Chase (3 page)

His eyes gleam. ‘Hey. How about the real thing?’

His eyelids lower as he watches me move back down his magnificent body and nestle between his thighs. I lean over his hot shaft and breathe deep. His earthy aroma fills my senses, still drowsy from sleep, and an instant throb of arousal drums between my legs. I lean forward to kiss the tip, letting my hair trail over his abdomen in a silky fall and thrilling to his sharp intake of breath as I do it.

I take the bulging, glossy head in my mouth and suck gently, eyeing him playfully from the shelter of his warm, muscular thighs and admiring his male landscape, the hills and valleys of his muscular chest, the dark hair snaking down his belly towards me where it curls and nestles at his root.

‘
Wow
. You’re really something.’ His intelligent, predatory face creases into a lazy smile, the gleam in his eyes telling me he wants me hard and fast and he wants me
now.

He gets me. He gets every twirl and lick of my willing tongue, every ounce of devotion I can summon up from my willing mouth and every spasm of my eager, hungry throat as I lunge and gag over him, eager to please and feral with lust.

But just as I think he’ll score he seizes my head in his hands. I hesitate with him still in my mouth.
What’s wrong?
Am I too fast? Too slow? Scraping with my teeth?

I’m wearing the bracelets. The consequences of inept performance could be dire.

‘Turn over.’

With an effort I pull away, breathless, and he rolls me over so I’m lying face down.

‘Up on your knees,’ he says softly.

I get in position and instantly he reaches between my legs and flexes his hand to splay my thighs wider and tease my eager, swelling mound with tiny touches of his fingertips.

‘Feeling skittish, are we?’

‘You bet.’ I catch my breath as he tweaks one of my soft outer lips, his touch ruthless and deliberate, challenging me to keep still.

‘Ah, but you’re wearing the bracelets. You’ve got obligations.’ His soft murmur thrills through me as he trails soft kisses all along my backbone, making me arch.

He keeps his hand on target, his fingers slipping into every hidden, private fold they find there except the main one. I writhe as I try to reach his questing finger and pair it to my eager little bud but instantly he guesses and takes his hand away.

‘Obligations?’ I bleat, desperate to reach his finger again as my climax starts to build, its distant drumbeat persistent and unmistakeable but growing slowly louder.

He curves over me, his thighs hot against my tender rear. ‘You call me sir, and you speak when I tell you. Understood?’

He scoops my hair into a ponytail and hauls back my head, drops a hot kiss on the side of my neck and then nuzzles against my ear. ‘Well?’

Whoa
. This is hotter than I’m used to at this hour. ‘Yes,
sir
,’ I gasp.

He jerks my head up again and nuzzles my other earlobe. ‘Plus you’re a bad girl falling asleep on duty. Agreed?’

I feel a tremor as I guess what’s coming. A tremor ripples through me, not quite fear but something hot, dark and exciting. It raises goose bumps all over me. ‘Yes, sir.’ I hang over his moving hand, willing him closer, panting for release but resigned to my fate.

His voice continues to murmur at my back, his lips warm and stirring on my skin, his tone low and deadly as he lists my misdeeds. ‘And you’re still sleepy. So we better wake you up. What do you say?’

I swallow. ‘Yes, sir. I’m sure you’re right, sir.’

I hear him breathe a soft sigh of satisfaction and all at once he takes his hand away and holds his fingers over my face. ‘Lick.’

Now my fate is sealed. I draw his fingers into my mouth, closing my mind to what’s about to happen and homing in on the shape and rigidity of his fingers and the shameful taste of my lust.

When they’re licked clean my arousal burns hotter than ever, riper than a bursting peach. The bed shifts as he kneels beside me and starts to arrange me into the position he wants.

It’s the only breathing space I’ll have so I take deep breaths and will myself to relax. I clear my mind of everything except the nagging throb of arousal deep between my legs.

‘Head down. Knees up close to your chest, ass in the air. Hands out to the sides.’

His commands are short and sharp. I sense his growing excitement. His need fuels mine as I shuffle into position. The pose is hard to reach and even harder to hold.

