Timeless (3 page)

“Stop,” I say, my voice strangled. “You don’t have the right to touch me.”

“Ah, but you’re wrong. As your Dom for the evening, I have every right to touch you however I want.”

No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. But my stomach has dropped to my toes and my insides are feeling all tingly.

He catches my chin in his strong fingers and forces my gaze to his. “Seriously, Ari. What are you doing here?”

“Exploring my sexuality,” I say flippantly. I try to move away but his grip is unyielding. “This weekend is my birthday gift to myself. Now leave me alone so I can enjoy it.”

“You’re out of your league here.”

Memories of Italy crowd my mind. Me pressed against the wall of the elevator in the Baglioni Hotel Luna in Venice, Marcus pinning my wrists over my head with one strong hand while he fingered me until I came. Marcus ordering me to strip for him and the hot lovemaking that had followed. His hands fisted in my hair, holding me still as he ravaged my mouth. The way he’d held my legs apart like he owned them as he brought me to the most mind-blowing orgasm of my life with nothing but his tongue. Although I hadn’t known the name for it at the time, he’d dominated and owned me as surely as any Dom here has ever dominated a submissive.

“It’s not that different from the things you did,” I retort.

He tilts his head toward a couple next to us. “I never spanked you.”

“Maybe you should have,” I taunt.

“Maybe I will,” he returns dangerously.

Oh god. Why does the thought of that make my stomach drop deliciously?

“Go home, Ari,” he says softly. “You don't belong here.”

“You don’t know me. You have no idea where I belong.”

I turn on my black stiletto heel and head toward a crowd that’s gathered by one of the demonstration stages. There are three people standing on the stage—two men and one woman—all of whom look the tiniest bit imposing, and Dominic.

“Next up is a spanking demonstration,” Dominic says. “Garrett will be using his hand, Cassandra has a paddle, and Thomas will be using his belt. However, we need a few subs who’re willing to be their victims, er, models.”

The crowd titters with laughter. A young man dressed like Peter Pan steps forward. “I’ll volunteer for Cassandra,” he says.

“Thank you,” Dominic says graciously as the young man steps onto the stage and kneels before the slightly scary looking woman dressed in black leather. “Who else?”

I’m desperate to prove to Marcus that I’m not out of my league and that I certainly don’t need his help to play here, but a belt on my ass? I involuntarily squeeze my cheeks together at the thought. The Dom named Garrett is tall and broad-shouldered, with a small scar on his cheek that makes him look like a real pirate who’s not above rape and pillage, but surely a hand spanking can’t be that bad. And a demonstration sounds safe enough. I take a deep breath and step forward.

Strong fingers grip my shoulders firmly and spin me around, and I find myself face to face with Marcus again. His face is implacable, his brown eyes glittering. “Are you looking for a spanking, little one?” he asks. “Is that what you want?”

Yes," I say defiantly. “That's exactly what I want. And don’t call me little one. Actually, what I really wanted was the flogger, but you interrupted that!”

"If a flogging’s what you want, I'll be glad to oblige you," he says, his voice menacingly soft. “You don’t need to go looking elsewhere. But it will be a real flogging, not some half-assed version that you top from the bottom. And I promise you won’t describe it as a ‘nice’ time.” Turning to a monitor walking by, he snaps, “Give me some cuffs, please.”

Before I can process what’s happening, my wrists are bound in front of me, wrapped in padded neoprene cuffs secured with Velcro and connected by two clips that are fastened together. Marcus grabs the clips that connect the cuffs and tugs me along after him. I follow him, slightly dazed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was mad, but I know from personal experience it’s practically impossible to make Marcus angry. He keeps his temper as firmly under control as everything else in his life. I study the set of his jaw. No, not mad. He looks more grimly determined than anything else.

He leads me over to a wall near a table that looks like someone stole it from my gyno’s office and points to an assortment of clamps.

“Let’s add some nipple clamps so you get the full experience, since that’s what you’re after.”

I open my mouth but no words come out.

There’s a startlingly wide variety of clamps—some look like tweezers, some like alligator clamps, some are industrial-looking, spring-loaded clamps shaped like a clover, and a few look like miniature versions of the vise my dad used when he painstakingly handmade a dollhouse for me when I was seven. My heart squeezes a little at the memory.

