True North (Compass series Book 4) (24 page)

Grip the cuff of my glove in a fist and use the finely stitched fingers and palm to slap her. Her mouth falls open as she makes a sound that reads as shock, arousal, and pain all braided together. I want to take the rope of sensation and tie her all up in it, have her helpless and begging for me.

Her eyes water and she rolls her lips between her teeth, but still she’s looking at me with lust. A knot of tension in me unfurls, gives me more material to weave a spell around her. I did it right. I’d practiced whenever I’d had a spare minute, slapping that damn glove against my hand, my thigh, my forearm to get the right force. To make her feel it without really hurting her. Pink up her peachy skin without leaving a mark that she’d have to explain in her office. And for once in my life, I got it right on the first try.

“I thought I asked you to have the wine breathing when I got home.”

She blinks because I’ve done nothing of the sort. It’s part of the game.

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I’ll do it—”

She reaches out her hands to crawl away, but I don’t let go of my grip on her chin. Instead I tighten it and shake my head.

“A glass of wine isn’t going to cut it anymore. I need something stronger than that to take this edge off.”

“Of course, sir. Anything you’d like.”

And she means anything. I’ve been given permission for just about anything, and the things on her hard limits list weren’t things I’d want from her anyhow. The mere thought of blood play makes me queasy, and I don’t even pretend to know enough about how to handle a singletail to be comfortable using it on anyone.

“What I’d like is to use you hard.”

Her delicate throat pulses as she swallows, and suddenly I want to choke her. Only a little. But I don’t know how to do that. Yet. Maybe I could ask Rey because breath play’s not on her hard limits list. In the meantime, I have plenty of other ways to enjoy her.

“Over to the coffee table.”

She trails me on hands and knees as I walk over and settle myself on the couch. It’s comfortable but not too soft. There’s a pitcher of water and two glasses waiting, so I pour myself a drink and then lean back, letting the tension of the day leak out of me.

“Sit,” I command and gesture to the table.

She does, keeping her knees primly closed and sitting up straight, the black corset she’s wearing pressing her breasts up into flesh so eager it’s practically spilling out of the brocade.

“I don’t think so.”

Instead of voicing my commands, though, I set my glass down and use my hands to position her as if she’s nothing but a doll to be arranged according to my whims. I tug at the top of her corset, and her breasts spill out, pushed high by the unforgiving fabric, her nipples already tightened into rosy points. I pinch them, hard enough to make her squeak, and roll them between my fingers. It’s so satisfying how such a small motion can affect her breath, changing it from mindfully even to insensible panting.

“You little slut,” I mutter, continuing to work at her, letting go of her nipples to squeeze her breasts. “Not good for anything but your parts, are you? Can’t even follow very simple instructions. It’s a good thing I like your holes.”

The vulgar words stir the bile in my stomach, but it’s completely overwhelmed by wanting.
I want this, she wants this. It’s okay.
I try to hear Rey in my head, let him make this all right. And between the way she’s looking at me, his ghostly reassurances, and my own overpowering hunger, I find a way to move forward, to keep spinning this cord.

Pushing her shoulders until she’s forced to lean back and brace herself on her hands, I grip her knees and spread them wide apart until I see that she may have on a garter belt to hold up those sexy fishnet stockings, but there aren’t any panties underneath that short skirt. Just her, spread wide open and waiting for me, glistening with want even in the low light.

Now that she looks wanton as fuck, I sit back again and grab a newspaper from the side table. I make her wait while I flip through the pages, not reading the words but using the thin paper as a shield, a decoy, because what I’m actually doing is staring at her exposed core and her heaving chest. Making her wait is getting her hot, and I have to pretend to be disgusted when she can’t help but squirm, her butt grinding into the smooth surface of the table. I roll up the paper and swat the inside of her thigh, like she’s a badly behaved animal.

“You can’t even sit still long enough for me to have a glass of water? You filthy little thing. Never happy unless you’re being used, are you?”

Her lower lip pushes out slightly, making me want to take it between my teeth. Instead I sigh and put my glass down.

“Fine, fine. But don’t think you’re going to get away with your poor manners. Over my lap.”

