Roxy Harte (9 page)

I smooth my hand over the flatness of his stomach, dropping lower, finding him hard. Wondering what thought God had when he made all healthy, able men awaken with a hard-on. Awaken. Hard.
Oh, shit.

“How long have you been awake?” I ask, letting my fingers close around his length. His hand closes around my wrist, holding my hand still, though I don’t release his length, feeling him grow stiffer in my hand.

“Long enough to see where you wanted your exploration to lead.”

I bite my lip, not looking at him, taking in the very fine vision of his hard cock. He is not a deep rose color as the other two men I’ve had sex with have been. Lord Fyre’s penis is a darker tan, with distinctive purple undertones.

“Is it okay that I touch you?” I ask.

“A little late to be asking,” he replies. “Do you have any idea what you’ve started?”

I giggle a little self-consciously. “I hope so.”

“Have you thought this through?” he asks, sounding to my ears very dark and foreboding, making my breath catch and hold. I look up into his eyes and he traps me there, holding my gaze with his, becoming my conscience. “Have you considered Garrett? Did the two of you discuss where three months with me could lead?”

“I assumed…”

“I assure you, he wouldn’t assume.”

“So, we shouldn’t?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m confused.”

“Exactly. The forty-eight hours after an extreme scene, especially the kind of extreme scene I put you through, can be emotionally unbalancing. I don’t want you to do this if you are going to regret taking our relationship to a more intimate level, and I’ll be very clear here, if you want me to fuck you, you will ask me to fuck you. What you experienced with Garrett wasn’t fucking, was it?”

I swallow hard, thinking too hard.

“Did Garrett fuck you, or make love to you?”

I start to tremble and release my hold on his swollen cock, but his hand still holds my wrist, so my hand is left hovering over his erection, I am left nervous, disconcerted.

“I don’t know,” I lie.

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“Touch me again,” he commands, relaxing his grip on my wrist enough that my hand drops, touching by accident before closing around his length on purpose.

“Good girl,” he praises. “While you decide what you want, fucking, or not fucking, give me what I want.”

My lips part to speak, to deny knowing what he wants, but my hand moves, holding him, stroking him, and to deny that I understood would only sound childish.

I hold his gaze, slowly moving my hand up and down his length, my fingers gripped around him so that his flesh moves separate from his hard shaft. His cock is baby smooth in my hand, rock hard but smooth, and I’m afraid I’ll hurt him. I keep the movement slow, my hand tight. It seems such an intimate thing, touching him while I look into his eyes. By watching his changing expressions, I can tell if I’m doing it right. I want to do it right. I want to please him.

“Harder,” he commands.

I squeeze harder, nice slow strokes up and down his shaft. His eyelids droop a little, though he still watches me and I still watch him.

“Faster,” he whispers.

I move my hand faster, twisting as I pump, causing him to moan, the sound of his pleasure rippling through me, making me feel pride. I pump him harder and faster, wanting him to feel it, feel me, wanting him to ache with need for me. Wanting him to need the pleasure that I’m giving him as much as I needed the pain he gave to me.

Harder…faster…up…down…twist…twist.

“God, Sophia,” he sighs and the name he calls me cuts through me, brings me pain, not like the comfort he brought me last night, but acute pain, making me miss her, making me think of her knowing I’m here, knowing I’m doing this. I don’t want to know what she would think of me now and I’m embarrassed, thinking the worst. I squeeze tighter, wanting suddenly to hurt him back, needing him to scream my name in pain the way I’ve screamed his and I succeed, my name a roar from his mouth. But it’s not pain I’m bringing him and I watch, satisfied as his come shoots free. When our eyes meet, a jolt of awareness quickens my heart. Need. His? Mine? I reach out to stroke his face, but he pushes my hand away, shutting all emotion visible in his gorgeous brown eyes away as if what I saw hidden in their depths hadn’t been there at all. But it was. I saw it. I felt it.

“Taste me,” he says, pushing my face down. “Taste what you’ve done to me.”

