Twice Upon a Blue Moon (12 page)

She kept up the illusion as she gunned the engine and peeled away from the sidewalk.

The Volvo shook when she changed gears, but otherwise lurched along smoothly. Hazel told herself that if the brakes stuck again, or if the dashboard gas gauge lit up, she’d turn back.

Driving around LA was Sadie’s way of coping with a head full of terrible thoughts. Hazel preferred sleep—or work, when she absolutely couldn’t get more of the former. But if she closed her eyes now, there was a good chance she’d be catapulted back to Dunby.

Or, worse, she’d dream herself back to college.

She didn’t question her internal GPS when it bade her turn right on Aulden, or her foot when it eased off the gas. The odds of finding a parking spot were slim. Dylan and Ward were probably still at work.

Conviction didn’t stop her keeping an eye out for a silver BMW or Dylan’s eye-catching Tesla. She only saw the one. And lucky for her, Dylan had left a generous twenty feet between him and the next parked car.

Hazel slotted neatly into the gap, barely even grazing the curb with her rear tire.

This is a bad idea.
She was better off going home and medicating with Ben & Jerry’s.

She tore the keys out of the ignition before she could think better of it. Inside, the walk-up gleamed with flickering electric light, just as it had on her first visit. Hazel took the steps slowly, every footfall bringing her closer to the lip of an invisible ledge. She knuckled the doorbell with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Since she was here, she might as well.

It didn’t mean that she was recanting.

It didn’t mean—

Dylan wrenched open the sliding door, phone pressed to his ear. Confusion settled quickly on his features when he saw her on the landing.

“One moment, please…” He pressed the cell to his chest. “Hazel? What’re you doing here?”

I came to apologize. I came to ask you not to contact me again.
It was the first time in six years that Hazel found herself tongue-tied in a man’s presence. Her courage threatening to slink away, she surged forward and pressed her lips to his.

It was a chaste kiss, but it might have been more if Dylan hadn’t tilted back and out of her reach. “Let me call you back,” he said into the phone. A moment later, he thumbed the Call End key and opened his door a little wider. “Think you’d better come in.”

Hazel would’ve done it anyway, but the invitation raised goosebumps on her arms as she did so. The loft was different in the daytime. Amber light slanted through the west-facing windows, splashing across the floorboard in an artless, geometric array. Hazel noticed Dylan’s suit jacket dangling from the back of a kitchen chair. She saw a laptop, lid open, on the table before it.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” was the closest thing to a
hello
to pass her lips.

Dylan shook his head, the picture of exhaustion, and bypassed the question. “I thought you didn’t want to see me.”

“Yes, well… I’m a woman. We’re notoriously indecisive,” she shot back, wincing.

Had that really come out of her mouth?

“That’s not what I’ve found.” Dylan crossed to the kitchen with a sure gait. He was so composed, so distant, that Hazel barely recognized him. “Would you like something to drink?”

She could put up with a lot—floggers, ropes—but she’d never mastered the cold shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out, hating herself for caving in so easily. Hating Dylan for making her squirm while he pretended to peruse the contents of his fridge.

“What for?”

“Don’t do that,” Hazel pleaded. She didn’t mean to make her voice small and pitiful. It just happened. Many things did. She was out of practice, hard limits blurred like smudged ink.

Dylan let the fridge door click shut.

“Don’t make me grovel,” Hazel clarified. “I can’t… I’m not good at it and if you pull that shit again, I’ll walk out.”

“Are there only two speeds with you?”

“What?”

Dylan propped his elbows against the kitchen island, granite dark and gritty against his impeccable white sleeves. “Either you cut and run, or you throw yourself in full throttle? Seems like a dangerous way to live.”

“Spare me the pop psychology.”

He tightened his jaw. “Why are you here, Hazel?” There it was, that gravelly note in his voice, the suggestion of authority where he had none.

“I told you—”

“You said something about apologizing. Were that true, you wouldn’t be trying so hard to pick a fight.”

Hazel couldn’t have answered if he stayed put, scrutinizing her from across the room. It was a foregone conclusion as he approached. She sucked in a breath when he slid his fingers through her hair. He had such beautiful hands. They hurt so good when he used them to strike, to pinch—to pull. Hazel smothered a whimper as the caress became a vicious tug, Dylan’s way of holding her still.