She practically vaults off the table in her rush to drape herself over my thighs, and when she’s there, I swing one of my legs out from under her to trap her between my legs. Thank god for my gym time with Jenkins and my runs along the Mall, because I can tighten around her like a vise and hold her there while I flip up her sorry excuse for a skirt and bare her perfectly round ass.

And then I spank her how I was taught, softer at first, increasing to harder strikes, and then I use whatever’s at my disposal because I can. I make her squirm under the thwap of my glove—something you wouldn’t think would hurt much on the thicker flesh of her bottom, but once the skin’s been sensitized, it’s easy to make it feel like more than it is. Also gives my stinging palm a rest. And then I pick up the paper and hit her with it, over and over.

Perhaps it’s because of what I’m beating her with, because I know it can’t hurt as much as my hand, but she starts to sniffle and shudder in that way that means she’s holding back tears. I want them. I want to make her cry, I want to see her face turn bright red from sobbing and embarrassment. So I hit her harder and start to talk.

“This is what you’re good for, isn’t it, you filthy little girl? Don’t have enough brains in your head to fill a thimble, but you’re awfully fun to spank.”

I put down the newspaper long enough to slip my fingers between her legs, and what I find…wetness. She’s so wet my fingers glide right through, right inside of her. I frig her a few times, relishing how hot and slick she is around me. When I know my fingers are good and coated, I take them out and she squeaks in protest. Which gives me a reason—not that I need one—to smack her butt again. The feeling of her own arousal making the slap wet and a little squelchy must ratchet her embarrassment and her excitement higher because she makes the most delicious sound, a cross between a mortified yelp and a moan. It makes the blood flow to my dick and harden painfully.

“You like this? Feeling how turned on you get by filthy words and a beating? That’s…revolting. That’s the word for it. You disgust me.”

She starts to cry then but also rocks her hips as well as she can, practically humping the thigh that’s trapping her.

I laugh, cruelty coloring the sound, and hit her again. And again.

“You’re not getting off like this, foolish girl. I’ve got other plans for you.”

I push my fingers between her legs again, trying not to frot against her when I hit that slick tightness of hers again. And instead of finger-fucking her to orgasm, I drag my drenched fingers to her asshole and circle it gently at first and then with more pressure.

“I’m going to fuck your ass tonight whether you like it or not.”

Not true. Not at all true. I’ve been taught how to make this good for her and goddammit I will, but the threat will make her melt. A plaintive, supplicating moan confirms.

I use a grip in her hair to lever her up and widen my legs so she sinks to the floor on her knees. Her face is red and splotchy, tears rolling over her mottled cheeks, eyelashes coated with more weeping to come.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. I’ve fantasized about this so often, for so long, that finally having it in front of me is bewildering, but in the most fabulous way I could’ve possibly concocted. She is perfection. Gratitude hits me square in the chest—to her, to Rey, to India, to everyone I’ve met at the club who hasn’t shrank back from me but welcomed me with open arms. If this is what acceptance feels like, no wonder everyone wants it. And more than that, fulfillment.

If I look at her anymore, I’m going to sink to my own knees and kiss her silly, make love to her, to my wife, and that’s not what we’re here for. If I’m very lucky, if I play every single card right, I might get to have that again. But for now, I use my grip in her hair to thrust her over toward the four-poster.

“On your back, on the bed.”

She scrambles up, clumsy in her desperation. Leaning against the pillows, she looks at me, her lips parted like she’s thirsting for more. So I’ll give it to her. I want her to feel as strung out and thrilled as I do.

I’m not smooth as I grab a towel and some lube from the basket slipped into the bedside stand. I shove the soft terry under her ass and flick open the tube on the cap, squeezing some out onto my fingers before shoving her thighs apart and rubbing my slick fingers over her hole.

Then I get ahold of myself and slow my movements so I can coax her to open for me. She breathes deep and even and gazes at me like I’m the center of her universe. I want to be. So I ease a finger inside of her, almost coming in my pants because this forbidden part of her feels so tight and hot, gripping even the slim girth of my finger so hard it makes me want to moan.

