Wild Licks (21 page)

Axel rubbed it in: “
Promise me
you'll fuck the living daylights out of her when she gets to your room.”

The response was louder, more exasperated:
Okay!

“Great. She'll knock.” Axel hung up and breathed a sigh of relief. “Room 1243,” he said to me. “Good luck.”

Showtime. I slipped my panties off from under my skirt and left them on the floor as I marched out the door.

When the knock came, I was barefoot and in sweatpants and hadn't left the room since sending Aurora away the day before. I could tell from Axel's voice on the phone that something was up. Was I going to open the door and find Christina there, ready to read me the riot act about how I was endangering all their careers? Or Chino in a wig to break the tension?

The last person I expected to see when I opened the door was Gwen Hamilton.

Gwen.
I think I kept the surprise off my face with a scowl. I had one second where I could have engaged my mouth to argue, to be rational, to tell her to go away.

I gave in to the Need instead. I grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her into the room, slammed the door behind her, and pressed her back against it. Chino had said it: They sent the sacrifices to the dragon so they wouldn't get eaten instead.

This time they'd sent me the woman I wanted most but knew I shouldn't have. I ground my teeth. “I promised I'd fuck the living daylights out of you.”

“I know, I heard,” she answered, voice breathless.

My Gwen. I kissed her hard enough to bruise her lips and she kissed back harder. That only inflamed me more, and I had long ago lost sight of where anger ended and passion began.

She hitched one leg over my hip and I cupped her calf with one hand. She was wearing knee-high brown boots, a wool skirt, and a downy-soft cashmere pullover sweater. I slid my hand up her thigh as my tongue explored the reaches of her mouth, and she moaned against my lips as I discovered she wasn't wearing anything under the skirt.

I worked a finger between her pussy lips and to reassert my claim I forced it inside her, the way suddenly eased by a generous flow of her natural lubrication.

“You were made to be fucked,” I heard myself saying. “This hole was made to be fucked.”

“Yes, Mal, by you,” she said.

Sweet mother of angels, I could not get my cock into her fast enough. I stepped out of the sweatpants and lifted her against the wall, pushing myself into her. Her cry of pain was loud in my ear as she clung to me.

“Does it hurt?” I pressed.

“The best pain in the world,” she whispered, panting. “
Best
.
”

“Squeeze me now.” I wrapped my hands around her buttocks and rolled my hips. She contracted her muscles around me and I heard myself groan.

I carried her to the bed, fucked her hard until I was winded, and then pulled out abruptly. I stood, my cock dripping with her juices. “Strip.”

She wasn't even wearing a bra. She tossed the sweater and skirt aside and then all she was dressed in was her skin, sweat, and desire. She lay back unbidden and spread her labia with her fingers, beckoning me.

No flogger, no fire, no knives, or claws—all I had were my hands, teeth, and cock. Plenty to make her suffer. I ran my hand loosely up and down my length. “Spank your clit. Do it.”

She swallowed and gave herself an experimental pat, jerking in surprise at the sensation even though she'd barely put any force behind it.

“Harder.”

She gritted her teeth and smacked herself audibly. “How many times?”

“Until I tell you to stop,” I said, pulling her toward me by one leg until her buttocks were at the edge of the bed. I cradled her leg against my chest and pushed my cock into her while she continued to hit herself. She caught me with her swats a bit but I didn't care. Pain and I are old friends.

I pulled free. “Stop. Hands behind your head.” I lay down beside her on my back and bent my knees. “Keep your hands there, and get on my cock.”

She got to her feet and then straddled me, and I enjoyed the sensation as she struggled with nothing but motions of her hips attempting to get my cock inside her. Stiff and heavy with blood, it lay along my abdomen, curving slightly toward my stomach. This was a trick, of course. I didn't think there was any way she could succeed at my order, but while she tried oh how sensual it was, her clit and her lubrication dragging up and down my length. I tightened my abs a few times, making my cock lift slightly, making it seem as if she might have a chance, but no.