“What do you need?” he asked, pressing in so close that when he spoke, his breath fanned against her lips.

It was as irrational as it was pathetic, but Hazel wanted nothing more than to drown in his scent. “Hurt me,” she pleaded, as she hadn’t in years.
Hurt me. It’ll make you feel better.

You’ll forgive me then.

Dylan released her abruptly, eyes dark with promise. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

His gaze darted over her face, taking in the set line of her jaw, the furrow between her brows. Then he nodded, rallying.

“I want you naked and spread over the spanking bench. Go.”

Hazel’s feet knew the way. She was tugging off her shirt before she reached the bedroom door. Dylan struck her as the fastidious type, so she made sure to fold her clothes into a neat pile before entering the playroom. Her heart slammed against her ribcage as the lights flicked on.
Motion sensors
. She scoped the torture implements on the walls. Dylan had invested an arm and a leg in this little corner of hell.
But is it his money or Ward’s?

She had a brief, stomach-churning thought that she should check for cameras before she did anything else, but the echo of familiar footfalls aborted the intention.

The spanking horse was small and padded, with a couple of welded strap loops on the underside. Hazel positioned herself with her back to the door—and waited.

Dylan’s tread aborted a good fifteen feet away from the spanking horse, the silence pregnant with foreboding. She tried to see herself through his eyes—pale and shivering, her hands awkwardly clasped under the padded bench. She’d rested her knees right up against the legs, but she parted them when Dylan crossed to her and nudged the toes of his leather shoe against her calves.

“You’ve done this before.”

It wasn’t a question, but Hazel breathed out a “Yes” all the same.

“With?”

“A switch or a paddle.”
Or your bare hand.
Her experience ran the gamut from impromptu fun to aches so persistent she couldn’t sit down for days.

Dylan brushed her hair from her shoulder, ignoring her shiver. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh…
Oh.
” Was she supposed to tell him about that? The rules, as she remembered them, were very clear. Keeping secrets from her Dom was a no-no. But Dylan wasn’t that in any real capacity, not yet, and Hazel found herself prevaricating. “Someone else, a while ago…”

“A boyfriend?”

No.
“Yes.”
Sort of.
The more she talked, the less sure of herself she felt.

She heard more than saw Dylan crouch down. He slid a knuckle under her chin. The camber of her neck was only uncomfortable for an instant. Then Dylan was kissing her and Hazel felt something inside her—a tense knot of dread and suspicion—promptly unravel.

“Drop your head,” he instructed, guiding her with a warm palm on her nape. He didn’t sound angry anymore. He wasn’t asking questions she couldn’t answer.

Hazel did as told, cheeks burning when the spanking bench creaked beneath her weight. She gripped her wrists a little tighter. Dylan wouldn’t keep shoddy equipment in his playroom, would he? He wouldn’t put her in danger just for kicks.

His usual submissives are probably not as heavy…

That small, treacherous voice at the back of her mind abruptly fell silent as the sound of skin hitting skin rang out like a party popper. A sharp sting followed quickly on its heels, heat rushing up the length of Hazel’s spine to explode behind her eyes. She gasped. Until that moment, she hadn’t considered how much it might hurt to make herself into Dylan’s willing victim. The end—squaring things between them so he didn’t drop her before she was ready—more than excused the unorthodox means.

It also sparked a flare of arousal in the pit of her stomach.

Through the roar of blood in her ears, Hazel discerned the sound of Dylan’s voice. “Think you can take a dozen?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed hard, pushing past a quiver of doubt. “Yes.”

Dylan stroked the hurt from her flesh before raising his hand again. The second swat caught her across the right cheek, a mere glancing blow that nevertheless kindled a low, throbbing ache in her backside. Her cunt clenched with the third slap. Her hands began to sweat by the half-dozen.

“Beautiful,” Dylan murmured, as though to himself, and Hazel resolved to suffer the next six strokes.

She curled her toes into the stone, bracing herself. Swat number eight slid her forward about half an inch, her nipples dragging against the sleek leather. She squared her shoulders to keep it from happening again. No matter how pleasurable, she wasn’t supposed to enjoy punishment without Dylan’s say-so.

