What Happens After Dark (24 page)

So he pushed. “What do you think my secretary thought of that? Do you realize how you’ve embarrassed me?” He prepared her for the punishment she required, excited by the prospect, here, in his office, his secretary outside, his notebook open on the conference table for the meeting he had in fifteen minutes.

He strode the two steps to her and stabbed a finger at the carpet. “Get on your knees, you dirty bitch.”

She went down with an avid light sparking in her dark eyes.

His heart raced at her eagerness. “Suck me. Do it now, and make it good so that I forget my anger with you.”

Her fingers trembled as she unzipped his pants, not even bothering with his belt buckle. She pulled him free, and he was already hard, pulsing for her. She would always do that, flipping an on-switch in him with just a look, a word, a breath.

When she tongued his slit, he growled, fueling her. As her lips slid down over his crown, he tipped his head back and savored her sleek wet mouth. “That’s so good, baby.”

He didn’t know if he wanted to come. Sometimes, just the feel of her around him was enough. He could let it go on forever.

She grabbed his thighs, held on, and took him deep down her throat. His legs quivered with the effort it took to stand. She shot him high so fast, he couldn’t think of the right words. “God.” No, that wasn’t it. “Cunt.” She sucked him harder. Yes, dirty, filthy, hot, crazy words. “Cocksucking little slut.”

She went wild on his cock, tonguing, sucking, drawing him deep, then sliding back out with a suction that made his eyes feel like they’d pop. His balls ached, but he held off.

“Don’t you dare make me come, dirty whore.”

She moaned, her mouth still wrapped around him, her tongue working him.

“Your punishment will be not receiving my come the way you want.” When he didn’t think he could stand it anymore, when his heart was drumming, his pulse pounding, and his breath was a rasp in his chest, he pushed her away.

She fell back on her ass, her hands supporting her, eyes wide, needy.

He could barely breathe as he shoved his cock back in his pants and zipped. His skin was hot beneath his white shirt. “Bitch,” he whispered. “Whore.” It felt good, as if he could blame someone else for his own denial, and he wondered if that was one of the things a true dom got out of it, a submissive to blame and take your punishment for you.

“Get up,” he ordered.

She stood, her skin tinged pink with her exertion.

“Step out of your shoes and bend over my desk.”

She kicked off her high heels, pushed his pen holder and stapler aside, then leaned with both forearms on the desk. She hadn’t said a word beyond that first one when she entered. He relished her silence, her need.

Moving up behind her, he blanketed her body, reaching beneath her abdomen to unbuckle her belt. “This would have been so much easier if you’d worn a skirt. Don’t ever show up here again in slacks. You will always wear a skirt so that I can get at you easily. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered, a needy whimper in her voice.

It fueled him, her compliance, her pliability, her desire to do anything for him. There was so much power in that, and while he liked the equality of sex, a man and woman taking and giving, she’d made him enjoy complete control.

He pulled her zipper down, then slid the pants over the milk-white globes of her pert ass. “Step out of them,” he said when they were bunched at her ankles.

She did, and he pushed the pile away with his foot. Then, leaning over her, his lips at her ear and his fingers sliding down the crease of her ass along her thong, he whispered, “From now on, you will wear thigh-high stockings beneath your skirts. And dirty, horny bitches don’t wear panties. I will call you at work and tell you to touch yourself for me.” Beneath him, she shuddered, her breath coming faster. “I might call you while you’re driving,” he went on, “and you will spread your legs for me. You will be available twenty-four/seven, at my beck and call to do whatever I tell you. I might need a blow job after a hard meeting, and you will drop whatever you’re doing to come here.” His cock surged. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that before. “Do you understand, my sweet little cunt?”

“Yes, Master.” Tears of pleasure laced her voice.

He had them both going with his words. The possibilities overwhelmed him, and as he traced her pussy, beckoning him from beneath the black satin of her thong, he wanted to fuck her, strip her down and take her, shove his cock deep. Now. Forever. He had a condom in his suit pocket, planning for tonight, if he got the chance. But not yet, there was more punishment to be meted out before he fucked her.

