Vegas Curves (A Masters of the Game BBW Erotic Romance) (6 page)

"None-of-your-business." Each word is a labor to expel because he hasn't stopped slowly stroking his thick finger inside me.

"You're very narrow, baby." He eases a second finger in and traces the edge of something, not the outer perimeter but a very tender inner circle just an inch or so inside me. "You have had a lover, haven't you?"

"Of course," I bite out. My body betrays the lie with a squeeze against his fingers. I shut my eyes, praying he didn't notice.

"How many?" He pushes a little deeper, finding another sensitive spot against the roof of my cunt. He takes a little come-hither stroke inside me that curls my toes and makes answering him impossible. "I can tell it's no more than a few."

Another stroke and I almost pass out.

His lips return to my clit and the sweet suckling restarts. Licking, nibbling, he waits until he had driven me back to the point of distraction before he murmurs softly against my labia, "I bet your brother knows."

He wouldn't really do something like that, would he?

"Don't--" I start.

"Then tell me." His fingers slide back to the inner ring and trace its edge. "Two?"

"Yes…two. " My cunt gives another damning squeeze and I throw my hands over my face. "Please stop asking me questions."

"Mmmm..." His tongue dips back down, filling and stretching my hole as he pushes deeper. With one big hand across my mound, he presses his thumb against the shaft of my clit, just above the hood and the tender glans it holds.

He rubs a tight, continuous circle, bullying the sensitive pearl just below the hard press of his thumb. His tongue fucks in and out. My hips take up the rhythm, my hands returning to his head. Arousal takes control of my muscles, leaving me helpless to stop the unintentional scrape of my fingernails along his scalp as my fingers curl.

Small mewling sounds contort through my throat, shaming me with how quickly I have capitulated yet again. I shake my head, dislodging the shame. His fingers and tongue feel too good -- a hundred times better than my rushed efforts to draw out a quick climax in the shower or the rare moments I have the apartment to myself.

Tension building higher than I can hope to control, something flips inside me. I slam my head against the pillow, my hips pushing high up off the mattress. I grab two handfuls of Luke's hair, worried his sweet mouth will abandon my cunt before I climax.

"Don't stop," I plead softly, the words almost breathless. "Please."

Luke groans against me, inside me, the strokes and rubs of his tongue and thumb dominating my body and mind. He flicks, nibbles, and then I am spiraling down, plummeting hard into my release. He stays with me through every twitch and roll, every shake and shudder, his strokes and thrusts coming faster, more insistent until I collapse to the mattress in a quivering mess.

My pussy throbs with hard contractions around his immobile fingers and even that threatens to set me off a second time. I am sated and insatiable, satisfied yet ready for more. I wiggle restlessly against his fingers and begin to bite my bottom lip.

A plea of
fuck me, fuck me, fuck me
rolls through my mind and echoes across my body, but the words won't leave my mouth. Wanting, undeserving, I can only wait for his next command.

Surging up my body, Luke captures my head, his fingers knotting in my hair with the same possessive intensity with which I just held his. His tongue invades the deeper recesses of my mouth, the curling licks almost as pleasurable as the ones he took inside and against my pussy. His thick cock pushes against my mound and wedges my labia apart.

Small advances and retreats of his body force the shaft up and down my clit. My hands find his hips and fasten around them. I want to cry -- from pleasure, from confusion, from the dozen different emotions whipping through me.

It's not as if I live a sheltered life. I know about sex. I have viewed it on television and in movies, heard its sounds through thin walls, interrupted its early stages far too often in separating Rose from her latest boyfriend when she was a teenager.

But, whatever the medium, I have only and always been the outsider, the viewer, the listener -- until now.

Luke brushes his thumbs across my cheeks then kisses each one in turn. I realize my desire to cry has progressed to actual tears.

"Are you afraid, Marie?"

He sounds concerned again, like he will stop if I admit I am afraid. He has no right to sound tender and gentle. He has blackmailed me into this bed. I shut my eyes, more tears falling as I struggle with my arousal and anger.