By ten, Hazel couldn’t slow her breaths, much less her racing thoughts. Dylan slid his fingers down, past her tailbone, and the air in her lungs evaporated promptly.

“Have you done this, too?” he asked conversationally. The deliberate stroke of a fingertip against her asshole brought up memories.

“Yes,” Hazel bit out, when what she meant was
Do I look like a virgin to you?

She couldn’t play the innocent when he slid a finger into her cunt. She was too wet, too desperate for him. Her body always gave her away, even when cameras flashed in the dark.

Look at me, baby…

Hazel bucked against the spanking horse, wooden legs scraping the floor. She threw off Dylan’s purposeful strokes before he could touch her clit.

He chuckled. “Where do you think you’re going?”

The pull of fingers through her hair was enough to recall her to order.
Fuck.
“Sorry—sorry, I didn’t. You took me by surprise.” Hazel chanced a glance over her shoulder, face hot. “You-you said twelve?”

She had two more blows to go before her sins were absolved.

“Keeping count, were you?”

Wasn’t she supposed to? Hazel mulled over her answer, but before she could speak, Dylan had already pulled back his hand. He finished off with a series of sharp, cracking slaps, her backside shaking with the force of each one.

Hazel lurched forward, hugging the bench to her chest. She could barely breathe between blows, searing pain rushing across her flesh, turning her inside out. She used to be stronger than that. She used to take closer to forty strokes without a peep. Now, though…

Dylan breezed past twelve in a frenzy. Hazel’s breaths came a little louder with each ensuing strike, forcibly tearing free of her lungs, no matter how she tried to silence them.

“Say mercy when you can’t take any more—“

“Mercy!” she choked out. “Mercy, please, please…” A smothered cry tangled in her throat as Dylan ran his feverish palm over her cheeks.

“When I want you keeping count, I’ll tell you,” Dylan said as he reached between her legs and slid two fingers into her throbbing pussy.

Hazel trembled, inner muscles clenching at the sudden intrusion, but she was so turned on, so ready for him that there was no burning stretch. No discomfort. If he wanted to hurt her, Dylan would have to use something a lot bigger than his fingers. She nearly told him as much.

“Look at you,” he murmured, “sopping wet… You got off on that, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Dylan could have left it at that, but clearly he was a sadist at heart, so he didn’t. “Is that what you came here for? You wanted me to take my frustrations out on you so you’d feel better?”

A small, guilty part of Hazel wanted to protest that charge. She had come to make things right. There was a world of difference between trying to fix things and using Dylan to scratch an itch. She’d never do that.

Wouldn’t you?
taunted that small inner voice.
You always were manipulative.

“Open your mouth,” Dylan ordered. A half second later, slick fingers were pressed to her lips and Hazel had a short-lived choice between obeying and having the evidence of her arousal smeared over her lips and chin.

It wasn’t a choice at all—humiliation had never been her kink.

She rolled her tongue around his digits and hollowed her cheeks. She wasn’t ashamed to taste herself. She’d done it before Dylan, before college. If Dylan wanted her to mimic fellating his cock, then she could do that, too. She wanted to please him so badly.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, low and heartfelt. “You don’t know how sexy you look right now…”

Take a picture. It’ll last longer.

Hazel tore her mouth away and pressed her cheek to the spanking horse. Remorse shot through her, even though she hadn’t spoken out loud. “Can… Can I get up now?”

“Do you want to?”

He had no right to ask or to sound so tender when he did. That wasn’t how this worked. Past the submissive pose and the ache in her backside, Hazel wouldn’t have been on her knees if she didn’t want to cede the making of decisions to him.

She mulled over the question. “Do you want me to?”

“What do you think?”

Heat crawled to her face, two parts frustration to one part anxiety. How was she supposed to answer that? What could she say to make Dylan understand that she didn’t know and she wasn’t—

Her answer must have been too long in coming, because Dylan rose and shifted out of her field of vision with a few broad steps.

Panic rippled down Hazel’s spine, her hackles only soothed once she felt him settle between her legs. She registered each individual click of the metal zipper, each rustle of cloth and plastic-y tear and knew what was coming. It didn’t stop breath from slamming out of her lungs as Dylan ran the tip of his erection along her inner folds.