Rude Awakening (22 page)
Smack, smack, smack.
The sound echoed round the room, her arse stinging. He delved his fingers into the heat of her cunt. She cried out, wondering if there would be a wet patch on his trousers when he was done.
“You’re dripping,” he said.
“I know,” Ruby said, not thinking, forgetting to add ‘Master’.
He landed another three harsh swipes to her arse. She whimpered and ground her pussy lips onto his leg. The sensation was too much. She needed release before she lost her mind.
Harry picked her up and carried her up the stairs. Ruby held on to him, trusting him in everything. In no time at all he had her in the middle of their bed, making her wait while he took off his clothes. She loved watching him undress, the surprise body underneath his prim and proper suits always a delightful distraction.
“You like what you see, sub?”
“Always.”
“Good. Arms above your head and legs out.”
Ruby didn’t think to argue and did as he asked straightaway. He tied her hands to the headboard then her feet to the footer, careful to make sure she wasn’t tied too tightly.
“Are they good?”
“Yes, Master.”
Only when he was certain of that would he join her on the bed. Ruby watched him, her heart beating rapidly as she spied the lighted candle he’d brought with him.
“Where did that come from?” she asked.
He quirked a brow at her lack of formal address. “I have my ways. Just like I have this.”
He lifted a bottle of water, and Ruby frowned, wondering what on earth he’d need it for. He opened the bottle and in a steady drop, chilled water landed on her breasts. Never before had Ruby felt anything like it. She arched up as the cold engulfed her tight nipple, followed immediately by the drop of warm candle wax.
Ruby screamed in pleasure, and Harry continued tormenting her, alternating the cold with bursts of heat along her body.
After a while of teasing her body to fresh heights, he still refused to fuck her and give her the release she sought. Harry disappeared off to the bathroom, coming back with a cloth and a small basin of water. He cleaned the water and the wax from her body.
“Please, Master…”
“Not Master. Harry.”
He did that every now and again. When he tried something new like the candle he’d demand she call him by his given name, almost as if making sure she knew who he really was.
“Did you like?”
“I love everything you do to me. I trust you, Master.”
“I love you.”
Harry moved the water and cloth, then leant down to kiss her. Still bound as she was, she let him take control of the kiss, moaning when his tongue thrust deep, melding with her own. His lips were a wicked turn-on.
Ruby smiled. He eased down her body, her legs already splayed open for him to do whatever he wanted. Harry got on the bed between her legs. She held her breath, waiting, her pussy burning with the need to have him touch her in any way he was willing. The flesh heated under his gaze, her cream dribbling down to her arse crack. She closed her eyes, waiting, waiting. He swiped his tongue through her slit, feasting on her. She panted, holding back screams of delight, thrashing against the restraints in mock protest. She wanted to hold his head and push herself against his face.
“Please, please…” She gasped, not knowing what she begged for.
With her climax fast approaching and the delicious build of completion starting, Harry moved up her body, his chin glistening with her spent juice.
“Why did you stop?” she whimpered, still without a climax, her body crying out for one.
He shoved his cock inside her all the way to the hilt. Pulling on the restraints, she groaned, stuttered sounds that hurt her throat.
“Fuck, so tight and hot, Ruby.”
Harry cupped her face and stared into her eyes, pulling all the way out before plunging back inside. She kept her gaze on his eyes, the connection somehow deeper than the intimacy they shared. He pushed in as far as he could but still his gaze remained on her.
His body calling her to pleasure was nothing compared to the love shining out of his eyes. Ruby thought she could see his very heart and soul. The ultimate understanding and vital chemistry between two people. Far more powerful than the hormones releasing in her, their love alive and pulsing between them.
“I love you,” she gasped out.
His eyes dilated. “You’re my very life.”
He pummelled his cock inside her and she welcomed the sweet release he could give. He slid one hand between her legs and flicked her swollen clit.
“Come for me, baby.”
His command took her over the edge. She pulled on her wrist restraints, wanting to hold him, to grab him and claw at him. Instead, she gripped him with her thighs as she rode the wave of bliss.
