Falloir (Passion Noire Book 2) (21 page)

I feel my cheeks flame as I step into The Kid’s room. God, I really am acting more like a teen than the one in front of me, lounging on his bed in a darkened room, despite the beautiful weather outside, and with his iPod playing music that I can hear clearly from several feet away, despite the fact that ear buds are plugging his ears. I touch his foot so as not to alarm him but his eyelids spring open and his face morphs into a mask of fear and loathing. I hate this. I hate that someone has made such a beautiful boy so guarded, so affected, so ... damaged.

My heart swells as he drags the ear buds from his ears with a scowl. I know it’s not me he’s upset with. It’s himself for reacting the way he just did. The way that he’s programmed to react. I will break it. I must have vowed that hundreds of times in the past few months. And I mean it every damned time. I chatter away about his room being back to normal after the fire now as he rides that little spike of adrenaline. Then I give him a hug and leave him with the capable voice of Taylor Swift, on whom I happen to know he has the hugest crush. Can’t say I blame him, that chick is hot.

By the time I wander out into the hallway, Jones is waiting, thankfully clad in his newly laundered clothes. And, mercifully, my mind decides to behave and not give me the X-rated version as I follow him down to the car. I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed that he has fake registration plates on it when I walked past it earlier. I guess I’m not as observant as I thought.

The drive to Vouloir is quiet but relaxed. He takes me to the back door, although I would have been quite happy to be dropped off at the front door, seeing as this visit is purely pleasure, not business. I can’t remember the last time that happened. And believe me, that knowledge is as depressing as hell.

‘Thanks, Jones. I appreciate the lift,’ I say, my hand reaching for the door release.

He smiles. ‘Think nothing of it, this is practically on my way.’

I return his smile but, from nowhere, there’s an unexpected and inexplicable atmosphere between us. He’s tense, almost as though we’ve had a row and he lost so he’s sulking.

‘Have fun on your date. I’m surprised you have your brown contacts in. For any female, excluding me, your own eyes are probably a get-into-bed-free card.’

He laughs and smirks. ‘Yeah, they can be but I was waiting until I’d dropped you off before I took them out.’

I almost hear the penny drop in that handsome head as I throw open the door and slide out. ‘Oh shit,’ he cries. ‘I didn’t mean that I was taking them out to get her into bed. Because I’m not. I wasn’t wearing them earlier on so she thinks they’re blue. And I wasn’t trying to bed her then either. They just help to get attention sometimes ...’

His voice tails off and it looks like he’s a bit coy about admitting that he uses his looks to open doors or give him an edge. I’m standing looking down on him inside the car and I have to force myself not to laugh. It’s something I do all the time and, if people are stupid enough to fall for it, that says more about them than it does about me.

‘Relax, Jones. Your pulling techniques are none of my business.’

He bristles. ‘I’m just doing whatever I need to in order to get inside Thierri’s place. It’s you that needs that to happen.’ His voice softens as he continues, ‘Look, I’d better get going. Please be careful in there. Call if you need me—I won’t be far away.’

I thank him and push the door to, feeling like a chastened teenager. Are my hormones playing up? Around now, if I wasn’t infertile, wouldn’t my body clock be going into overdrive? Maybe that’s it. My hormones are confused so I’m behaving like a moody teenager. But, as Jones pulls away and leaves me standing in the alley, I can’t help but feel that it’s not just my hormones that are confused. I can tell myself that it’s the manipulative element—him playing some girl—that I don’t like but I’m not stupid enough to pretend that it’s not more than that.

Yeah, I’m a hypocritical bitch. I’m in here to get fucked seven ways till Sunday but the thought of him taking some
girl
out for drinks is irking me. I need to get it out of my system and, when I walk up to the bar and see that gorgeous man mountain chatting to some wannabe Domme, my heart does a little flutter. Give me half an hour and I’ll be thinking ‘Jones who?’ I guarantee it. Of course, I could say, ‘Give me thirty seconds ...’ but I’m old school. My rules of engagement forbid me from walking up and overtly and unashamedly taking him from under the nose of the young pretender. No, I bide my time and stand at the other end of the bar—I don’t sit, it would be a sin to spoil the visual that this corset creates. I’m glad it won’t take long. I’m not a fan of delayed gratification but I was taught by Thierri, who ensured my dominance is permeated with respect.