Despite my threat, I work my way inside her slowly, carefully, studying her for any sign that this hurts, that she’s not enjoying it, that I’m doing something wrong. What I get is breathy gasps, her eyes closing, her fingers tightening in the bedcovers.

When I think she’s ready from taking two fingers easily, I grab a hand towel and wipe off the lube on my fingers. I might be desperate, but I don’t want to ruin this suit. I’m not sure how well a drycleaner can get lube out of wool.

I’m an idiot to be thinking about this with Press spread out like a feast in front of me, but it’s an impulse I can’t help. This is what growing up with a scarcity mentality will do to a person.

Hurriedly, I strip off my clothes while she watches, in such a rush that I pop a button from my shirt. That’s easy to fix so I don’t trouble myself. Even I can sew on a button. And when I’m naked, I climb onto the bed, roll on a condom, grab for the lube, squirt what’s probably an excessive amount onto my hand, and run it over my hard-as-hell cock.

Her gaze is hungry as she watches, and though I’d like to tease her more by making her watch while I jerk myself, I don’t have that in me. Not tonight.

So I lean forward and press against her, grabbing her hip to hold her still while I push inside of her. Slowly, so slowly, because she’s unbearably tight, but she opens for me beautifully. Takes me inside of the most private part of her body, and when I’m in her to the hilt, she smiles, the air flushing out of her lungs in a happy sigh.

The thoughts in my brain crash around… Do I ask? Do I not ask? But asking’s on the safer side and I want more than anything to keep her safe. So I slide my fingers up the boning in her corset, over the thick fabric containing her, until my hand’s cupping her cheek. “Okay?”

She blinks, and then her pretty pink mouth widens into a delirious, ecstatic smile. “Yeah. I’m good.”

I nod tightly, because if I do anything else, the tenuous control I’ve got over myself is going to break and I’m going to spill inside of her. Not yet. Not fucking yet.

Taking a deep breath, I pull out of her and close my eyes before I slide back in. It feels so incredible that I almost don’t know how to process it. But I sort it and harness it, get myself under control until I’m ready to thrust into her with slow, deep, torturous strokes. After I find a rhythm, I can think of something outside of not coming inside of her before two minutes are over.

I put a hand between her legs, find her clit, and stroke. Not in gentle circles but the rough rubbing I’ve learned she likes. And lucky for me, it’s not so long before she’s writhing underneath me, pressing her hips up and taking my cock deeper into her still, and with a few last passes of my fingers over her clit, she cries out and pulses around me. Her seizing muscles trip my own orgasm, and I bury myself in her ass, hard, thrust after thrust until my release shoots through me and into the condom.

After I’ve spent inside of her, I collapse, burying my head between her breasts and breathing her in. I love the way she smells of sweat and sex and whatever the hell kind of stuff she uses to give her skin that sweet, flowery smell. Lotion? Perfume? I don’t know and I don’t care, especially not when my brain feels incapable of forming any thoughts more sophisticated than that I love her. And wow would she not want to hear that right now.

After a while, I stop feeling like Jenkins has whipped my ass on the squash court, so I push myself onto my elbows to look at her.

Her face is still red, but not so blotchy anymore. It’s more like a happy flush, the one she’d get when we had truly exceptional sex while we were together. We didn’t always—sometimes it was more of a serviceable, quick fuck to scratch an itch we both happened to have, and sometimes that was fun and bizarrely intimate. We knew each other so well, had pledged to be together for so long, that we didn’t have to worry about making every sex act meaningful. Sometimes it could be just sex. But that makes me feel the weight of this one more heavily.

She smiles at me, her cheeks reddening more, and then she looks away before she speaks. “Did you…did you like that?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, I liked that a lot. Was it…was I…did you…”

“Yes, I liked it too.”

Some tension leaves my shoulders, and I lean down to kiss the tops of her breasts. I don’t want her to see exactly how much relief that brings. It also gives me an excuse to reach between us and hold the condom while I slip out of her, disposing of it as quickly as I can so I can get back to holding her. I don’t know how long I get to do this for; I want to take advantage of every second.

She sits up before I can get back, though, and starts to strip.