* * * *

I close my eyes, feeling unsettled, really unsettled, and snuggle my face deeper into the pillow, hiding, crying, but not sobbing, slow hot tears rolling down my cheeks. Tears of confusion. I’ve never done that before, not for someone else—though once, Lion shoved his dick into my mouth, but it was after everything else, after he’d raped me, sodomized me, had already come himself, and his dick was shriveling as he shoved, a last-ditch attempt to humiliate me more.

When Lord Fyre said, “Taste me,” I wanted to. I enjoyed taking him into my mouth after I’d stroked him to orgasm. He was still coming when I lowered my mouth over his still-erupting shaft, his warm, salty
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jism coating my tongue. I didn’t swallow, at least not at first, so it flowed into and out of my mouth, covering his cock. I enjoyed doing that to him, feeling powerful when his come crested and flowed over the tip of his penis, thinking, “I did that! I brought him!”

I was proud, giddy.

Now I just feel dirty, used, and I don’t know what the difference is.

He came in my hand, in my mouth. So much cream that I couldn’t possibly swallow it all, and so it flowed out of my mouth and onto my chin in a large splatter.

I made him feel good. Why do I feel so shitty? I’m ashamed of what I did.

He left me in bed alone while he went in to shower. I look at the mess we’ve made, his come a wet puddle of darkness on his turquoise-colored sheets, other splatters and streaks tell a sordid story. I roll them into a ball, hiding the evidence of what we’ve done, a tear hitting the sheets to form one more dark spot among so many.

I will not cry over this. Not when I wanted to touch him.

I pull the sheets completely from the bed, leaving them wadded on the floor, not knowing where to put them. I want the bed changed, all evidence of what happened gone, but as I rummage through drawers and closets, I find nothing more than clothing, his, no women’s clothing, and of his, it is a sparse closet, some summer shirts, slacks, a few pairs of dress shoes. I wonder where he hides his endless supply of leather, thinking that perhaps he has an underground lair, like Batman, the place where he keeps his kink clothing.

“Find what you’re looking for?” he asks as I come out from the walk-in closet, scaring the shit out of me, so that I jump and “eek”, hiding my nakedness behind a shield of arms. He stands in the doorway of the bathroom, steam rolling from the warmer bathroom into the cooler bedroom. The heavy scent of cloying incense flows into the room not burnt but damp, warm, the fragrance of his shower gel perhaps. I don’t recognize the scent.

“Sh-sheets,” I stammer, pointing at the pile on the floor.

“For future reference, hallway closet,” he says sternly. “Right now, you shower.”

I hurry to cross the room, thinking to lock myself and my embarrassment behind a closed door. Lord Fyre has other ideas and follows me into the bathroom. Taking me by the elbow, he helps me step into the shower. He’d left the water running and the temperature, though a little warm for my taste, is nice hitting my body. I reach for a bar of soap.

“No. I’ll bathe you.”

I freeze, my hand still outstretched to reach the bar of soap. Had I thought he was there to just watch?

I don’t know, but the thought of him bathing me teeters me on the edge of freaking out.

“I can…” I start to tell him I can do it myself, but am silenced by a small sea sponge shoved between my open lips. I know better than to spit it out.

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He rubs the small bar between his hands, creating lather, releasing the heavy fragrance I don’t recognize.

It is exotic. The bath he gives me is erotic, rubbing my arms, my breasts, circling my small breasts and pinching the nipples into tight buds. “I like your breasts.”

I grunt, hoping my disagreement comes through. Why do men keep telling me they like my breasts—first Garrett, now Lord Fyre. I know my breasts haven’t grown any, and they are almost non-breasts, they are so small. Lion always made fun of my breasts; even my father argued that it was a waste of money for bras. It wasn’t as if anyone would notice one way or another, after all.

His soapy hands travel lower, rubbing, sliding, fitting between my legs, one hand in front, one hand behind, washing, massaging everything between them, but he doesn’t linger, at least not long enough for me to really enjoy myself, just enough to tease, moving on to lather my thighs, my calves, my feet, even between my toes.