There’s no sign of Gabe so I order a drink from Charlotte, a fairly new addition to the team who really should have got a job she liked. She’s not going to last five minutes, I realise as she manages to slosh JD and Coke on to the bar. I give her a look that would make most people apologise whether or not they’d done anything wrong but she just gives me a look that says, ‘bite me.’ She’s lucky I’m sufficiently distracted by a certain someone further down the bar, or I might have been tempted to do just that. Instead, I’ll make sure Gabe lines someone else up by the end of the week because she’s history.

I sip my drink and nonchalantly look around me. My gaze lands on my target. I kick myself for not getting his name but, for now, I’ll call him Prey. I catch Prey’s eye, hold it for just a fraction too long and then reluctantly allow my eyes to slide off him, back into the fray. When they find their way back to the other side of the bar, I find that his are waiting. Immediately they lock on, he averts his gaze respectfully.

Game on.

He slowly raises them to the level of my chest—lucky him. I almost smile but instead, I perform a quick chin lift that he’ll see in his peripheral vision and, in doing so, give him permission to engage. I watch as he disentangles himself from the grabby clutches of the young Domme-in-training whose crass attempts to hang on to him reek of desperation and a lack of the required self-respect. I pity her. She needs a good mentor but I’m too busy to take her on. I file it away for further consideration at some point when I’m not in desperate need of at least a dozen good orgasms.

He approaches slowly, eyes averted. My pussy is almost meowing at the sight of him. She’s keen to try out her claws on his cock to find out just how good his erection control is, never mind his orgasm control. I have to fight the urge to press my thighs together when he joins me. I’m playing it cool but my pussy’s practically rubbing herself against his shins. If he sits, she’ll be all for jumping on his lap and sharpening her claws on his cock, right here and now. She loves nothing more than to purr loudly to express her satisfaction when she gets the attention she deserves.

He offers to buy me a drink but I don’t want my senses to be blurred by alcohol, not with this prize Prey so I thank him but refuse. I see uncertainty in his eyes although they’re respectfully averted. He’s not as confident as I’d thought when I saw him in the playroom. He’s now doubting himself. Maybe it’s because it’s me. I don’t wish to blow sunshine up my own arse so I won’t ... for some reason, most people who frequent Vouloir want their chance with me but then, when some get it, most of them are afflicted by nerves to differing degrees.

It’s time to up the ante and see whether getting into his role will give him some comfort or whether he’ll lose it. If it’s the latter, he can fuck off and, sadly for Gabe, there’s nobody else in here tonight who can scratch my itch. I feel a fleeting sense of panic when I realise that I’ve not seen Gabe tonight. If this goes to shit and he’s not here, I’m fucked. Or not. My pussy turns in a circle and settles down for a nap since nothing’s doing but she sleeps with one eye open, just in case.

I put my drink down and place a finger under his chin, lifting it to look into his soul. To his credit, he leaves his barriers down and I read him like a book. My pussy opens her other eye and stretches lazily. I release him, click my fingers once and point to the floor. In one breathtaking moment of graceful submission, he’s on his knees. It was the fear of being rejected that was making him uncertain. The therapist in me wants to get to the bottom of that but my pussy digs her claws in sharply, refocusing my attention and my priorities.

I hold out a foot and he reverently takes hold of it and lays his cheek against the top of my foot. If I had ovaries, they would just have exploded. I grab his hair and snatch my foot from his grasp, stepping up to him before pressing his face into my groin. I’m wearing a tiny leather thong that’s fighting a losing battle with my slit.

‘Taste me,’ I whisper.

Immediately, I feel his tongue skilfully negotiate its way past the leather barrier and dip inside. My pussy’s coiled like a spring, waiting to pounce. It’s time to get him naked and though I’d happily get down and dirty right here, right now, my tools of the trade are in my room, plus I don’t want Gabe to think I’m rubbing his nose in it ... if he ever puts in an appearance. Fuck knows where he’s got to.

I pull back and instruct him to follow me. I don’t know his preferences so I allow him to walk rather than crawl. I should have found all this stuff out. I’m in the mood for some extreme domination tonight but, without knowing Prey’s limits, as well as his preferences, the responsible thing is to play it safe. I’m almost pouting by the time we reach my room but, when I ask him for his safe word, he surprises me by rattling off his hard and soft limits and finishes with his safe word: sprouts.