He didn’t even glance at his watch. Beeman would be arriving for their meeting, but he could wait outside. Luke rather liked the idea of making Beeman wait while he had her. He wanted this. Now.

Backing off, he slapped her ass hard. “Don’t make a sound, you little cunt.”

She didn’t scream or cry, but reduced it all to a moan in her throat.

He pulled her panties away, the crotch clinging briefly to her warm, wet pussy. Letting the black thong drop to her ankles, this time he didn’t tell her to step out of it, craving the decadence of the satin binding her feet.

“I’m going to spank you now for the impudence of coming to my office uninvited.”

He swatted her hard, then, needing the feel of her, he let his fingers slide down the length of her pussy. All that sweetness, all that moisture.

“Spread your legs, my dirty slut.”

She moved them as far as the panties would allow.

He delved deeper, finding the button of her clit. She moaned and rocked against him, going prone on the desk and stretching her hands out to hang on to the other side.

The phone buzzed. He held Bree’s hair, forcing her face down. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered, then punched the intercom button, his hand still between Bree’s legs, stroking, caressing. “Yes?”

“Luke, Mr. Beeman is here for your meeting.”

Bree shuddered as he filled her with two fingers. But she didn’t so much as breathe. A piece of him wished she wasn’t so obedient. He almost liked the heat of being overheard.

“Tell Beeman I’ll be another half hour at least.” Then he clicked off.

And clapped Bree’s ass so hard, she squeaked before she managed to cut it off.

“Do you see what you’ve done, forcing me to cancel meetings? And my secretary has probably guessed what you’re making me do to you in here. Whore.”

He slapped her again, hard. Her fingers curled white around the edge of the desk, and this time when he delved between her thighs, her pussy drenched his fingers.

He gave her more of what she wanted.

 

 

BREE COULDN’T BREATHE, IT WAS SO GOOD. HER BOTTOM ACHED, her pussy was so wet and needy, his fingers inside her filling all the hollow places. And the names he called her, the things he said. She was bad, dirty, terrible. He knew she wanted everything he did to her.

He gave her butt a stinging blow, then slid between her legs to her clit, and she almost screamed with orgasm. Not yet; he hadn’t given permission. She couldn’t come until he let her. Nor could she scream when he finally allowed her to climax.

She didn’t know what she’d needed when she came here. But Luke knew, forcing her to her knees immediately, his cock delicious in her mouth. And now this.

She was nothing but sensation, pain, pleasure, his fingers on her, in her, her cream dripping down her legs, the incessant slap on her butt and the stroke along her pussy making her wild.

“Master, Master, Master, I’m going to come.” She wasn’t even sure if she said the words aloud or it was just her mind crying out to him.

“Don’t come yet, little bitch. I’m not done.” He punctuated with a particularly hard slap and followed up with the sweetest of caresses against her pussy, her clit, her G-spot.

She wanted to cry with delight and need, even felt the moisture beneath her eyelids, which she’d screwed tightly shut. But she didn’t come, pushed it away.

She couldn’t hear all the words, the full sentences, the demands and orders, just the important words, slut, cunt, whore, bitch. They were terms of endearment. They were his special names for her.
His
slut,
his
whore, everything for him.

The moment was so close, she whimpered with the strain of holding off. Only his voice telling her not to come kept her from the peak. She was invaded, taken over, controlled, his touch so perfect, the pain so intense, the pleasure even better.

Then suddenly the blunt tip of his cock pressed against her. She clenched her fingers around the edge of the desk as he rammed home deep inside.

“Take this fucking, you little bitch. You’re mine. I can do anything I want with you, anything. You’re my little slave.”

Reaching beneath her, he played her clit as he stroked deep and hard inside her. The cloth of his pants rubbed the burning skin of her ass, more pain, more pleasure.

“You will come when I say and not before, slut. I will take mine from you before I let you come.” His voice was like a thread winding through her mind, every cell, tying them all together, tethering her to him.