Standing, he pulls the sponge from between my lips. I look up at him and am astonished again by the raw, intense beauty of this man. His long damp hair clings against his solid-muscled shoulders and I force myself not to reach a hand up to brush a stray, damp lock of hair from his cheek. I don’t understand myself. I was mad at him for making me suck him but I wanted to do so. I wanted to taste him. I enjoyed tasting him. And now…I want to touch him again and I’m not so mad anymore.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine?” I squeak, sounding like I’m asking him if I really am.

“You were crying while I was in the shower,” he accuses.

“How did you know?” I bite my bottom lip.

“Are you all right now?” he asks, not answering my question. “Are you ready to continue?”

“Continue?” My voice makes me sound more confused than I am. I know what he means, am I ready for him to Master me and the answer is, I really don’t know. I thought I could do this, I really did. Well, maybe I had doubts, but they were physical doubts. Could I withstand the pain? Not, could I survive the man?

Holding him in my hand, pumping him, making him come, made him seem so much more human. Not so God-like. I don’t know what I was thinking, but his emotions never came into the picture. I worried about hurting Garrett’s feelings, but the raw emotion I just saw…can I survive if he ever reveals that part of himself?

“Sophia?”

I look at him, water sluicing over his shoulders, making him seem once again stone, God-like, all Master.

No, I’m not ready to continue. I need a time out. I need time to think. I want you to call me Kitten
so that I won’t forget who I really belong to. Calling me Sophia has given you an unfair
advantage over my heart and that isn’t playing fair. That isn’t playing fair at all.

“Yes, Lord Fyre, I’m ready to continue.”

Chapter 5
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“Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.”

-William Shakespeare, Strange Bedfellows

Garrett

I lie in bed, naked, alone, very hung over and, because of my ringing cell phone and a nonstop banging at my front door, awake. I do not answer the phone. I do not answer the door. I do, however, manage to climb out of bed and throw open the heavy foam-backed drapes that trick me into thinking it is the dead of night. From my perch high aboveSan Francisco , it is not at once obvious that it is a big-time party day in the hood—but yes, it is the last Sunday of September, the sun is shining and, even as I rub the sleep out of my eyes, vanilla tourists are arriving in droves to join the downtown leather party.

Really, I suppose there are worse things than waking up to four-hundred-thousand people in your backyard, but at the moment I can’t thing of any and the last thing I want to do is face the day. Folsom Street Fair is a party and I am in no mood to laugh, play, or check out the local and tourist eye-candy, though there promises to be eye-candy in mass quantity dressed in leather, chains, and brightly colored outrageous costumes. My heart just isn’t up to it. I miss Kitten. I hadn’t really thought what it would be like to share Folsom with her, but then I remembered how much fun I’d had with Tony our last Fair together and it dawned on me fast and cold that I didn’t have anyone to share the fun with…pounding at the door, screaming through the walls at me friends aside.

For a moment, I wonder where Enrique is and then belatedly realize that, in my drunken stupor, I gave him permission to do Folsom with his boyfriend-of-the-week. My cell phone clangs again and I wonder why on earth I thought I needed to switch it from vibrate for the alarm to wake me. I ignore the ringing phone, ignore the pounding at my door, and head for the shower, making a list in my head of everything that needs doing this morning that didn’t get done last night to ready the Lewd Larry’s Fetish Fantasy booth for the Folsom Street Fair throng.

It is an annual big deal that we wait all year for and then can’t wait to be over so that we can have our privacy back…or maybe it’s just me.

With the streets roped off, our booth will be one of many lining the roads—ours offering Lewd Larry’s merchandise, T-shirts, coffee cups, shot glasses, postcards, even members-only membership packages.

Of course, we will have gilded cages flanking our booth and a nice whipping post for those who wish to be flogged. The majority of the booths will offer kinky toys, kinky food, and everything else the alternative lifestyle community can showcase. Brochures will be handed out by gay-friendly churches and stages will offer music, comic relief, and entertainment found few other places on the globe.

Last night, already drunk, I promised I’d go. The company booth would be run by paid employees. I would enjoy the day as part of Jackie’s entourage. God, I regret last night.

My shower muffles the noise, an escape from phone and door until my bathroom door is flung open. The closed glass door of my stall reveals Jackie, looking very smug.