Only for the Night (If Only Book 2) (33 page)

Sage was still, silent beside him, and from his hand on her neck, he knew she was holding her breath. When he faced her, he noticed her wide eyes fixed on the St. Andrew’s cross centered on the stage. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen one since that night months ago, but here, in this place, the impact swirled in her dark pupils. “Sub.”

“Sir?” She dragged her gaze to his.

He tucked his thumbs beneath her jaw, taking his time to assess her reaction. Sage’s chest expanded with a deep breath, and each one after followed the pattern of his. Relaxing herself. Trusting him. “Good girl.”

Pleasure lightened her eyes. No fear, no more nerves. Just pleasure and his reflection. That was all he ever wanted to see in her eyes. “Thank you, Sir.”

When he felt she was ready, he led her to the back of the stage, to a clear area where he could see her with no more than a glance in her direction. “Kneel.”

With more grace than he’d ever realized was possible, his sub sank to her knees, back to the wall. Her legs were together due to her skirt, but her spine was straight, head down, palms open on her thighs. He stroked one high cheekbone. “Beautiful baby.”

Her mouth curved the slightest bit, eyelids fluttering down. Savoring. The power he held over her, the ability to please, scared and thrilled him. He’d spend his life earning that look on her face.

“I’ll be right back.”

When everything he needed was ready and waiting on a small table near the cross, Hank returned to offer Sage his hand. “Up.”

She kept her eyes lowered as she stood and followed him around the table. Hank led her to the edge of the stage. With his back to any audience that had cared to gather, he drew a finger from Sage’s throat down to the open vee of her shirt. “Take this off for me.”

Sage presented her back to him. Slowly her shirt sank off her neck, shoulders, lower, lower. He didn’t notice when it dropped completely—he was too mesmerized by what Sage revealed to him: a tattoo. There, between her shoulder blades, the watercolor image of a phoenix rose from scattered ashes. The reds and yellows stood out in sharp contrast to blue and green and black, the effect almost 3D, as if the mythical bird would fly from her skin at any moment.

He stroked a finger along the vibrant feathers. “Sage.” The word came out choked, shaken. Like him. “Amazing.”

Her skin still held a slight puffiness—she hadn’t had the tattoo more than a week. “You got this before you went home last week.”

“I did,” she admitted, voice husky. “It’s what you’ve given me.”

Hank leaned forward. His breath hit the tattoo, and goose bumps rose on Sage’s flesh. “Baby.” He smoothed a careful kiss along her skin. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. The rasp of tears coated the words. Hank gripped her shoulders, gave the beautiful marks on her skin another long look, and then turned her to face him, to kiss her tears away.

Shock jolted him. “You’re not wearing a bra.”

Sage laughed. No tears there. “Surprised?”

Hunger pulled blood into his groin as he cupped her full breasts. “Yes.” He pinched both nipples hard. Sage gasped, her back arching. “Very surprised.”

“Me too,” she choked out.

Hank laughed into her mouth, her kiss. Maybe other people did this differently, would disapprove of his “lenience,” but they had a rule: Sage was never allowed
not
to speak. He needed her feedback, and she needed to know he heard her. Besides, who would want to miss the fun of those little shocked exclamations?

He stepped back and nodded to her skirt. “Strip for me, sub.”

The quick duck of her head couldn’t hide her pleased expression. “Yes, Sir.”

He’d given Sage full discretion on how much skin she wanted revealed during the scene. Her choice to fully bare herself had surprised him. Most people, unless drunk, didn’t have the courage to get naked in front of total strangers, much less a roomful of what he’d deemed judgmental assholes—maybe unfairly, though he couldn’t bring himself to give a damn. But his Sage was never a coward. Her shrugged
“I’ve done it before”
hadn’t hidden the disquiet in her tone, but she didn’t hesitate as she stripped now. When she walked toward the cross, the tattoo blazed fire against the paleness of her skin, highlighting the strength in her petite body. Her soul.