Her frustration and my glee grew in tandem, the noises from her throat increasingly pleading in tone.

“You want it.”

She nodded.

“Would you like help?”

“Yes, please…?” She sat up straight, her arms trembling with fatigue.

“You know how our trade works.”

“Pain for pleasure, I remember.”

“Exactly. Keep your hands where they are.” I reached down and took hold of my cock. She lifted herself and I held myself steady, pointing directly up, until she had engulfed me and lowered herself with a deep groan.

I smacked her on one breast and she rocked back against my bent legs.

“Uh-uh,” I scolded. “No escaping the pain.”

“Right. Sorry.” She thrust her nipples at me. I grabbed them with my fingers and pinched mercilessly. She screamed and the way her interior muscles squeezed me I wondered if she came.

I demanded to know. “Did you just come?”

“No, Mal.”

“I would love to train you to come from pain itself,” I heard myself say.

She made a happy, needy noise in response.

“Make yourself come. I'll stop torturing you when you do.”

I went back to smacking her directly on the nipple and then pinching, which didn't go on anywhere near as long as it might have because it took her only a minute or two to bring herself off. She was always beautiful but never more radiant and alive than in that moment, screaming from release while she rode me.

I pulled her down against me, driving my cock into her and letting my heavy hand fall onto her bare bottom at the same time. No warm-up swats. I went directly to my heaviest blows with my open palm. Her cries were only quieted by her need to inhale a fresh breath.

After many deep strikes, I switched to the other hand, the other buttock, and spanked her until it was as scalding hot as the first. Then I dug my fingernails into her sore flesh and dragged her up and down on my cock until she began to come again.

“How many times do you think you can come before I do?” I asked her.

“I don't know,” she confessed easily. “I might be getting overstimulated.”

“Excellent,” I breathed into her ear. “I shall enjoy forcing you to come until either you are begging me to stop or I can't stand it any further and empty myself into you.”

I felt her insides squeeze me.

“Hmm, yes, that will help move both possible outcomes along,” I said, spanking her for another ten or twenty blows before I returned to dragging her up and down, knowing her clit would be rubbing against the roughness of my pubes.

She came again, gratifyingly soon, her body going limp and allowing me to drive into her even deeper. I kept that up for another two or three orgasms, spanking, spanking, grinding, until she didn't cry out any longer but merely trembled all over with a paroxysm.

I pulled free and rolled her onto her front, entered her again, and then slid a hand under her until her clit was trapped between two of my fingers. A pinch produced a squeak from her but no resistance, and I set to sawing against her clit with a finger while fucking her again.

I was going to lose this challenge in that I was going to come before she begged me to stop, but of course this was a game that had no loser.

“I want you to come one more time,” I said as I drove into her slowly, teasing myself, rolling my hips in a circle. “I will not be denied.”

“No,” she said, then realized it might sound like she was protesting, and added, “No, of course you won't, Mal.”

The heat of the moment had taken me utterly. I was not myself. And yet I was. “I fantasize about you, Gwen. About keeping you like a pet, a slave, a captive whom I can do this to anytime I desire.” I suckled her neck, deliberately bringing up a dark purple hickey and making her moan. “I imagine you naked in my house, no clothes at all, not a stitch, perhaps chained, perhaps restrained, depending on the day.”

“Mal,” she said with a gasp as my fingers sought out her clit again. “Oh, yes, Mal.”

“When I come in the door, you'd present your cunny to me for immediate filling.”

“Yes, I would.”

“Would you be wet and ready for me, my slave, my toy?”

“Yes!” She tightened as her arousal heightened again. Her eyes were closed as if she were picturing what I described. “And…and even if I wasn't…”

“That's right. This cock would be yours to take. As many times a day as I wished.”

“Yes, oh yes, Mal…”

“Would you do it? Would you let me chain you to the bed with your legs open and fuck you four times a day? You might not even come.”

“Only if you wished it, Mal.”

“Or I might make you come. Like now. Come, Gwen. Come!”

By all ye gods and monsters, she came on my command.