“Fuck, yeah, come all over my cock. Fuck, your cunt is fucking tight,” he said, his language, as always, going downhill as his climax neared.
Ruby loved hearing his hoarse voice, the erotic sounds teasing her.
He fucked her faster, driving harder.
She knew he wouldn’t last. With one final thrust, he slammed his lips down on hers and kissed her, pushing his tongue deep. He tensed his body, and she tasted her juices from his tongue at the same time as feeling the kick of his cock as his release shot out. Ruby came with him, shuddering and bucking, pressing her clit against him for double the ecstasy.
He collapsed on top of her, breathing ragged, his thundering heartbeat pulsing on her chest. She waited for him to catch his breath, to come down before lightly tugging on her bonds for him to release hers. The moment she was free, she hugged him to her.
“I love you,” he growled, his head resting on her breast.
“Do you love me or your cushions?”
He playfully bit the side of her breast, laughing. “I love these.” He lifted his head and held them, rubbing his face in the mounds.
Ruby giggled. “Mr Harry Knowles, rubbing his face in a woman’s tits. What would people say?”
“The same as what they would at me marrying a woman who is apparently beneath me but I love her completely.” He kissed her, then pulled away to stare down at her.
“My mother expected nothing less than you making a respectable woman out of me.”
“If she could see you now… There’s nothing respectable about you.”
“Hey!” She swiped at him.
“You know I love you.” Harry hugged her to him, chuckling.
“Speaking of my mother, she’s coming for Christmas providing we can get out in the snow to collect her.”
“We’ve just made love and you want to talk about your mother?” he teased.
“Some men go straight to sleep, but I find you’re a lot more willing to agree when I ask after you’ve been laid.”
“Only because you’re naked and I can get what
I
want again afterwards.”
He nibbled her breast and Ruby sighed in contentment.
One of the things she loved about him was, soon after finding her that night at Nigel’s, he’d taken her to go and see her mother. The reunion had been emotional, full of tears and hugs. Ruby hadn’t known Nigel had threatened her mother with the loss of her house and even her life if she got in touch with her only daughter. Hearing of the threats from the man who’d destroyed her life up until she’d met Harry broke her heart but, as always, he’d been there to catch her, hold her when she thought she couldn’t cope with the new information.
From that day, Mrs Savage had demanded Harry care for Ruby completely. Not that Ruby needed her mother’s demands made on her behalf. Nigel was well and truly put away, probably someone’s bitch on the inside. Harry and her mother had talked for hours while Ruby sat and drank tea, watching them both interact and loving the sense of a complete family at last.
“I love your mother,” Harry said, pulling her from her thoughts. “But I don’t want to think about her while I’m in bed with my wife. That said, I’ll do what I can to get her up here for you.”
He splayed a hand over her stomach. She knew what he was thinking. They had decided to try for a baby, but the past few months had been unsuccessful. They wanted the special news in time to give to her mother for Christmas, but Ruby knew that if by the end of the year she hadn’t conceived they would go and get tests.
“Do you think you could be?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Would it be bad if I wasn’t?”
“Of course not, but with you barefoot and pregnant I can guarantee you’ll stay with me.”
Ruby swiped him again and settled her head more comfortably in the pillows.
“You know while you have money I’ll stay,” she said, teasing and playing up the role some people had said she’d occupied since the day Harry found her—that of a gold digger.
“I’d believe that if you used the money I gave you.”
She accepted his gifts, but she also had a part-time job at the local library and earned her own money. Refusing anything other than gifts had become a long-standing joke, especially when people liked to comment on her lack of family money. Some acquaintances of Harry’s really were cynical.
Harry knew her and that was all that mattered.
“I love you, Harry,” she whispered, kissing his cheek.
“I know you do, baby.”
