in, but now we were right in each other's sights: hers, expectant and a little bemused, mine, I was sure, completely guilt-stricken.  

"Hello... I don't think we've met. I'm Gerry." A pale hand lifted off the magazine sprawled across her lap and extended towards me, showing off the thin band of a silver watch. I thought
Cartier
, but I couldn't be certain. "And who are you?"

"Um... Jo. Torres." I didn't know what to do. Oliver had made me sign that NDA, which seemed to imply he wanted our arrangement kept under wraps. Yet here I was, shaking hands with a stranger who had apparently let herself into the penthouse without having to be buzzed in. A stranger who probably had a key—or a card or a code, depending on whatever security system Oliver thought would keep him and his paranoia safe from burglars.

I was moderately certain she hadn't been here when I arrived earlier—unless, of course, she had been hiding somewhere in Oliver's six other bedrooms as a Plan B of some sort. Could also be that she was his girlfriend. (I had assumed that to be Evangeline Emerson, pretty and brunette and pregnant as she was, but maybe I'd jumped the gun a little.) Neither scenario was impossible. Whatever that case, it seemed pretty damn clumsy of Oliver to let us meet.

"You walked in with a very firm stride," Gerry said, blowing a strand of fiery red hair out of her eyes. "Were you thinking gin or whiskey?"

Yep, definitely awkward
. "Whiskey," I confessed.

"Good call." Gerry held out her glass to me with an imperious hand. "I take mine on the rocks."

I couldn't not take it, even though I was pretty damn sure this was a trap of some kind and I'd fallen face-first into it. I was good at making stupid mistakes. Not only had I displeased Oliver, but now his—whatever Gerry was—would know we were somehow involved. The secret was out and I was definitely getting fired. On my first day, to boot.

Gerry thanked me graciously as I returned to the couch with two glasses and ever so slightly trembling hands. "Cheer up. My brother will be down soon enough to rescue you."

I felt the muscles in my face go slack and tried to cover up with a falsely interested smile. It didn't really work; I didn't have a face for play-acting. "Your brother?" Were there even more people in the penthouse I didn't know about?

"Mhm," Gerry nodded. "You know... tallish, handsome-ish, filthy rich and terribly tasteless." She smiled like a crocodile eying its prey. "I'm sure you've met."

"Geraldine?" Oliver was as barefoot as I was and wearing a clean shirt buttoned nearly all the way up to the neck. He'd donned his slacks, too, but shucked the belt. Even dressed down, he was a far cry from slovenly. I watched his thick brows furrow.

Gerry—or Geraldine—beamed at the sight of him. "Little brother!"

"Little brother?" I murmured, hoping it was too soft for either of them to hear. I felt like I'd fallen into a soap opera, only with riding crops in lieu of other props.

Oliver's lips twisted into an almost-smile. "You weren't supposed to get here until tomorrow morning."

"I took an earlier flight," his sister said, nonchalant about our current predicament. The more I looked at her and the more I could see a certain resemblance between her and Oliver. They had the same severe mouth, the same silvery-grey eyes.

I already knew Oliver didn't lack a certain flair for causing trouble and it seemed the same might be true of his sister. It took a second of both of them staring meaningfully at me for me to realize they had asked me a question.

"Sorry? I zoned out there for a second." I tried to look at Gerry; she was an unknown quantity, but Oliver had been so furtive, so disappointed in me after our session only a minute ago that I was worried I'd said something inappropriate.

"I was wondering if everyone already had dinner," Gerry repeated with a knowing smile. I wondered if she thought I was someone her brother had picked up in a club, if she thought he was slumming it in the ghetto.