He waits patiently. Is he enjoying my struggle or getting angry? All at once he commands me to keep still. ‘Twenty to start. Then we’ll see how it goes.’

His voice is low and serious. This should be fun but I sense it’s turning into something darker. We’re in new territory now.

Quivering with excitement I hold my breath as the first slap lands. It stings like crazy but I clench my teeth and groan into the pillow as the next blows land. After the fifth I draw in a slow breath and force myself to breathe normally as excitement shoots though me, sparks erupting at every jolt of stinging, flashing pain. As he carries on the sting eases and now his rhythm is steady and relentless.

Usually when we do this he pauses every so often to stroke me or fondle me, or even gives up altogether and we simply make love. But this time the pressure is unforgiving and the blows painful.

What’s going on here?

At last it’s done and he leans close. ‘More?’

Along the covers I see the diamonds flash in the early morning light.
It’s because of the bracelets.
We’re in a strange place now, one new to me but scarily familiar to him. It comes with a new language and new rules.

‘Yes, sir,’ I falter.

‘Good girl.’ He grins against my ear, his lips warm and his low murmur soft.

I’m emotional now. I feel tears sting as a wave of heat scorches through me. He lands another, and then two more, and then all at once he pauses.

‘Are you ready?’ His low, dark murmur thrills through me as his hand moves softly over my punished, glowing backside, his touch making me burn, his breath so close to my ear making me shudder.

‘Yes.’ I grunt with frustration as he lands another blow, ferocious this time.

‘Yes
what?
’

I close my eyes. This is it, the power of the bracelets. This is what he wants me to accept, this mindless pattern of ritual and obedience.

It’s to keep me safe.
And, amazingly, it’s getting to me. It’s weirdly arousing, having to do things, having to submit …

‘Yes,
sir.
I close my eyes and breathe out a deep sigh as he plunges inside, his delicious lunge robbing me of breath. He fills me up, over and over, until we reach our peak and climax almost as one and finally collapse in a spent, laughing heap onto the bed.

Boston, where I teach, is lovely in the fall. New England’s biggest city has ocean coastline, leafy avenues and friendly faces. As in any university city after Labor Day, the students are drifting back after the summer break. They bring with them an air of excitement. Longer evenings mean new faces, cold crisp mornings and hot new dates.

At our little specialist Academy the new semester has just begun.

Sunlight slants into the classrooms and the gym, the light pale and sharp now through the dark, late-summer green of the leaves as fall approaches. Our students’ lives are a universe away from the average Ivy Leaguer but they’re just as young, eager and full of hope.

Today’s Freaky Friday. We trade places with the students by dressing down while the students put on suits. I resist joining my female colleagues in full-on schoolgirl burlesque. Echoes of Miss Normal warn me this would be unseemly. Worse, dark Darnley-related images spring instantly to mind. Primly I resist bobbysox and mini-pleats but give in far enough to redistribute my daytime ponytail into kooky pigtails tied with silly bows. I complete my outfit with pedal-pushers and sneakers.

I aim for sporty but feel like an idiot.

Well aware that on weekdays Darnley’s a million miles away from my working life, I forget what I’m wearing the instant I arrive. The students love doing this and look surprisingly cool in their sharp suits. They even act more grown-up so maybe it does some good.

We have all kinds of students here – referrals mainly. None of them stay long. Some come from remand centres, some from rehab. Some are from wealthy backgrounds, some from the streets. Drama’s part of the programme on offer here to help them rehabilitate, boost their college prospects or work through personal problems. They mix with students from other backgrounds and age groups. Many are even older than me; I’m barely two years out of college and some of these ‘kids’ are in their early thirties.

We rub along. They pity my hollow, empty life and probably think I tuck myself into some cupboard at night with a cat, or maybe stay over, motionless as the furniture.

They, on the other hand, have busy, important lives poised on the edge of survival. When will they score next? Will they be beaten up on the way home? Does that boy or girl really fancy them or are they after their friend? Are their Converses cool enough? When will they eat?

They know I want to help them. Kindly they let me fill their afternoons with my patient efforts to explain drama and poetry like I’m some crazy, well-meaning aunt. Sometimes they enjoy it, sometimes they even get into it.

