3
THE FRONT DOOR OPENED STRAIGHT INTO THE LIVING
ROOM, with the stairs up to the second floor along the wall
adjoining the condo next door. Another wall separated the kitchen
from the main room, and a small bathroom, just a toilet and sink,
filled the space under the tall end of the stairs. She had no one
above her, and being an end unit, Bree got noise only from the one
side. Luke prowled the living room, looking at everything. The
institutional blue gray carpet was new when she moved in two years
ago, the white paint job as well. She had the requisite couch and
loveseat, though she didn’t entertain, and a fairly new flat screen
TV.
Luke leaned close to inspect her needlepoint
over the sofa, a historical horse-and-carriage scene outside a
manor house. “Your work?”
Bree actually blushed. “Yes.” Needlepoint
soothed her.
“I never would have imagined you sewing.”
Why? Because being a promiscuous slut and
needlework didn’t go together? She didn’t say that. Instead she
pointed to the others on the walls. “I’ve been doing it since I was
a kid.” It had always been a relaxing hobby. Some might have called
it monotonous, but she loved how it was always so easy to make it
perfect, each stitch the same, the finished parts growing beneath
her fingers.
“I’m impressed.” He smiled, wandering backward
through the living room until he entered the dining area.
She had a table-and-chair set from IKEA. She’d
had only her parents over to dinner, once, when she first moved in.
For the most part, she ate dinner on the sofa in front of the
TV.
“I’ve got some wine.” She held a hand aloft,
indicating the kitchen. They’d had sex, done so many dirty things
together, and yet she felt as tongue-tied and nervous as a first
date.
He laughed. “I forgot. The man’s supposed to
bring a bottle of something. How remiss of me.” Then he leaned in
and sniffed her hair. “Christ, you smell good. And I love the tight
leggings.”
She was barefoot, but still, her lips were
almost on the same level as his. Some men didn’t like that she was
tall; it made them feel inferior. It had never bothered Luke. She
gazed at his mouth, wanting his kiss, but she never initiated.
Instead, she brushed a hand down her white Lycra top to the
waistband of the leggings resting at her hips. “I know you like
this shirt.” She’d dressed for him. He loved the fact that all he
had to do was tug on the Lycra to expose her breasts. She wasn’t
big, but she had tight nipples that peaked against the material,
tempting him, she hoped.
He didn’t take the bait, turning to the kitchen
instead. “Nice,” he said, and he could have been talking about her
clothing or her cabinets as he drew his hand across the wood
surfaces. He opened one, then another.
“What are you doing?” She didn’t know why it
made her nervous; she didn’t have anything to hide, at least not in
her cabinets.
“I want to see what’s in your cupboards. Wow,
you actually cook.” He turned the spice carousel; she had
everything from nutmeg and cardamom to cayenne and Italian spices.
On the shelf above sat her bottles of soy sauce, sesame oil, red
wine vinegar, cooking sherry, and more.
“I like to make stir fry,” she offered.
“Needlepoint and cooking.” He quirked a
Spock-like eyebrow. “I’m learning so much about you.”
“Maybe you need to check the fridge, too,” she
said dryly.
He did just that. “You like vanilla yogurt. A
lot. And milk.” Bent down to look inside, he turned his head back
up to her. “Two gallons? Do you have kids
you didn’t tell me about?”
Her skin felt hot. “It’s cheaper if you buy two
gallons at once. I like to make my mocha in the morning.” She had a
routine. Every morning, she made her own mocha for the drive to
work; Starbucks every day was a thousand dollars a year. Besides,
she liked routines. They were soothing, just like needlepoint and
cooking. If you had a routine, you were in control.
“Thrifty but with expensive tastes, I like it.”
He opened the lettuce drawer, maybe to see if she had rotting
vegetables inside.
She stepped back. “Why are you doing this?” He
made her feel claustrophobic in her own home.
He straightened, closed the fridge, the soft
pfft of the door filling the kitchen.
“Doing what?”
“Looking in everything. Checking me out.”
He cupped her chin, his touch sending a shiver
through her. “You’ve never let me into your house before. I want to
discover everything I can.”
He was always asking her questions, but if she
didn’t answer, he hadn’t seemed to care. She’d liked it that way.
“It’s just that I’m a very private person.”
He closed the brief space between them, coming
chest to chest, and it was all she could do not to back up. He
might have been only a couple of inches taller, yet right now she
felt as if he were a giant above her.
“I’ve fucked you, licked you, spanked you,” he
murmured softly as he if were whispering love words. “I’ve tied you
up, blindfolded you, and forced you to take my cock and my come
down your throat. I think that strips away any privacy between us,
don’t you?”
His censure made her tremble inside.
He tugged the Lycra shirt down until her nipples
popped free. “We have a new rule from now on.” He stroked the beads
into hard nubs. “When I ask, you will answer.” He stared at her
hard. “And you will tell me the truth.” With her nipples between
thumb and forefinger of each hand, he pinched, and sensation
streaked down between her legs. “Right?”
She gasped, her knees weak. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Master.” She’d always chosen to call him
Master, but he’d never insisted. He’d played her games of dominance
and submission, but they were always her
games.
Suddenly everything was different. He’d turned
the tables on her. And God help her, she was going to love
it.
“SHOW ME THE UPSTAIRS.” AS SHE’D STARED AT HIM
WIDE-EYED and spellbound, Luke had gone through every cupboard in
her kitchen, asked her favorite meals, her favorite foods. He’d
finished the glass of wine and felt the mellowness of it in his
knees. Now he wanted her, to fuck her, to hold her, to do anything
he wanted.
She was an enigma, and the needlepoint and
cooking had taken him totally off guard, as did the number of
plants. He’d never seen her as domestic; she was too sexual for
that, though for the life of him he couldn’t say why the two should
be mutually exclusive. He decided that the next time, she would
cook for him. Yet he still hadn’t learned enough about her. There
were more mysteries to uncover.