I raise an eyebrow and he gives a sheepish grin. ‘I never did like sprouts,’ he says with a shrug. I don’t care what it is—as long as I can remember it. I’m like a pig in a pool of mud: Prey’s list of limits is very, very short. I can’t hold back my smile of anticipation. I’ve got hours with this gorgeous creature and virtually carte blanche ... now that’s my idea of heaven.

‘Strip,’ I instruct. It’s show time and I’m the ring master ... every good ring master has a whip, don’t they? I take mine out from the sideboard where I keep my arsenal of pleasurable weaponry. These days, it’s fairly rare to find a manly sub for whom whipping is not off limits. The fools don’t realise that a whip can be wielded skilfully to cause less marking of the skin than a leather flogger.

My past prevents me from badly maiming or severely harming another, either physically or mentally. Luckily, I haven’t come across many manly subs who are into intense pain. The sight of open wounds make me cringe—it definitely does not arouse me. I find that most manly subs are sexual masochists in the psychological sense: to become sexually aroused when planning or participating in being bound and made to suffer physical pain and/or humiliation. That pain could be anything from the mild sting of a playful spanking all the way up to the levels that most people think of when the terms sadism or masochism are flung around carelessly in everyday life.

I love that the psychological definition gives provision for the exclusion of pain altogether which just leaves humiliation. Again, the spectrum is vast and is mostly concerned with other paraphilias such as the most common fetishes. As I watch the godlike body in front of me slide his jeans down his long, muscular legs, I wonder again why psychology dictates that the whole concept—every part of it—is classed as a mental disorder. I don’t mean that if you engage in a little playful spanking that you’d be labelled as having a mental disorder but, technically it does fall under the heading of sadomasochism.

But then, every member of Vouloir could easily be diagnosed as having a mental disorder as every single one of them technically have at least one paraphilia. In geek speak, paraphilias are associated with sexual arousal in response to stimuli not considered normal sexual behaviour. What does psychology consider normal? If you wandered out of the relatively tame Ann Summers with a pair of fluffy handcuffs or some strawberry flavoured lube, does that mean you have a mental disorder? What about if you have a dildo or a vibrator? Or, shock horror, what if you bought your fella a cock ring? Does a Rampant Rabbit Thruster Deluxe mean that you have a one way ticket to a meeting with a shrink? Yeah, well, if you factor in the fact that the World Health Organisation only removed homosexuality from a list of formal psychiatric diagnoses in 1992, there’s hope for the rest of us.

Right now, as Prey is slipping his thumbs inside the band at the top of his boxer briefs and preparing to bare all, I’m more than happy to let my freak flag fly. I lick my lips in anticipation, already picturing him naked and at my mercy as I unleash a torrent of pleasurable humiliation and a little bit of pain. I think we’ll start with a bit of indulgence ... both of us enjoy a little foot worship if I recall correctly, oh and I do—how could I forget? It is definitely on the agenda. I might lightly whip his arse as he sucks my toes ... just enough to pink the skin covering his firm glutes. I might even curl the odd one so it flicks between his legs. It will feel like someone is nipping his inner thighs or even his balls. Just enough discomfort to concentrate the mind and cement our roles, you understand. Depending upon how he reacts to it, there may be more, there may be less. It’s one pleasure seeking adventure.

His cock is exposed. It’s like a baby’s arm and it’s soft. A growl, originating in my pussy, rumbles up my throat and out of my mouth. Fuck, I’m more than ready for this. My eyes sweep from his cock to his feet and all the way back up. I start when I see Jones’ tattoos appearing on his body. I blink, determinedly banishing them. Yeah, Prey would look good with ink but I don’t want to be comparing him to Jones. I don’t even want to be thinking about Jones, for fuck’s sake. Suddenly, I’m in the mood for getting on with it.

I sit on my bed, my whip still in my hand. ‘Take off my boots,’ I demand and I cannot express how delicious it feels when he sinks to his knees without hesitation, looking proud, reverent and downright fuckable. His fingers are more nimble that his large, firm hands would have you believe and, in no time, he has my boots off. I’m wearing thigh-length hold ups and I can see the effect my nylon-clad feet are having on him. His breathing has deepened and there’s a spot of colour high on each cheek. But that cock is still flaccid. Fuck, for a foot fetishist, that’s no mean feat.