“Bitch,” he whispered, and she felt him fill her to capacity.

“Cunt,” he murmured, and she clenched around him, dragged him deeper, begging, needing.

She writhed beneath the onslaught of his cock, gasping, tears leaking from her eyes.

“Whore,” he muttered.

And she felt her body start to give, to take over, tipping her into orgasm.

“Not without me, slut.”

She gazed at the white knuckles of her fingers on the edge of the desk a moment before she closed her eyes.

“Come now,” he demanded, and she felt the spurt of him inside her, the pulsing of his cock, his low grunting breaths at her ear, and she let herself tumble into climax. She felt everything, the air currents beating around her, the rasp of his slacks against her backside, his belt buckle slapping her, then finally the weight of him crushing her against the wood desk.

She seemed to be drifting in some place that was far from reality, though she felt him backing off, getting rid of the condom, zipping. Then he lifted her in his arms, her thong wafting to the floor.

The office was large, with a sofa, chair, and coffee table, in addition to the desk and a small conference table. His walls were tastefully decorated with photographs of birds in flight. She thought of flying away with them.

He plopped down on the leather sofa with her in his arms. She was naked below the waist, but her skin was hot, her face flushed.

God, what had she done coming here begging for . . . something ? She hadn’t been able to go home. She’d driven around aimlessly until she realized she was turning in ever decreasing circles around his office building. And she’d succumbed.

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” she whispered. A phone call wasn’t enough. She’d needed his voice and his touch.

When she wanted to run away, he’d become the place she could run to. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on as if he’d try to get free of her if she didn’t grip him tightly.

Dominic had told her to go home, but she couldn’t face home. She couldn’t face her mother, not the clearing out, not the old ghosts, nothing.

“Make me safe,” she said, her words barely more than a breath. She’d never been safe. Men always changed, always decided you weren’t good enough, always moved on, but before they left, they made you feel as if you were worthless, useless, unloved, unwanted. No longer special or precious.

Only Luke had let her keep coming back. For now. How much longer?

“You’re safe,” he murmured against her hair.

She held him tighter. “Don’t make me go.” She clutched so hard, her arms trembled.

“I won’t.”

Squeezing her eyes shut only served to make her head hurt, and suddenly the tears were so close to the surface, she couldn’t stop them leaking through her closed lids. “I’m so scared,” she whispered, “I’m so scared.” Scared of what, she didn’t know, but she kept saying it in the hopes he would make it go away, turn it into a lie. Make her safe.

 

 

SHE HAD NEVER CRIED BEFORE, NOT LIKE THIS. NOT EVEN WHEN her father died. She’d cried in the throes of orgasm, though Luke could never have said whether the tears were of pleasure or pain. But after sex, they ended.

He could not have said why it was so profound that she did so for him now.

“Don’t be scared,” he murmured with every breath against her hair, as if she were a child needing comfort. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.”

He couldn’t imagine ever letting her go. What she asked for now was the intimacy he’d craved, tenderness, comfort, the sweet moments after sex where two souls communed. He
needed
her to need him. He wanted her dependence so that he could provide for her. He held her, absorbed her pain, her tears, and felt as though he were the most important man in the world.

Yet he’d become a part of her ritual, the scene she played out over and over to make herself feel better. While he loved how she needed him, ran to him, there was a wrongness to it he’d never felt before the last few days. Like he’d become the abuser who said he was sorry afterward. He feared what he was doing, no matter how perfect and good it was for him, would prove to be bad for her in the final analysis.

GOD, THAT WAS PATHETIC. SHE WAS ASHAMED. SHE’D BAWLED LIKE a baby in his office until his secretary buzzed him for his meeting.

“What’s up with that?” Bree asked herself as she drove home. She couldn’t quite remember what it was all about except that long spiral down about how he’d leave her eventually, blah, blah, blah. But she’d remembered to drive directly over to her condo and pick up the clothing he’d told her to wear, only dresses or skirts, no pants. Oh yes, she’d jumped to follow those orders.