Chapter Twenty
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As soon as I shut the door behind us, I’m on. There’s a pleasant hum in my veins, the excitement of knowing I’ll have him under my thumb for the next several hours. I’m a connoisseur of pleasure, and this is the thing that gives me the most: a powerful person handing themselves over to me. Power and brawn are what Allie’s built out of.
“Clothes off.”
The muscles above his collar tighten but then relax almost as suddenly. He’s as ready for this as I am. Then he’s turning to face me while he strips off his shirt. It’s such a small thing, but the way most men do that with one hand whereas women unfailingly use two… I don’t know what it is about that small detail, but it arouses me.
As does the way he looks me in the eye as he reaches for his belt. Deliberately. I don’t mind if he wants to goad me with a strip tease. Be my guest, because we both know if I told him to knock it off, he’d be naked in five seconds flat. He slips the leather through the buckle and takes his time releasing it. When I hold out my hand, he doesn’t look surprised, just hands over the belt and watches me fold and then snap it in my hands.
His gaze no longer on my face but on the leather in my grip, he reaches for the button on his jeans. I snap my fingers and point to my face. “Eyes up here, Hart. Show some manners, please.”
His throat constricts in a visible swallow, and yeah, that makes more blood pump south. Then he’s unbuttoning and unzipping and shoving the denim over his narrow hips and rounded ass, down the thick, powerful thighs that make my mouth water, and onto the floor.
Those deliciously clingy boxer briefs follow, and he kicks them away, leaving his arms loose at his sides, head held high, and purposefully broadening his chest. He might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I take a mental snapshot of him as he is in this moment and stick it in my files to be pored over later, when he’s gone.
There’s a momentary beat of sadness at the thought, but I shrug it off because this is what I do. What I’ve always done. Though Hart’s wormed his way into a place few others have managed to reach, I’ll pass him off as surely as I have the rest. No use pretending otherwise and I should enjoy him while he’s mine.
I point to the floor, and he drops to his knees, spreading them and resting his hands on his thighs. Lovely, tractable man. He tracks me with his gaze as I move closer, belt still in my hands. If he thinks I’m going to start his hiding here, he’ll be disappointed. But not for long. Instead of striping the leather across his flesh, I dangle it in my grasp, the end nearly hitting the floor, and then I bend down.
“I’d like to put this around your neck. Use it as a lead. Is that okay?”
He blinks at me, his eyes going wide, chest puffing with a sudden inhale.
“No is always an option. You never have to do anything you don’t want to do. If it’s too much, say the word or shake your head. Not an issue.”
He doesn’t. Doesn’t do anything for a full minute. Then quietly, oh so quietly, says, “Okay.”
I want to do a fist pump for having earned this from him, but won’t. There are more important things to do than celebrate. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
There’s a quick duck of his chin so I know he’s heard me, and then I use the leather to circle his neck, using the buckle to form a collar and leash. It’s less than ideal in that I can’t control the tightness well, but it’ll do for now. This is likely as close to a collar as I’ll get with him.
And isn’t that irritating as he lengthens the column of his throat for me, the better to take his impromptu collar. Makes me thirst for him, all of him. Don’t dwell on it, Walter. Nothing ever came from wanting.
I tug at the end of the belt I’ve wrapped around my fist and start down the hall. Without me telling him to do so, he follows on his knees. I can’t see him crawling down the hallway, but the picture is vivid in my mind. When we get to the stair landing, I guide him to go up instead of down, and he hesitates oh-so-briefly.
“Don’t worry, Hart. You’ll get yours.”
It’s true I don’t usually use my bedroom for kink, and I can’t entirely say why I’m doing so now. There’s a veritable treasure trove of toys in the dungeon and almost none up here, but I’m not planning to light him up with the violet wand, nor am I going to take my needle kit to him, though my fingers itch with the thought of laying him out and puncturing his skin. Later.
Today, it’s going to be a good old-fashioned beating with an ass-fucking to follow. He’s going to fucking love every single second of it, even when he isn’t liking it.
He slinks up the stairs, and I don’t hurry him, relishing the idea of his hands and knees meeting the fine carpet as he follows me. Down the hall to the bedroom, and when we get there, I leave the door wide open. Not that there’s anyone here and there won’t be—I texted Matthew while Hart was in the bathroom at brunch so he knows I’m not to be disturbed until I call for him—but Hart doesn’t know that and I catch his glance toward the door.
“Don’t trouble yourself.” I’m gratified by the slight darkening of his cheeks at my instruction, the undertones going warm instead of cool. And by his answer, since I haven’t told him why not. For all he knows, Matthew could be in the house already and waiting for my summons to stand in the doorway and watch whatever I’m going to do to him.
“Yes, sir.”
He kneels in the middle of the room, and I pull on the end of the belt, letting him feel it. I don’t miss the strain of his tendons against the leather.
“Do you like being collared, Hart? Having leather tight around your throat?”
He swallows again and my chest constricts. “Yes, sir.”
“Did you like being led through the house on a leash like my pet?”
His jaw tightens, and I’d like to run a hand over his head, feel the slight bristle on his scalp. So hard for him to say, yes, he enjoyed it. Despite the tension in his muscles and his reluctance, I know he did on some level. The way his erection is standing at attention gives him away. But what he says matters far more than the information his body gives to me, so I’ll listen to his words.
“Yes, sir.” The low rumble of his voice is such a goddamn turn-on I’d be a liar if I said I weren’t getting hard too.