Sage waited patiently for him to enjoy the view before he joined her. Her slender arms stroked sensually along the wood to grip the upper X of the cross; legs spread to align perfectly with the base—a gleaming sacrifice to whatever he chose to do to her.

A lump rose in his throat. “Thank you, sub.”

He reached for one of the cuffs he’d already attached to the cross: fur-lined leather, soft and safe on her skin, strong enough to hold her secure. The thick bands wrapping her limbs looked sinful, beautiful. Sage was beautiful, stretched out like a human star, skin gleaming bright in the dim light of the club. He ran a finger inside each wrist cuff, checking for constriction, then splayed his hands over hers, lying open and relaxed against the struts of the cross. Her shoulders, too—no tension there. Even the rise and fall of her ribs showed easy breathing despite the memories that must stir in her brain.

He continued down. His palms across her ass had her arching into his touch, earning her a grunt of approval. When he gripped one ankle, a deep breath shuddered through her. The scent of arousal hit his nose as he secured her cuff. If Sage was aware of anyone but him, he saw no evidence of it. They might as well be in their own world. Any doubts she might’ve had about the past, these people’s hold over her, had long since fled in favor of the trust she had in him. When the final buckle was closed and he stepped back, the sight of her like that struck him in a way none of her words had in the past, a graphic representation of her deepest desires.

He glanced out at the crowd that had gathered beyond the stage to stare, maybe gawk at the newcomers and their simplicity. Did they see the beauty of this moment—not mind games and pain and forcing obedience, but the sheer beauty of surrendering your will to someone you trusted? Did they see the difference between this and what Kevin had done to Sage?

For himself, he didn’t think he’d ever felt as powerful as he did right then, realizing he’d earned her surrender—a bass in his arms, good as it felt, didn’t affect him this way. A gun in his hand had never made him feel this strong. Only Sage could affect him this deeply, right down to the core of who he was. He wanted more of it, more of her.

He knelt, starting at one ankle, and let his lips skim the contours of muscle and bone. As he moved, he crooned a wordless melody of pleasure, breathing praise straight into her skin. It pebbled beneath his mouth, but not from cold. No, Sage was silently begging him for more, a need he was determined to meet just as he was determined to play her body like the perfect song. Memorize every curve, every note of desire in her breath, her moans, the occasional cry. The lines of her body whispered to him, revealing secrets—where she liked to be touched, where she was ticklish, where she lost control enough to arch into his kiss. He stored every one in the back of his mind, a library of touches to draw on, to please this woman who’d pushed him so far past what he’d ever dreamed he was capable of.

When he reached her neck, he tilted his head and latched on to that sweet spot he loved, sucking the mark there. Reminding her of his possession. And then he retraced his path down her body, this time pushing the heels of his palms into her muscles—a warmup, for her and for him. He could feel the muscles in his shoulders, arms, and back start a slow burn.

At her feet, he stopped. Stood. Circled to face her. Sage’s forehead rested against one arm, her eyes closed, face relaxed. She could’ve been taking a nap.

Not for long.

He cupped her bare breasts. Sage gasped, eyelids shooting upward. Anticipation sizzled in his veins. “Ready, sub?”

Light pinches to her tender nipples.

Sage swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.”

He took his time circling back around, letting her anticipation build. On the way he grasped the flogger from the table. The swish it created as he swung it through the air brought a moan to Sage’s lips.

“Color, sub?” he asked.

“Green, Sir.” Confidence. Anticipation. She was ready.

Here we go.

Light slaps of the flogger, back and forth, back and forth, warmed Sage’s body even more. Thighs, ass, back. He knew now where to avoid and where to get the most reaction, and he’d practiced enough to hit his mark with certainty. As he worked, Sage’s skin went pink, and when he moved to the side, he could enjoy the jiggle of her full breasts with every strike, the slow tightening of her nipples until they stood out like beacons. He paused to twist them, to stroke along her wet pussy, to take her mouth, feel the pleasure churning inside her. To keep her off balance, focused and trusting: where would he touch her next, how, when?

