Hostile Takeover (29 page)

He could put her in the guest bedroom, but he needed to watch over her until she was in control of her faculties again. It had been a long night. So he was going to put her in his bed, with him, no matter how bad an idea that was.

He’d been fooling himself about this mentoring shit. He was a one-way track to nowhere, and Marcie was a bright, beautiful star who deserved the whole universe.

He took her into his bedroom, to the king-sized canopy bed that filled most of the room. The ceiling fan rotated slowly. Lowering her to the bed, he paused, studying her. He’d laid her down facing away from him, so he was looking at his handiwork from that angle, every mark, bite, her ass still a brighter pink than the rest of her silky skin. The caning marks, those short lines and stippling, overlaid the faint square impression of the spatula strikes. She’d loved it. Fought it, cried through it, embraced it, come like a damn nymphomaniac from it.

He should put on sweats, a T-shirt. Fuck that. He wanted to feel her against his body, and she had passed out now, anyway. Sliding in behind her, he arranged the covers over her to keep her front warm while he pressed against her back. His cock had ignored him of course, and was hard and eager when it came in contact with the soft pillow of her buttocks. He wanted more, but he didn’t want to cause her any pain.

Lifting her thigh, he slid just the head back into her ass. He’d lubricated her frequently, so there was plenty of oil there to allow him entry. He slid in a few more inches than intended but she made a soft sound, closed her muscles on him, just as he’d taught her, an automatic reflex. It made him growl, a satisfied predator. Cupping her breast, he murmured against her ear.

“Sleep, baby. You did well.” What a fucking understatement.

* * * * *

Marcie woke to find herself comfortably nested in the covers. What she’d hoped might be Ben behind her was instead a brace of pillows. It was about three a.m., the hour when restless spirits were most plentiful, explaining why she’d woken to find herself alone.

Rising with caution, she found she was stiff and sore, but overall moving better than anticipated, since she hadn’t expected to be able to move without undignified yowls of agony. She did yoga and MMA training, and those flexibility and strength workouts helped her, but she suspected the breaks Ben had taken between sessions had a great deal to do with it as well. He’d massaged her muscles and joints with those clean-smelling salves, washed her out with soothing tonics, changed her position at appropriate intervals, double- and triple-checked her bindings. Vaguely, she remembered him putting two pills on her tongue after that hazy bath, telling her to swallow, then making her finish up the glass of water.

Aspirin, brat. That, and the bath, should make things move easier tomorrow.

He knew just how extreme he was, and did the maintenance to ensure he left a lasting impression but not lasting damage. At least on a woman’s body. Her heart was a whole different matter.

His dress shirt was hanging on the armoire doorknob, above a bag of laundry with a dry-cleaning ticket. A reminder to him to drop it off today, she was sure. Things a single lawyer had to do for himself. Fingering the cloth, remembering it close to her face when he carried her up here, she pulled it from its perch, brought the collar to her nose. A combination of aftershave, soap, dry cleaning and what she really wanted to detect—male sweat, earned from his sexual exertion with her.

Considering, she threaded her arms into the sleeves.
Oh my.
For all her teasing him about his expensive indulgences, the feel of tailored cotton was…luxurious. Particularly if it smelled like Ben. These fibers had the enviable job of stroking that superb upper body all day long.

When she moved out into the hallway, she saw the French doors on the second level open to a narrow balcony. There were several potted plants there, as well as a couple outdoor chairs to view the enclosed alley below. When they arrived, she’d stolen a quick glimpse of it. She remembered a statue of a laughing child placed under the rush of water from a fountain. Thick greenery had swayed around it, a cobblestone path and a single chair suggesting a perfect nook to read and dream the lazy New Orleans day away. She wondered if he ever used it, or if it was his neighbor’s space.

Ben was leaning against the rail, but he wasn’t looking down at that scene. He had his head turned as if studying the nearby street, but there was a lack of focus in the green eyes that suggested his focus was internal. All he wore was a pair of faded jeans that rode low on his hips. It was so carelessly sexy it made her mouth water, despite the fact her body felt as if it had been through the sensual equivalent of being drop-kicked by the entire New Orleans Saints team.