Attention spans vary from short to shorter but today they’re being very attentive. Drama class has never been so popular. Eldon has arrived with his camera, his blond, boy-band good looks and his fierce, uncertain temper laced with just that hint of danger he inherits from his family: that hint of Wolfe.

He should fit in well here. Like our students, he’s a little wild too.

He’s here to make a start on his movie and today’s a trial run.

Right now the slanting sunlight pools on their tense, focused faces as they work through the drama piece I’ve set them, one of my favourites. It’s from a play about love and loss, hope and despair, the twists and turns of fate and how a chance remark or a misplaced glance can lead to joy or death.

We’re working on the balcony scene from
Romeo and Juliet.

It’s going surprisingly well. They totally get the passion, the jealousy and the violence. They get the feuding and the loyalties, the sex, the interfering adults and the street fights. To them this is home turf. Even the language is just another gang speaking its own code. They don’t know the words but they get what they mean.

As they act it through I almost kid myself they’ll remember some of it; at least till they get back out on the street and real life kicks in again.

Foolishly I feel proud. I love my work.

Right now there’s a hushed silence as we all lean forward, keen to see how Winton, our new Romeo, gets it on with Suki, our Juliet. Their balcony greeting was a triumph – delicate and intense.

Winton has a problem with one of his lines. Unknown to him it’s one of the most famous in literature and one of the best loved in Shakespeare.

‘
But soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
’

Ever fascinated by their take on things I wait while they explore the image here.

Winton’s genuinely perplexed. ‘But
soft
? What’s he sayin’ to her? “Hi, Babe, your butt’s soft?” C’mon, man. He’d just say, “Hi
.
”
Kin I say “Hi,” Mz Dean?’

There’s a ripple of laughter and another voice joins in. ‘
High
? Sure is if he thinks light kin break
windows
. What’s he on, man? Ms Dean, kin we break a window? Like – a sound effec’ or sump’n?’

Sometimes the students teach me more than I teach them. Behind his camera even Eldon’s grinning.

I’m calling a halt before we get too deeply into the precise dosage of Romeo’s pre-Juliet entertainment when a slender girl walks into our midst. She looks round calmly, seemingly unaware she’s interrupting something.

We all go into freeze-frame.

Early in the year the students here are edgy. I tend to get the odd stray wandering in from other classes. Today word will have gone round about the movie-making so I’m expecting several. Sometimes they even join in.

But this girl puzzles me.

She has the confident air of a socialite, plus she’s beautiful in a fair, haughty kind of way. She has high cheekbones, hazel eyes and silky hair. Her eyes fasten on me with a glimmer of satisfaction.

‘Hi.’ I speak low in the sudden silence. ‘Are you looking for somewhere?’

‘This the drama class? I just found it.’ She has a light accent. She tilts her head and smiles. ‘Mind if I watch?’

‘Sure.’ I grin. This one must be from rehab. Her manner is cool but something about her is tense, like she’s hiding something. They’re often like that. ‘Take a seat.’

Behind us the camera keeps on whirring. We carry on with the lesson and I’m deep into some complex stage instruction about facing to the front so their voices will carry when I hear a flurry of movement at the back of the hall. More visitors.

I ignore it, but now the silence lengthens as the students stare past me at something over my shoulder. Slowly I turn round to see who it is and I freeze.

Darnley?
Here?

He’s standing just inside the door, flanked by his men. I watch spellbound as they fan out silently along the walls. The students are equally mesmerised. They’ve all seen hit men on TV. They know instantly these are the real deal. And all eyes, mine included, fasten on the striking figure at their head, his presence as arresting as his namesake predator.

He scans the room, pointedly ignoring Eldon, and then fixes on me. For an earth-shattering second I feel slow heat rise in my cheeks then his gaze passes on without interest. A smile of surprised greeting dies on my lips as he fastens on the blonde, now gracing a battered canvas chair near the front of the stage, her slender legs in a model’s pose.

He strides across the room, grabs hold of her arm and hauls her roughly to her feet.

He knows her?

He speaks low but his angry words are clear and forceful. ‘
What the hell do you think you’re doing?
’