As the intensity of his strikes grew, so did the tunnel vision; nothing and no one mattered in that moment but his sub, not worry or fear or the past or the present—just the two of them, the rising hunger, and the need screaming for fulfillment in both of them. He let her tell him when it was time to move on, when she was rocking her head against the cross, gasping for breath, begging and squirming and dripping for his touch.

Then he stepped back.

Exchanged the flogger for a short rattan cane.

The feel of the thin wood in his hand should’ve made him gag. He didn’t. He’d worked for more hours than he could count to learn control of the implement, to figure out how he could use it to bring Sage pleasure and not pain. Or shame. The stain on her soul hadn’t been caused by anything she did, but it was there all the same. Tonight he would exorcise it, once and for all.

He moved to face her. “Color, sub?”

Sage groaned, barely surfacing enough to respond. “Green.”

Her nipples called to him. He went to his knees and took one in his mouth, the feel of that fleshy nub between his lips shooting electricity straight down his spine to his already tight sac. Ruthlessly squashing the need to orgasm, he focused on Sage, on suckling her hard, biting down, consuming her. He brought a hand between the lower legs of the cross and up to Sage’s pussy. His fingers shook as he separated her wet lips, delved inside to collect her liquid arousal and swirl it around her clit. Sage bucked into his hand, his mouth, her wild cries ringing in his ears until he knew her climax was right there, right at his fingertips…

He released her.

The wail Sage gave brought a smile to his lips.

Standing once more, he moved to her side and slid his hand between her belly and the cross to press against her womb, use the pressure to heighten her need. He knew she could feel the heat of his body against her, the hard, throbbing, son-of-a-bitch erection screaming filthy names at the delay. He also knew Sage understood, without a doubt, that no matter what his body demanded, she came first. Always.

He positioned the switch behind her ass. Sucked in a Sage-scented, sugar-and-spice breath.

And struck.

The light hit rippled through her. Hank crowded closer, absorbing the impact with his body and the press of his hand.

Another strike, angled up against the fleshy part of her round ass. Not with the end of the switch, the way Kevin had used it. Hank had done his research, knew his sub. Sage didn’t enjoy pain. Staying close to her, striking with the part of the cane nearer his hand meant a thuddier impact. Still more sharp than a flogger, but Sage wasn’t jolted out of her pleasure; instead she sank into the increased intensity, her head dropping back, ass arching into each strike. Her wordless begging slurred with the descent into subspace, her cries rising note by note alongside her pending orgasm. He struck again and again, reading her body with his gaze, his hands, every sense he possessed, until she was at the very edge…and then he shoved his fingers down to squeeze her clit. Added one last pop of the cane.

Sage flew over the edge with a scream.

A light smattering of applause and approving murmurs reached his ears. Hank shoved them to the back of his mind. Threw the cane on the ground. Without waiting for Sage to come down from her high, he pressed two fingers inside her, holding them deep and squeezing one hot ass cheek in a rough palm. Sage arched her pelvis into his fingers, into his palm, again and again, until Hank released his grip and brought his hand down flat on her tender ass.

Pop.

She climaxed again. Another slap got him one more. Only when the last spasm had stopped and Sage went lax against the cross did he finally withdraw his fingers from her body. He moved behind her, pressed himself over her spread-eagle form, grounding her with his weight as her breathing slowed and her cries turned to moans, then heavy breaths—coming back to the surface, back to him.

Long moments later, a hoarse “Hank” escaped her mouth.

“I’m right here, baby.” Cupping her belly to keep her tight against him, he murmured in her ear, “I’m right here. Take your time.”

She didn’t stir for a while, and he didn’t either. The crowd moved on until only one person stood at the periphery. Hank focused there. Kevin. He shot the man a look that had had trainees pissing their uniforms, but Kevin didn’t cower; Hank had to give him that. What Kevin did do was salute him—not a cocky,
whatever
kind of gesture, but an acknowledgment. Hank didn’t respond, and Kevin turned and walked away.