He held her and Ruby felt safe and comforted by his presence. Whatever the future held she was ready to deal. Four years with Harry had been the best years of her life so far. They’d both had such a rude awakening on life and how people behaved towards them, how people treated them, but she wouldn’t change a thing. She smiled at how hers had been literally rude—waking in front of his fire and finding herself embroiled in a hot love affair that turned into something so permanent. She’d long accepted that not everyone was as kind as Harry, who took her at face value and knew she wasn’t with him for his money or the standing in society he gave her. She loved her peaceful life of working in the library and returning home to him, where they took it in turns to cook. Loved every damn minute of being a wife and sub. The meals out, holidays, jewels, the shopping trips to buy clothes, bags and shoes—she didn’t want any part of it.
She didn’t need anything other than his love.
Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:
Forced Assassin
Natalie Dae and Sam Crescent
Excerpt
Chapter One
Bishop
. He rolled the word around in his mind, testing whether it fitted. He quite liked it as names went. It wasn’t a bad one, better than some of the others he’d had, but it wouldn’t be his long enough to matter, anyway.
They never were.
He stared across the hotel dining room—with white cloths draped over round tables big enough to seat six—to the woman sitting in the far right-hand corner. She hadn’t clocked him watching her since yesterday—or at least he didn’t think she had—and ate her Beef Wellington in delicate morsels, gaze fixed into the far distance as though she had a lot on her mind. And she would have, if the other marks were anything to go by.
He looked at his own plate, the food there unappealing, and wished he’d opted for the Wellington himself. A pork chop—undercooked, the fat around the edge soggy and unappetising—seemed to mock him, the mashed potatoes next to it just as sloppy, just as stomach-churning. He pushed his plate aside and reached for a glass of water, catching a glimpse of his reflection owing to the harsh lighting from the chandeliers.
Bishop sighed. He appeared in sore need of sleep, those dark circles beneath his eyes the bane of his life. The inch-long scar on his cheekbone from an assignment last year had at last faded from deep pink to a paler shade, but it still marred his otherwise handsome face, still reminded him he’d failed.
The one who got away…
He grimaced, placing his glass on the table, turning it this way and that for want of something to do. Occupying his mind on occasions like this was always difficult—he watched, he noted, he waited, over and over again, until his marks did what he’d been told they would and he had to finish them.
A lock of his black fringe caught on his eyelashes, and he shook his head. Focusing on the woman again, he wondered why she’d been chosen for the job. That long auburn hair of hers would get in the way if she didn’t tie it up, and her slender figure brought forth thoughts of a ballerina rather than an athlete who could cope with running for her life if the need arose. It would, too, if things went to plan…and she’d be running from Bishop, lungs straining, leg muscles screaming.
That’s if she ran. He might get lucky and catch her before she had a chance to flee, but things rarely worked out like that when he was on a job. He’d had to fight for the end result every time, Fate or Lady Luck poking her big nose in, stirring things up so he failed to get an easy ride…
He laughed. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden a woman. Relationships were few and far between in his line of work. It was pointless trying to have one, his long hours, days away from home—weeks, sometimes—didn’t bode well for keeping a woman happy. Still, he had his right hand, and that had been enough. Until he’d set eyes on Fallan Jones. Was that her real name or was she hiding, the same as him? He shouldn’t care, hadn’t in the past, but then his marks weren’t usually so bloody…attractive.
Fallan. He rolled that name around too, liking it more every time it echoed in his mind. He imagined calling it out when he came, when she clutched him to her, legs clamped about his waist, crossed at the ankles, heels driving him deeper inside a cunt he imagined would be tight. Soaked.
His cock twitched—the last thing he needed if Fallan got up and left the dining room. He willed it not to grow fully erect, thankful when it didn’t. He needn’t have worried. It looked as though she was going for three courses tonight. A waiter whisked her plate away, and another came by with desserts on a trolley laden with sweet delights.
She ought to be on that trolley, sweet delight that she is.
No, he mustn’t think of her like that. She was a mark, nothing more, someone who needed taking out before she did any more damage.
She pointed to a high mound of profiteroles, and the waiter spooned several into a white dish, pouring melted chocolate over them with such skill that the brown liquid didn’t dribble down the side of the jug. With the bowl before her, she nodded her thanks and the waiter moved away, pushing the trolley out of the dining room. Odd, that. He usually visited every table.