He followed the siren sway of her slender hips
up the stairs. There were two bedrooms, one large, one small. He
was surprised to see a sewing machine in the guest bedroom which,
as evidenced by the bookcases, desk, and computer, she used as a
home office. He wanted to get into her computer. What would he
learn there?
“Your room,” he said, pushing her ahead of him.
A pale blue comforter covered the bed, pillows in shams piled at
the head of it. A bureau stood beneath the curtained window and a
tallboy on the other wall. On the opposite side of the bed lay the
mirrored closet doors.
He could watch everything he did to her in those
mirrors.
“I was expecting stuffed animals on the bed.” To
go with the needlepoints of kittens and puppies on the walls.
She laughed. It was the first time she’d laughed
all evening. She didn’t like being invaded, and to her, he’d
invaded her space with every cupboard and closet door he’d
opened.
“They’re all on the top of the bookcase in the
spare bedroom,” she told him.
He padded down the short hall, past the bathroom
in the middle, and entered the other bedroom again. Sure enough,
cats, bunnies, teddy bears, fish, and puppies covered the top of
the bookcase with bright colors and soft fur. The book titles
ranged from horror to mystery to romance to classics. But what did
it all tell him about her?
Not much except that she was real. With hobbies
and reading tastes and a softer side that she’d never shown
him.
She’d actually been nothing more than a sex
object to him, everything between them based solely on sex. She
came to his house; they did nasty things; she went home. She never
stayed the night. Occasionally he’d taken her out for a meal, but
mostly to show her off in a sexy outfit. They’d never watched TV
together; he didn’t know what kind of movies she liked.
He knew only that she needed to be directed,
that she wanted to feel forced to do what he asked, yet while
sometimes she cried and begged him to stop, she loved it when he
punished her. That continued to make him wonder about her past
relationships. There had to be something there to explain it.
Nevertheless, he would gladly give her what she needed.
Then he would give her more than she’d ever
asked for.
“You’ve been withholding things from me,
Bree.”
“What do you mean?” She’d followed him halfway
down the hall, but as he turned from the spare room and advanced on
her, she backed up. She’d tugged her shirt back over her small
perfect breasts, but her nipples were still diamond-tipped beneath
the Lycra.
“You’ve never cooked for me.”
She gaped. “You want me to make you dinner
now?”
“Not now. Instead, I’m going to punish you for
never offering. A good submissive must tend to all her master’s
needs, including food, and you haven’t done so.”
“But I’ve—”
He was close enough to put his fingers to her
lips and cut her off. “A master requires more than sexual
sustenance, and you have denied me your full range of
skills.”
Her eyes were wide and brilliantly blue. A pulse
beat fast at her throat. Her breath puffed over his fingers.
He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Take off
your leggings and panties.”
Without a word, she stripped down, and threw the
leggings to the hall carpet. Her pussy was trimmed, the musky scent
of her arousal rising to him, wrapping around his mind. His cock
flexed in his jeans.
“Go into the bedroom, kneel on the floor at the
end of the bed and face the wall.” Then he added, “Slut,” for good
measure.
She didn’t hesitate, turning, the taut lines of
her ass beckoning him.
This is what she loved, orders. Do this, do that. No thinking, no questions. His
blood pumped faster imagining all that he would do to her
tonight.
He entered the bedroom to find her on her knees,
her body already prone across the bed, her arms outstretched, her
ass in the air.
“You love a good spanking, don’t you,
slut?”
“No, Master. It hurts.”
He went down beside her on the carpet. “You like
the way it feels when it’s smarting.”
“No.”
“Don’t lie. I just told you the rule was for you
to always answer my questions with the truth.”
“Yes, but—”
He slapped her ass with a cupped hand, cutting
off her words as she yelped.
He stroked the reddened flesh, dipped down, and
found her pussy wet against his palm. “If you don’t like it, tell
me to stop.”
She didn’t say a thing. Which was the same as
begging for more.
He wouldn’t let her get away with simple
acquiescence. “Tell me what you want, Bree.”
“I want to take my punishment so that you’ll
forgive me. I want you to call me the names I deserve to be
called.”
He rubbed her bottom in rhythmic circles.
“That’s not good enough, Bree.” He refused to use the words she
wanted until she begged. “Tell me exactly how you want it.”
She turned her head to look at him, her eyes
pleading. “I want what you want.”
“You think I like to hurt you?”
She rolled her lips together, smudging her
lipstick slightly. “Well, not like but, you
know, um, that I deserve to be punished. I deserve to be called a
slut and a whore and a bitch.”
Deserve. She wasn’t
going to admit that she got off on it.
He smacked her again, harder, but still with a
cupped hand that did no real damage. She closed her eyes,
moaned.
“Did you like that?”
She gazed at him.
“If you don’t like it, I won’t do it
again.”
She breathed deeply, then her lips tightened as
if she were refusing to speak.
He didn’t slap her bottom again. Instead, he
trailed the smooth line of her ass until his fingers slipped in the
moisture between her legs. “You like it. You’re wet. You need
more.”
She swallowed, but didn’t say a word.
His cock throbbed, and his jeans were suddenly
too tight. “Say it,” he murmured. “You can only have what you want
if you say it.” He leaned close to whisper against her silky hair.
“I order you to say it.” Though he stroked up and down her cleft,
he never entered, never touched her clit, yet she drenched him with
her desire.
Christ, they both wanted it. Goddammit, she
needed to say it. He wasn’t doing this alone. She was going to
admit she wanted it.
Then finally, her lips moved, her words were
soundless. “Please spank me. Please tell me I’m your dirty
slut.”