His mouth finds my ear, his hand caressing a path down my body. His fingers smooth over my mound then slide inside me once more. I squeeze around him, thighs tightening, hips lifting. A fresh moan curls its way past my lips and I give a little upward pump against his fingers.

I haven't answered Luke's question, but he has ways to make me talk. I don't even have to open my mouth to tell him everything he needs to know.

Afraid or not, I want him.

He rolls onto his side, his hands and mouth leaving me. I suppress the traitorous whine scratching at my throat as I roll with him. I pull my legs up, my arms protectively covering my breasts.

Seeing me curl in a fetal position, Luke smiles. His attempt to flatten the expression turns it wry, just the corners of his generous lips flipping upward. Blinking, he turns away and sits up.

I study his back. Light olive brown and muscled, it makes my fingers itch with the need to stroke the supple flesh. I roll my lips in appreciation, my gaze jumping, as he extends his arm and opens the drawer on the nightstand next to the bed.

I don't pay the slightest attention to the drawer or his interest in its contents. My attention whispers along the slight turning of his narrow waist, the glimpse of his firm, shapely ass as he leans forward, the flex of his shoulder and biceps as he reaches into the drawer.

Mesmerizing.

Withdrawing his hand, Luke places an object on the nightstand.

Seeing the object, I freeze then thaw just long enough to shake my head. Whatever that black, rubbery column of three balls of increasing size is called, it is not going in me. I don't care which direction or which hole. It isn't going in. Period.

Looking from that thing to Luke's face, I see his wry smile split a little wider. He breaks it with a lick of his bottom lip then reaches back into the drawer. He pulls out something I recognize -- a leather flogger, its suede strips cascading over the edge of the nightstand. I press my lips together, my gaze narrowing to ensure my entire face is tightly locked down in disapproval.

"Which part of complete submission don't you understand, Marie?"

There is a tease to his voice, playful and sexy, but I am not about to be suckered in by it or by that charming lift of one brow or the way his eyes glitter when he looks at me. Those are just the effects of light and acoustics and--

My brain comes to a full stop as he pulls out a third item -- something that looks like a metal antenna but narrower and without the little knob at top.

I suck a breath in, the air entering me with a choked, wheezy cry. I blink, my eyes shuttering and opening a couple dozen times in the space of a few seconds as every muscle in my body constricts defensively.

"Marie..." Luke drops the rigid strip of metal and lightly rests his hand against my cheek.

I pull back. He knows how to please a woman, I have no doubt on that point, but that switch, or whatever it is, has nothing to do with pleasure.

"Is it this?" Bending down, he retrieves the rod from where it landed on the floor.

I flinch. His sharp gaze catches my reaction and he slowly brings the tip to rest against my cheek. His eyes narrow in concentration and he moves the switch a fraction of an inch to the right. I know what he is studying so intently. The line of the scar is thin and faint, undetectable with makeup on, but I am not wearing makeup.

"What happened here?" He strokes the tip of the switch over the scar.

I close my eyes. I don't want to talk about it. I won't.

My expression must reflect unrelenting obstinacy because he orders me to roll over. He guides me with a hand on my shoulder until I am flat on my stomach. His hands brush the hair from my back and then his fingers gently explore my flesh. He takes his first long pause at the bottom edge of my left shoulder blade. I screw my eyes more tightly shut, trying not to remember the way my father's belt strap cut into me once as I tried to run.

Luke's fingers resume their slow walk down my spine. He leans closer, his breath light and warm against the center of my back as he inspects two more faded scars. Same belt, different nights. Pressing my face deeper into the pillow, I clench my right hand in a fist.

"Show me your hand."

Nothing escapes his attention it would seem. Trying to comply, I lift my left hand and press it to his chest.

"Not the one I want." His soft, tender voice reminds me for a moment of my mother despite the clear masculine timbre. Resting his arm across my bottom, he strokes the tense lines of my fist.

I refuse to relax the hand. He sighs, the heat of his breath sending a shiver up my spine. Retreating, he strokes my shoulder and tells me again to roll over. I raise my face just enough from the pillow to speak.

"If you stop your inventory." My emotions too raw to look at him, I hide my face against the pillow once more.