Suspicion took hold, twisting in Bishop’s mind, a nasty coil of barbed wire that pricked all his senses, putting him on high alert. He stood, casually tugging the hem of his black suit jacket, and walked across the room to the doorway the waiter had gone through. The trolley stood in a corridor, abandoned, all shelves below the top covered with another of those white cloths. He smiled, thinking of every bad action film he’d watched, where a gun-wielding man hid behind the material, ready to pounce.
Double doors with circular glass at the top let him know the kitchen lay behind them and that he didn’t have much time. Someone would come out of there in a minute, plate-laden hands held aloft, food piping hot, steam billowing like London fog. He sidled up to the doors and peeked through one of the windows, noting the busy staff in their sauce-stained white uniforms going about their business.
Letting out a sigh of relief, he went back to the trolley and lifted the cloth on one side. Desserts, the same as those on top, filled the two lower shelves—muffins, cheesecakes, and some pastry confection that had God knew what in the middle—but nothing else. He crouched, that barbed wire poking him some more, and shifted a few plates around.
A small jewel bag lay under the lip of a large plate, the requisite black velvet, a drawstring bunching the neck tight. He picked it up and slipped it in the inside pocket of his jacket, standing to settle the cloth back in place. His heart rate accelerated from him having bagged the prize so easily, and he thought about the coming days he would have for free time as a result.
One of the kitchen doors swung open, startling him, although he hid it well. The waiter who had pushed the desserts out here stared at him, mouth dropping open at the same time as his gaze raked over the trolley.
“I took a wrong turn, it seems,” Bishop said, his voice, through years of practice, coming out steady and bold.
He turned abruptly and strode back into the dining room, using his peripheral to check whether Miss Jones was still wading through her profiteroles. She’d finished and was sipping from a wine glass half full of water, staring his way. Bishop reached his table and retook his seat, ready to make a swift move if the need arose. He’d chosen this table for the French doors behind him that led out on to a terrace, the edges lined with square marble planters, flowers a riot of colour in the centre and ivy hanging over each corner, the final leaves on each vine kissing the wooden deck. The terrace gave way to a vast lawn, its outskirts boasting tall conifers. This place, in the middle of the English countryside, was the perfect hideaway for what Miss Jones had been contracted to do. For what he’d been contracted to do.
The waiter barged through the doorway, trolley in front of him, and made straight for Fallan’s table. He conversed with her, and anyone watching might think nothing untoward was going on, him taking her empty bowl and placing it on the trolley top. She didn’t widen her eyes, nor did she exhibit any telling body language. She smiled, nodded, and twisted her wine glass around by the stem.
Oh, she’s good.
As the waiter walked away, his strides clipped, his head darting this way and that until his gaze landed on Bishop, Fallan rose. She smoothed down her short black dress—a ridiculous outfit considering the nature of her job—and picked up her red clutch bag from the table. She tucked it under her arm and made her way towards him, hips swaying, those legs of hers going on forever. Lush, full breasts shamelessly sat above a low neckline, giving every man in the room more than an eyeful, and, Bishop suspected, a few lecherous thoughts.
She appeared unaware of the attention she gained—definitely not a woman who knew how appealing she was, how incredibly alluring, and pretty in a sophisticated way—and walked past him without a glance. Her perfume lingered in her wake, a combination of flowers and something spicy he couldn’t work out, and he took a deep breath, imagining how intoxicating that aroma would be in a sex-heated room. Cloying. Erotic. Sexy as hell.
Stop thinking about her like that. You’ve still got work to do. Get it done, then get the fuck out of here.
He knew he should, knew he ought to fulfil his obligations, pack his small bag and check out, taking the goods to his boss. Have a few days off before another assignment came his way. But he couldn’t resist getting up and following her, a hound dog chasing the scent, across the terrace and around to the front of the hotel.