I look at Marcus and shrug. Without hesitation, he grabs a pair of the tweezer-looking ones and drags me over to a darkened alcove around the corner from the main room where there’s a small couch. He unclips the cuffs, but doesn’t remove them.

“Take off your clothes.”

“I, um,” I stammer. The reality of undressing here in front of everyone, particularly with Marcus’ gaze concentrated so fully on me, is more unnerving than I thought it would be. My fingers go to the laces at the front of my corset but I fumble at them, and Marcus brushes my hand away.

“Never mind. I’ll do it,” he says, his voice throaty.

He makes quick work of the laces and removes the corset, leaving me in only the white, lacy shirtdress and my killer boots. Unlike the corset, he takes his time with the dress, slowly easing the elastic neckline of the dress down until it rests at the top swell of my breasts. He gives me a slow, knowing smile and then lowers it further, exerting just enough pressure on the elastic so that it scrapes across my nipples, abrading them before they spring free from the elastic confines of the fabric. I can feel my breasts tighten, my nipples aching with a need that has lain dormant for far too long. He slowly eases the dress down over my hips until it pools on the floor, leaving me standing there naked except for the tiny black thong.

He strokes his hand reverently down my side. His touch is like fire, blazing its way straight to my core. “Your skin is just as soft as I remember,” he says.

I don’t want to remember. “Should I, um, take my boots off?” I stammer.

He takes a step back and his gaze sweeps over me approvingly. “Hell no. You look absolutely perfect just like this.”

Suddenly embarrassed under his intense scrutiny, I self-consciously cover my breasts with my arm.

“I don’t think so,” he chastises reprovingly. He grabs my hands and clips the cuffs at my wrists together again. “Hold your hands above your head.” The authoritative tone of his voice has me lifting my arms before I realize what I’m doing. I can feel my nipples harden even more under his pointed stare and I lower my gaze. His finger under my chin forces me to look up again, and the world stands still as his eyes meet mine.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he reminds me gently.

I know he’s right, but it somehow feels different. Before, we were lovers—tender, passionate, in love, and unable to get enough of each other. Now there’s an uneven exchange of power which is throwing me off balance. Plus, this time, I hate him. However, my body didn’t get the memo because it’s straining toward him, begging for his touch.

One strong, masculine hand cups my breast and his thumb brushes over my nipple deliberately. It puckers immediately. He scrapes his nail lightly over the hard little point and I moan softly. Why doesn’t any other man’s touch make me feel the way Marcus’ does?
This
is what I’ve been looking for. At least I’m finally on the right track and in the right place. I just need to find another man here willing to play. Which shouldn’t be a problem since they’re here for the same thing.

“Eyes on me, Ari,” he commands softly, bringing my focus back to him.

Holding my gaze with his, he grasps one nipple and twists it, gently at first, and then harder, his eyes never leaving my face. Determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing I still thrill at his touch, I keep my face impassive. Studying me carefully, he pulls up and out deliberately, tugging so hard I’m forced up onto my tiptoes. I’m biting my lip to keep from crying out when he lets go.

My knees feel weak, my every sense is heightened, and that long dormant zing of desire is coursing through my veins. I close my eyes as his other arm wraps around my waist, holding me steady as he repeats the process with my other breast, scraping and twisting and tugging until both of my nipples are stiff and elongated and my sex is throbbing.

He pulls the rubber-tipped, tweezer looking clamps that are connected by a thin chain out of his pocket and I gasp as he applies one of the clips onto one distended tip, sliding a tiny metal ring up the arms of the clamp so that the pressure increases and my nipple is trapped between the two sides. It’s exquisite, a tiny pinch of pain that’s oddly arousing. I stand motionless as he attaches the other one.

His eyes are dark but gentle as they search mine. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.” I try to sound nonchalant but it comes out breathlessly.

He smiles faintly, and I know I’m not fooling him for a minute.

“Then I guess I should tighten them a bit.” He slides the ring higher up and the pressure becomes more intense as my nipples start to throb. I whimper slightly and he stops. “Perfect.”