He strokes my back. "Show me your hand and I will."

I shake my head, the motion lost in the down-filled pillow.

"Roll over." Nothing soft remains in his voice. This is a command, calm but resolute. He won't let go of the issue until I obey.

I roll over. The movement brings my right hand to his side of the bed. I feel as transparent as a child in trouble, but I cannot help tucking it beneath me, the palm open and flat against the mattress.

"Look at me, Marie."

I answer with another shake of my head. I am afraid of what I will see -- pity or a sadistic monster getting off on my prior pain. Either is unacceptable. Feeling Luke move, I brace against his anger even though he has yet to explode in my presence.

He drapes an arm across my chest as his weight settles onto the bed and his body sinks toward me. His lips press lightly against one shoulder while his fingers stroke the other. "The scar on your cheek is from some kind of metal rod."

I clamp my lips together. I don't want to discuss my childhood, my scars or the man who gave them to me.

Luke redirects his focus from my shoulders to my head. He brushes his chin against my ear, his hand cradling the other side of my face. "There are no abuse reports because your father kept the three of you out of school and never stopped moving."

I screw my face tighter. Shifting, Luke covers me with his body. His arms support his weight so that I feel only the animal heat radiating from his skin and the reassuring bulk of his cock and balls as they settle against the Y of my clenched thighs.

I realize he had gone soft. My reaction to his toys didn't turn him on. His voice reflects understanding, not pity.

I open my eyes to find him studying my face. Fierce concern stamps his features, deepening my confusion. Why would a man forcing me to sleep with him in return for helping me rescue my sister give a damn about how my father treated me? Why would a man with those kind of toys in his nightstand not be rock hard seeing the fear they create in me?

Luke strokes my hair from my face, his fingers combing through it to loosen the tangles. Doing so, he looks away for a few seconds. When his gaze returns to hook mine, his eyes shimmer with an unexpected wetness. "Tell me, Marie."

I open my mouth, close it to swallow, then suck a deep breath in. Luke rests his cheek against mine, gently quieting my fear and hesitation.

"One of the twins broke the antenna on a portable television." Remembering my father's discovery, I roll my lips in fear just as I did that long ago day. "The twins were three."

"So you said you broke it." Luke rubs the back of his fingers against the line of my chin.

"Yes." A sobby little hiccup erupts from my chest. Tommy had been napping on the couch that day. Finding him in the same room as the broken antenna and television, my father had lifted him roughly by the arm before I could run into the room screaming that I had broken it. The first blow with the metal wand landed on my cheek. Usually careful not to leave marks the neighbors could see, my father had then wrapped one giant hand around my face and used the wand on the back of my head four more times.

"It's okay, baby. He's never going to hurt you again." Luke pulls away, his hand seeking mine. Finding it, he coaxes me into turning it palm up. "And this?"

I closed my hand but he gently pries the fingers away. "It looks like a cigar burn."

I nod. "His last cigar two days after I spoiled a con. The woman...it was all the money she had...I was twelve."

Luke kisses the scar, then carefully closes my fingers over the mark. "Your father is lucky he's in prison."

The tight, low rumble of his voice turns the words into a death sentence. I look at Luke's face for a few seconds before the intensity of his gaze forces me to look away.

"I didn't know that." My body relaxes another fraction as I finally let go of a fear I have carried for six years. "For how long?"

"Another decade, at least." He sits up, his hands caressing my body as he continues. "Without you, his cons completely fell apart. He was busted twice the first year, the second time while he was out on bail and awaiting trial. A mix-up on the docket got his sorry ass out of jail again. It would have been a matter of hours before they discovered the error and put him back in jail. I guess that's why he immediately robbed a liquor store with a Bowie knife."

Luke traces the edge of my bottom lip with his finger. "What I can't figure out is how such a stupid, mean bastard produced a daughter like you."

I turn my head to the side. He is being almost sweet, attempting to make me feel better after his toys upset me. Instead, I feel more self-conscious and three times as confused about him as before. We are in his bedroom, naked as the day our mothers birthed us, and consent is...questionable. I mean, it doesn't exactly matter if I want to when Luke has left me no choice.