She stood leaning against the building beside the semi-circular front steps, talking into a mobile phone. He stopped short, mind whirling with options, and decided on staying where he was, her spotting him be damned. She grew agitated, talking in sharper tones, pressing one hand to her free ear as if she needed to hear better. She nodded, glanced up and spotted him, then muttered something before cutting the call.
He smiled, wanting to put her at ease, but it clearly hadn’t worked. She stared at him, eyes wide, that caught-in-the-act face he’d seen too many times to count. He sighed at having such a delicious mark—it made his job more difficult—but he had to take her out whether he found her attractive or not. If he didn’t… Well, it just wasn’t an option.
In three long strides he was beside her, gripping her elbow and steering her to the other end of the hotel, where darkness cloaked the side of the building and the trees looked nothing more than black blobs against the inky sky. Cloud coverage was nil, and the moon hung behind them, giving him the perfect setting to perform his last task here.
She struggled, quite the hellcat, but didn’t say anything, walking beside him until they reached the far corner of the building. He let her go, bracing himself for her to turn more feral, into some kick-arse woman who knew martial arts and could take him down without a second’s thought.
She didn’t, instead leaning against the hotel, her face hidden by shadow and the night.
“What do you want with me?” she asked.
He savoured her voice—such a shame she wouldn’t speak ever again after five minutes with him—and clenched his teeth, knowing what he had to do. Sometimes he hated his job.
“You know what I want, Fallan Jones. Know what I’ve got to do.” He kept his hands by his sides, delaying the inevitable lift and clutch, her neck snapping beneath his grip.
“I…I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered. “And how do you know my name?”
Very good.
She sounded genuine, was quite an actress, and he nodded his approval.
“The bag you put on the dessert trolley.” He sniffed, drawing her scent into his nose again.
“What about it?”
He chuckled. She was coming clean, then, giving up the pretence that she didn’t know what he wanted with her.
“What’s in it?” He guessed jewels—wasn’t it always jewels in those bags?—and waited for her answer.
It came quickly. “I don’t know. I was told not to look.”
Just as he’d expected.
“Who do you work for?” he asked, taking a step closer in case she had a mind to bolt.
“Asda.”
He laughed heartily at that. God, she was playing the game right until the end, wasn’t she? Asda…couldn’t she have picked a shop a little more upmarket? Waitrose, at least?
“It’s a job,” she snapped. “It pays the bills.”
“I’m sure it does. What about your other employer?”
She snorted. “You think I have time for a second job? I work all the hours God sends as it is. What do you want with me? I phoned someone back there, and when you came along I told him. You’ll get caught for whatever you’re thinking of doing, the man told me that.”
He ignored her, unperturbed by the threat. “You must earn a good whack to be able to afford to stay here and wear a dress that must have cost two weeks’ wages working for
Asda
…”
“I won this weekend away! What has it got to do with you, anyway?”
He had to guess, what with the darkness, but he’d bet she was looking at him now, mutinous, angry.
“It has everything to do with me. You’re lying. Who do you work for?” He snatched her wrist up, squeezing with enough pressure to let her know he meant business but not enough to leave a bruise.
Not that it mattered. She’d be dead in a few minutes. A pity, that.
“I told you!”
She tried to wrench her arm free and, failing, sagged against the wall. He wished he could see her face, read her expression, but perhaps it was just as well he couldn’t. He might well start believing her.
He sighed. “You know what happens now, don’t you?”
“What?” she asked, that one word spoken with the first hint of hysteria. “Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And you’re hurting me. You have me mixed up with someone else.”
He laughed again, quietly this time. Didn’t they always say that? Wasn’t that the general patter they came out with every time he caught up with them? A script that every mark was instructed to use, taking their true identity—and that of their employers—with them to the grave?
A shuffle to their right brought him up short. He should have expected it. The waiter would have passed a message on by now, and whoever had booked a night here in order to collect that bag would be on the lookout for him. He glanced to the side, tightening his hold on her, and saw a retreating black movement—someone’s shadow following the person it was tagged to. Whoever had peered around the side of the building had stepped back out of sight after making the mistake of creating noise.