Mal must've come when I did. I was so overwhelmed by my own orgasm and the fantasies he was describing to me that I didn't even realize it at the time. As my own climax ebbed away, though, and I gradually floated back to Earth, I realized he was doing the same, breath slowing, muscles relaxing, mind returning.

He shifted and cradled me against him, pulling one edge of the duvet over us so we wouldn't get chilled as we cooled down from the white-hot intensity of the sex we'd just had.

I shifted myself onto my side and he moved with me, tucking my cheek against his chest. I lay my hand on his breastbone thinking,
Is this the first time we cuddled together like this?
We were both too spent to move much, and for once no one was about to run away or storm off.

And he wasn't. I could sense it, feel his inertia, as if he were a great weight come to rest at last.

“What am I going to do, Gwen?” he asked, his voice humming against my ear.

I ran one palm soothingly over his skin. “Axel said your head would clear after sex.”

His arm around me tightened. “It was not mere sex that has improved my mood.”

I took that as a compliment and smiled to myself. “Does that mean you're ready to talk about the band and Larkin Johns?”

“Yes, I suppose it does.”

I lifted my head a little so I could see his face. He looked thoughtful and somber. No, not somber. Sad. I had never seen Mal sad before. “Why don't you tell me what's been going on? Maybe I can help you sort it out.”

He sat up enough to pile up the pillows behind us and then lay back again, welcoming me into the crook of his arm. What can I say? I felt such a rush of happiness as I settled against him. I felt like I belonged there. At least for the moment he seemed to have given up trying to convince me he was bad for me.

“They say I'm too passionate,” he began.

That sounded a little like his I-love-you-too-much thing. “They say, or you say?”

“They say I care too deeply about the music. That I'm fighting tooth and nail to defend it from the forces I feel will destroy it…but that I'm fighting the wrong people, for the wrong reasons.” His fingers found the stray strands of my hair and smoothed them into place as he spoke. “I feel the producer's been gradually seducing the other members of the band, convincing them of his ideas, until I am the lone voice clinging to the integrity of our music, our songs.”

I frowned. “Mal, the guys care about you. I know they do. I know they care about the band, not just…whether the band has hits or makes money.”

“That's the thing, I suppose. The record company and Johns, they only care about whether we make money.”

“You think Larkin Johns has convinced the guys to care more about money?”

He let out a long sigh. “No. If it were that obvious, they would resist. But he has his ideas about what will ‘make hits.'”

“Like what?”

“Like…
horns
.” He said the word like it was disgusting, which I suppose to him it was.

“You mean saxophones, trumpets, that sort of thing?”

“Exactly.” He shook his head. “Horns are all well and good if you're Lord Lightning doing a massive show production or some pop band doing a little turn through soul or R&B. But that is not The Rough.”

Something clicked for me in that moment. Mal seemed very clear about his vision for the band, but I wondered if he communicated with Larkin Johns as badly as he had with me about what he wanted. Like with me, had he assumed there was some reason why he couldn't have his way? “Did you tell Johns that horns were a hard limit?”

He twitched, then carefully said, “Don't joke about that.”

Déjà vu. “I'm not joking. It sounds to me like you're positively offended by his suggestion of horns, but I have to wonder if he has any idea why you're so upset. It would be one thing if you had said ‘no horns' and then he trampled your boundary and insisted, but it's something else if—”

“He should know perfectly well that horns are a terrible fit,” Mal said, but he didn't sound sure.

“He doesn't know what the image is you have in your head of what the band is,” I said. “It'd be great if he could just ‘get' that from listening to the songs, but maybe he can't. Maybe he's hearing something else. Maybe you have to tell him flat out, no horns.”

“Well, I did, eventually, but it isn't only the horns.” As agitated as he was about Johns, his fingers continued to smooth my hair. Perhaps it was as soothing to him as it was to me. “I can't deny that he's produced many hits, but he can't leave anything alone. He's constantly wanting to change things that don't need changing. As if he doesn't truly understand what makes a song work.”