Authors: Joey W. Hill
your eyes, I see a young soul, one
who had her wings
clipped too soon. She doesn’t realize
they’ve grown back,
that she can spread them out and fly,
final y realize the
potential that’s been there al along.”
“Jon—”
Shifting, he closed his hand over one
of hers at his waist.
When he detached her fingers, he
gave them a quick
squeeze and then turned, taking her
across the room to the
drafting table, the stool there. He slid
a hip onto it, then
perused her with that lingering,
appraising look. “Take off
the shoes.”
He’d tolerate no disobedience, no
discussion. She didn’t
know what that would mean if she
resisted, but her pulse
thudded hard against her throat. Her
shoes. If that was al
he was asking, she could do that,
right? And truth, they
were pinching her feet. As she slid
out of them, giving up
the two-inch height they’d offered,
she immediately realized
why slaves were made to go
barefoot. There was a distinct
difference in status, looking down at
her feet clad only in
thin stockings, positioned between
his polished dress
shoes. Her toes curled into the deep
carpet.
“Now the hair. Take it down and
hand me the pins.”
He’d told her to leave her hair down
in the note. He’d told
her a lot of other things in that note as
wel . Would she strip
down here if he ordered her to do so,
no matter who might
come in? She realized then that Lucas
hadn’t closed the
door ful y. It was pul ed to the
doorjamb, a smal sliver of
hal way visible. She needed to—
“Do as I tel you, Rachel. Trust your
Master to take care of
you.”
It made her stomach jump.
Coincidence, or had he read
her thoughts that clearly? No matter
what it was, she’d
already raised her arms, and was pul
ing out the pins,
letting down the uneven wisps in
front that fel like feathers
against her face, caressing her cheeks
and lips. Then,
final y, the clip and ribbon that held
the bun, the twisted tail
fal ing against her neck in a
serpentine curve that teased
the modest open neckline of the
blouse.
“Don’t straighten it. Hand me
everything.”
She extended her hand, but he didn’t
take them, not right
away. He gripped her wrist, drew
her between his spread
thighs. Then he plucked the hair
fasteners from her, set
them aside.
“Put your hands on my knees and
leave them there.”
That at least was easy enough. She
relished even that
limited touch, though she knew she
shouldn’t. She shouldn’t
be doing any of this. She felt the
muscle layers that ran from
his thigh into the kneecap area, a hint
of the bone beneath.
She remembered his execution of
Sleeping Thunderbolt
once again, the strain of those thigh
muscles, the flex of the
calves. The arch of his beautiful
body. Her gaze drifted. The
way his thin cotton trousers had
molded his groin area,
drawing her eyes there…
Slacks of course were cut loosely,
but with his thighs
spread, she could discern the curve
of testicles and more
than a hint of what else was there,
giving her the gratifying
torment of knowing he was also
aroused.
“Rachel, did I give you permission to
look at my cock?”
“No.” She dropped her gaze to her
feet quickly.
“Good girl.”
When he cupped both strong palms
around her throat, a
moan caught there, beneath his touch.
She’d never had
such a startlingly intense reaction to
such a simple contact,
but he’d recognized it for what it was
last night.
You’ve
wanted a collar for a long time…
Untwisting the tail of her
hair, he spread it over her shoulders.
Then he moved up to
her face, burying his fingers into the
thick strands there,
combing it al out with his fingers in
slow, firm strokes that
had her eyes closing, her body
swaying toward him.
His touch dropped to her jaw next,
cradling it, his thumbs
sweeping along her throat again to
send those ripples of
reaction across her body, like a
sudden breeze flitting over
stil water. When he pushed the jacket
off her shoulders,
she didn’t resist, might have even
shrugged to help. It
dropped to the floor behind her. Her
heart thudded harder
when he flicked open two additional
buttons of her blouse,
revealing her bra. It wasn’t overly
sexy, a serviceable
undergarment with a touch of pretty
lace at the cups and
enough padding that her nipples
wouldn’t disrupt the way
the shirt smoothed over her bosom.
His arm slid around her
waist, his fingers plucking the shirt
free of her belted slacks.
The pressure of his hold brought her
in another step, her
hips pressed against the inside of his
thighs. She wasn’t
breathing. He’d touched her last
night, but denied her the
ability to touch him al that much,
except for lying on his
chest at the end. Now her body
burned with the need to
touch and taste, but he hadn’t given
her permission. She
embraced this state of longing,
satisfaction held out of
reach by his wil . It was painful,
pleasurable—a rhythmic
seesaw between both, almost like the
slow drag of a
tongue along the clitoris, from the
base to the ultrasensitive
top, intensity building and receding,
building and receding.
That was entirely the wrong kind of
thought to be having
right now, because her breath had
caught in her throat,
fingers twitching, thighs tensing.
Everywhere he was
touching her was coming alive, taking
away her ability to
think.
Reaching up under the shirt, he slid
along her spine,
making her arch into him. When he
breathed against her
jaw, it was flavored with a satisfied,
very male half-chuckle.