There was also a loneliness to him. The moonlight gleamed on his hair, reflected the brooding look in his eyes, the wooden quality of his expression. It tightened her heart, made her go to him.

She stepped over the threshold. Since the balcony was so narrow, it brought her right up behind him. He tilted his head, aware of her, and she dared, laying her hand between his shoulder blades. She hadn’t buttoned the shirt, so when he reached back, took her hand beneath his arm to bring her closer, she pressed her bare breasts against him, her mound against the firm flesh beneath denim.

Laying her cheek on his back, she heard the strong thump of his heart. He held her hand against his abdomen, stroking her fingers and studying the night sky in silence. She touched those ridged muscles, traced them, and when she angled for more, he let her hand descend. Teasing the arrow of silky hair, she pressed her lips to his spine. He didn’t move, but she didn’t feel rebuffed. She thought he might be holding his breath.

Earlier, he’d clearly been Master to slave. It was what he’d wanted, what she’d wanted, and she’d reveled in the fact he loosed that desire upon her, given her the chance to prove she could match it. But this was different, indefinable. Something moved between them now, something that was part of it and yet even deeper. Holding
her
breath now, she reached the waistband of the jeans. She traced that, back and forth, aroused by the beauty of his fit body, the power of it he’d demonstrated so capably, again and again. Under her other palm, his heart was thumping a little faster. So was hers.

The jeans were loose, so she maneuvered beneath the waistband, found the trimmed pubic area, then lower, to the heated base of his cock. She was able to partly circle it with her thumb and forefinger. Her intent wasn’t arousal, not exactly. She was gripping him, marveling at the heat and virility of the organ, at how much she could desire it inside her.

She explored the velvet skin stretched over the steel of it, because he was obviously hardening under her touch. His stomach muscles contracted as he shifted his hips, and she helped guide his shaft out of a folded position, letting it stretch up more comfortably beneath the zipper. It let her stroke her fingers more fully up and down its length, though the diminishing space was allowing less maneuvering room.

“You don’t have any photos,” she whispered. “Jon, Matt, any of them. Not even of my brothers and sisters. Or of you.”

“No. I don’t do photos.” He sighed, looking up at the sky again as she let the other hand descend so she could use both. It required opening the jeans, but he didn’t stop her as she did that, took a two-handed grip, started to explore more aggressively. Her nipples had tightened against his back, and she rubbed her mound against his ass. The jeans slipped a little lower. She wanted to go to her knees, kiss her way down his spine, tease that dip between his buttocks with the tip of her tongue, see if she could make him shiver as he’d made her shiver.

“You’re messing me up, Marcie. You’re just a baby.”

She stilled, the rough quality of his voice bringing her heart into her throat. “I’m your baby,” she said against his skin. “All yours. Love me, Ben. Love me in the dark, let me be whatever you want me to be. Stop worrying about me. Take what you need.”

I am a baby. I’m scared to death, because I rely on your strength and your knowledge, but if I have to, I’ll lead.

He turned in her arms, dislodging her hands. Gripping her wrists, he studied her. His expression was brittle stone, those eyes measuring. Old. Ancient, even.

“If my Master is lost,” she said, her voice shaking a little, “I’ll find him. I’ll lead him back to himself, because to serve doesn’t always mean to follow.”

As he stared at her, she pushed against his hold. He didn’t relent immediately, but she insisted, and then he let her put her hands on his face. Lifting on her toes, she brought her body up against him, laid her mouth softly on his. Teased his lips, touched them with her tongue, playing with him, coaxing him to respond. His head moved, his lips starting to answer her flirtation, and when he nipped at her, she smiled against his mouth.