He grabs the chain and tugs on it lightly, and I almost come undone. The feeling is incredible—an exquisite bite of pain that shoots straight to my sex and has it rippling with tiny little spasms. Using the chain like a leash, he pulls me toward the wall.

“Stand with your back to the wall, arms over your head.”

I comply, even though some distant part of my brain is telling me I should run like hell. He steps closer, invading my space with the sheer breadth of his chest and the heat of his body. And my god but I’d forgotten how good he smells—clean, masculine, and woodsy, with a hint of sultry sex.

With capable hands, he firmly grasps the chain between the wrist cuffs and fastens it onto some kind of hook over my head so I’m pinned to the wall like a butterfly. He tugs on the chain between my breasts again and my back arches as the pinch of the clamps intensifies deliciously.

“You like that,” he observes with a small smile.

I don’t answer.

He turns and selects a flogger from the bag at his feet and then takes a step toward me. The flogger looks just like the one Michael used, except it’s all black, and I’m thankful that I already know this one is pretty benign because there’s a gleam in Marcus’ eyes that’s making me a little nervous.

My relief is short-lived. With a flick of his wrist, he whips the leather strands across my clamped breasts. I gasp, sucking air into my lungs even as I feel the telltale moisture gather between my legs. He’s not messing around. And it’s hot as hell.

He begins flogging my breasts, lightly at first, and then with increasing intensity, and all I can do is close my eyes and absorb the exquisite feeling. Occasionally, the leather strands hit the clamps and the unexpected but brief bite of pain sizzles through me, somehow increasing my arousal. All too soon, he stops.

I want to stomp my foot and demand he continue, but before I can get a word out he’s in my personal space again, so close that my hypersensitive nipples chafe against the crisp, starched fabric of his button-down shirt, sending another wave of pleasure rolling through me.

His hand closes lightly but firmly around my throat.

“That was just a taste, Ari. Now, unless you’re willing to admit you’ve had enough, I’m going to turn you around and flog your ass until it’s a lovely shade of red and you’re begging me to stop. Is this what you really want? If not, just say so now and leave.”

The fucking bastard. He’s trying to scare me into leaving, but I can’t back down now, and I’m not sure I really want to. Even though it’s Marcus. Or maybe especially because it’s Marcus. I’m more than a little intrigued by exactly how far he’s prepared to go with this, and how far he’s willing to take me.

“This is what I want,” I say stubbornly, tilting my chin up slightly.

“Well then, gattina,” he rasps, using the Italian nickname for kitten that he used to call me by a lifetime ago. “Let’s begin.”

I watch, wide-eyed, as he reaches back into the bag and pulls out two more floggers that he arranges next to the black suede one on a low table next to the sofa. One is a mix of suede and shiny oiled leather with medium falls, and the other is downright wicked-looking, with thin leather strands and little plastic beads on the end.

He unhooks my arms, unclips the hooks that connect the cuffs together and removes them.

“What are you doing?” I ask a little wildly. “I told you this is what I want.”

“I won’t restrain you, Ari. If you stay, it’s because you choose to. I don’t want there to be any doubt that this is what you want. What you’re asking for. Now turn around and put your hands on the wall. If you move them, we’re done and you go home.”

“You can’t do that!” I protest angrily.

“First rule of BDSM,” he says lightly, tapping me on the nose. “The Dom makes the rules. The submissive chooses whether to accept them or not.”

I growl in frustration and the son of a bitch has the nerve to laugh. “You’re still adorable when you’re mad,” he says.

In response, I glare at him before turning around and placing my palms deliberately on the wall above me. He’s out to prove a point, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him.

Marcus Dunn can fucking bring it!

I shut my eyes tightly and brace myself for the sting of the flogger.

But instead of the flogger, I feel his hand—rough and possessive—caressing my ass. His touch is firm and sure, and I wonder if the man ever hesitates over anything. Doubtful.

I start to relax in spite of myself as he runs both hands over my ass, kneading and rubbing as he hums his approval. Although Michael had done the same thing, it feels totally different with Marcus. The feel of his solid body behind me is both reassuring and incredibly sexy, and the way he’s intentionally priming my ass makes me excruciatingly aware that this is just a precursor of what’s to come.