With no hesitation, he unclipped the
bra so it loosened
beneath the blouse.
“Unbutton your cuffs and take it off
through the sleeves.
Leave the shirt on.”
He left his hands resting low on her
hips as she did it, but
leaned against the stool’s backrest,
watching the arch and
stretch of her body as she complied.
Opening the cuffs, she
slid one strap down over her wrist,
then the other, then
pul ed the whole thing through. He
took it from her hand,
lifted it to inhale the inside of one
soft cup. Watching him do
it made her breasts ache for the mere
stroke of his breath.
His gaze dropped to them and another
of those tiny moans
caught in her throat at the flare of
desire in his eyes. He
didn’t seem to mind her watching him
now, but when his
gaze shifted back to her face, she
lowered her lashes on
instinct.
“I like seeing a woman’s nipples
through a thin blouse.
Particularly yours. Kneel for me,
Rachel.”
She remembered what he’d said
about the lipstick,
about how he wanted it marking his
cock when she sucked
him off. Her pussy was already wet,
she could feel it, but
now those internal muscles clenched,
wanting him, wanting
to service him that way.
She should have learned from last
night he wasn’t
predictable. Instead, once she was on
her knees, he began
to stroke her hair again, applying
pressure so that she slid
to one hip on the Berber carpet. Now
leaning against the
outside of his left leg, she dropped
her head to his thigh as
he petted her, slid his knuckles along
her cheek, played his
fingers through her hair, fondled and
massaged.
“The drawing I’m working on has to
be done in the next
hour. You’l stay right where you are
until I’m done. No
matter who comes in, or what occurs,
you stay where you
are. Tel me you understand.”
“I understand.” Her voice was barely
a whisper, but she
got it out, and thankful y, he didn’t
ask her to repeat herself.
“If the position gets uncomfortable,
you tel me, and I’l
give you permission to shift. Until
then, al you have to do is
kneel at your Master’s feet, Rachel.
That’s the only
responsibility you have.”
She couldn’t bring herself to cal him
that, but every time
he did, her reaction to it was
obvious, in the way her pussy
clenched on too much empty space
and her skin tingled,
from the tips of her breasts to the
sensitive pulse points of
her wrists. It was like the mere word
cast a net over her, the
rope of it caressing her everywhere,
holding her to him.
The surface part of her mind was
resisting, screaming
that she couldn’t possibly do this, that
she knew this wasn’t
going to work, that she’d come here
to bring an end to it
and she was impossibly weak. But
there was another part
of her, quieter yet somehow stronger,
that made her close
her eyes and press her cheek into his
thigh, enough that her
lips could graze the stretch of his
slacks over it. His hand
continued to stroke her neck, his
fingers tangling in her hair.
When she did that, the grip tightened
briefly, but he didn’t
stop her from doing it.
She heard the scratch of his pencil,
felt the minute shifts
of his body and knew he’d begun to
work on the drawing.
She couldn’t help stealing glances at
him, at once amazed
and incredibly aroused by how
focused he was on what he
was doing, the set of his mouth, the
quick shifts of his eyes
over the drawing elements.
Occasional y, he rumbled
something, a calculation or other
thought he was voicing
aloud to himself, and he might erase
or move to another
part of the paper.
She made a discovery of her own,
that her body could be
in an astounding state of lassitude and
intense awareness
simultaneously. Her body literal y
throbbed, blood pounding
against pulse points, everything in her
so physical y needy
that it was like running out of oxygen.
But she was also so
incredibly stil under his touch,
content to stay this way until
the end of time if needed. Because it
pleased him.
Kneel at your Master’s feet. The
only responsibility you
have.
She knew humans had an incredible
ability to rationalize
bad decisions. If it had been an
athletic event, she would
have won a medal for sheer quantity
long ago. However, so
what if she chose to savor this one
moment of her life? If
she had to turn her back on it in the
next few moments—
No, not
if. S
he knew it was a
foregone conclusion that
she ultimately had to reject al this.
But then, that was a few
minutes from now, wasn’t it?
Even knowing how pathetic and
flimsy that was, she
couldn’t resist the chance to be here,
quiet under his wil , so
aroused at how he was doing his
work while at the same
time exerting his Mastery over her…
She wanted him to
take her here, on his office carpet.
She wanted him to open
his slacks and let her suck him to
climax. She wanted to fal
asleep this way, tied up in al these
delicious unrealized
imaginings.
Though the way his hand was
stroking through her hair
suggested an absent-minded gesture,
she could sense
how attentive he was to her presence,
to everything she
was feeling. Those who thought men
couldn’t multitask had
never met Jon Forte. She had no
doubt he could design the
answer to free energy for the world
while making her so
aroused she might die from the
feeling.
“Jon.”
At the familiar male voice, she came
out of her reverie,
her pulse jumping at the quick rap of
knuckles on the door.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw
it push open.
It was Peter.
Chapter Eight
Jon flexed his hand on her nape, a