He came to life then, summoning a pleased purr from her throat. His arms slid into the shirt and around her, one around her waist, the other dropping so his hand could grip her ass. He hiked her up in an effortless move that let her wrap her own arms around his shoulders. He didn’t take her inside. Instead, he pushed her up against the balcony wall, his body pressed to the core of hers, and the kiss was suddenly much deeper, all consuming.

God, the man could kiss. Wet heat, just like what was gathering between her legs, rubbing against his cock. The cool teeth of the open zipper scratched against her inner thigh, where he’d slapped her with the spatula earlier. He had his other hand on her nape now, fingers tangled in her hair, tugging in that hard way he did, a Master’s grip, reminding a slave of her place. She fought him, fought to deepen the kiss from her end, because she wasn’t going to miss the chance to savor it even more fully.

She wondered if he’d take her here, under the night sky, where a neighbor might look out of the adjacent house and see their silhouettes mating among the flowers. Instead, he took a firmer grip on her, side-stepped over the threshold. He kissed her against that wall, and she moaned, telling him she wanted him.

“Insatiable,” he murmured against her mouth. “You’re insatiable.”

“For you.” She wasn’t going to pretend otherwise, protected by the cloak of the night. He said nothing to that, just flexed his arm around her again, holding her to him to carry her down the dark hall, back into his bedroom.

She expected him to turn her over, bend her over the bed. Instead, he laid her down on her back in that nest he’d left her in before, only now he was over her, his knee pressed between her legs.

“Arms above your head,” he said quietly, those emerald eyes gleaming in the dim light from the windows.

She complied, though she hated letting go of him. His gaze coursed over her as he adjusted the shirt so it was fully open, so he could see all of her. He trailed a knuckle down her sternum, under the curve of her left breast. The nipple jewelry gleamed, and when he caught one, tugging, she gasped, arching up to his touch.

“Stay still,
cher
.”

Cajun.
Oh God
. She really had to ask how he did that, switched to different accents according to his moods, as if he was a split personality. Maybe he was, because she knew it had taken a lot of different Bens to become the man she was with tonight.

He bent, kissed her breast to the right of the piercing. He nuzzled her nipple but didn’t suckle. Instead he moved to her sternum, rubbed his jaw between her breasts, teasing the tender skin with his beard shadow. Then he moved down, his lips on her navel, catching the dangling silver rose there in his teeth, tugging on it and eliciting another gasp. Then lower. Marcie’s hands curled into balls as his heated breath skated over her clit. When he pressed his open mouth high on her thigh, so close that his hair brushed her labia, she moaned.

“You want me to eat your cunt, sweet darling?”

“I want…my Master to do…whatever he pleases.” She let him see the absolute truth of it in her gaze. “I’m all yours.” His pleasure was hers, one and the same.

“When you told me about your fantasy with Lucas and Cass…if he was eating your cunt tonight, while I fucked you from behind, how would that feel?”

“Like I’d died and gone to heaven, as long as it was what you command of me.” She could barely breathe. “I want you, Master. It’s all you.”

He bent his head then, put his mouth on her. Oh holy…God. God. God. God. Lucas was known as the master of oral sex, but obviously he’d shared his talents, or Ben’s were nothing to be sneezed at. His tongue flicked her clit at just the right pace, with erratic movements that kept her crying out, struggling not to move when she wanted to buck against his mouth. He thrust his tongue into her when she was so wildly excited that it made her scream aloud at the sensation.

Lapping at her cream, he suckled her so she could hear it. When he sealed his heated mouth over all of it, her cunt and clit both, started swirling, flicking and teasing, she came to pieces. She came, period, no time to ask permission, but it was obvious his intent was to drive her over that edge.

Right in the middle of that peak, he raised up, taking his mouth away, but before she could wrap her mind around the sudden, shocking loss, he was there instead, sliding his full, turgid length into her slick pussy, so slick that even with his size, he worked in with barely a pause, her tissues still spasming around him. He was stroking inside her almost immediately, so the aborted climax wasn’t aborted at all. It was like a hurricane that did a somersault and came screaming back to the same center eye again.