I do pet his head then, as much because I want to as because it’ll humiliate him a little.
“Are you up for some pain, Hart?”
“Yes, sir.” As always. “I won’t be watching the kids for a few days.”
Good information to have, though I also know that means he’ll be sleeping in his truck some. My fingers curl into a fist because he’s such a stubborn fuck he hasn’t used the key I gave him yet. Ah. Leverage.
“If you’d like me to be hard on you, then I’d like your word you’ll sleep here when you’re not at Kendra’s house for the next three days.”
There’s a harsh breath of air through his nose, and he opens his mouth to protest.
“Entirely up to you, of course, but I’m not marking you if you’re going to be sleeping crunched up in the cab of your truck. Promise me. Here or your sister’s, I don’t care—” Newsflash, I totally do, but let me have this little lie. “—but you’ll be sleeping in a bed one way or another if you want me to work you over. Are we understood?”
His “yes, sir” is gritted through his teeth, but I don’t call him on his attitude. I’m too thankful he’ll be sleeping in a bed for the next several days instead of out on the street where god knows what could happen to him.
“Excellent.”
I pull the belt tight before releasing it and using it to gesture toward the foot of the bed. He gives me a bit of a dirty look as he crawls over, but he can send all the eye-daggers he likes. I’m a happy man, as I usually am when I get my way.
There are restraints tucked under the bed, because of course there are, but I’ll maybe keep those for a surprise some other time. It wouldn’t be a bad thing for him to exercise some control.
“Kneel up, stomach against the bed, palms face down on the covers.”
He does as he’s told, though he’s a tad lazy about it so I grab his wrists and stretch them to where I’d like, a point that will provide a bit of strain. He’s stunning, the muscles of his back and torso shown off to their best advantage in this position. And his ass. Can’t possibly forget his ass. What a beautiful canvas to paint my masterpiece on.
Turning his head to the side, his breath deepens, and I can see him preparing, readying his mind for what’s about to befall his body, this thing he’s asked for and perhaps now regretting. He can stop it anytime he likes, and has.
I prepare myself, taking the buckle of his belt in my hand and wrapping the leather around to give a good grip. I could double it over, but I want the distance the length will afford.
While he’s stretched out and waiting, I pace behind him, making him wait because it makes him crazy. His fingers curl listlessly against the duvet, and I tsk at him. “Ah. Fingers spread and flat, Hart. You’re supposed to make this look easy.”
He stills and slowly extends his hands to their full breadth, taking a deep breath as he does. I’m such a fucking liar. I want to watch him suffer because he does it so prettily, but I like too the effort he exerts to make it look easy, to take the torture I visit upon his body. I like knowing exactly how strong he is and how much it takes to break him, because break him I will, and it’s no fun if all it takes is a few whacks of a cane or licks of a belt. The criers and the wailers are all well and good and I know some Dominants delight in the sounds, but not me. I’d much rather have silence until my victim can’t help themselves anymore. It feels more real to me, more authentic, not so much like the performance art some people seem to prefer.
That’s when I hit him for the first time, drawing my arm back and letting the belt slice through the air toward his ass. He hisses, and his fingers clench as the leather makes contact because I haven’t started out easily. I’m not warming him up because this is supposed to hurt.
I tut at him again, and without having to be told, he lays his hands back out and as soon as he does, I hit him again. His fingers twitch this time against the soft cotton, and he clenches his jaw. Classic and lovely. So I lay more stripes across his flesh, watching for every indication of pain and suffering, licking up each like a parched man finding dew drops on leaves. Every iota of his distress is delicious and sweet.
There’s a certain ignominy in his situation, being thrashed with his own possession, and I want to remind him of it. “Are you enjoying this? Being striped with your own belt?”
I hit him again, and he sucks air through his teeth because that must’ve hurt. I meant it to.
“It’s not mine anymore, sir. It’s yours. I’m yours.”
My arm freezes in its backswing but only for a fraction of a second. I find the ground under my feet and bring the belt down again and again, welt after livid welt rising up on his skin. His words, they…well, they enrage me, and my useless wrath gets channeled through my arm, extends into the leather. I want to flay him alive for provoking me like that.
I don’t ask him any more questions, afraid of the answers, and instead focus on strapping every single available inch of his bulk. Back and shoulders—but careful not to catch his neck. Those glorious buttocks and the backs of his thighs. I hit him again and again until I’m getting hot from exertion. That’s when I let my gaze wander to his face: eyes clenched shut with tears sliding over his cheek and onto the covers, jaw so tight I’m worried he might crack a tooth. Shit. And yet his hands…fingers still gloriously spread and flat out, though the tendons stand out and they’re shaking with tension…
God, he’s lovely. So goddamn tempting. I’ve got more self-control in my pinky nail than most people have in their entire bodies, but Allie makes me lose every ounce of it. I want him now, and for the love of all that is holy, I’m not going to wait anymore.
I drop to my knees behind him, pressing my pelvis into his ass that must be on fire, and it forces a strangled noise from his throat. So often domination feels like a weight, a responsibility. One I enjoy, very much, but it’s in moments like these that it gives me a high. Makes me feel powerful and elated. This is my definition of rapture.
Maybe it’s that Allie is so strong and it would take more than I’d ever inflict to truly break this man who’s been hardened by life, or maybe it’s because he’s my lover and not one of my clients, so I don’t suffer the same kind of obligation. This isn’t solely about him; I’m allowed to take my pleasure too. And I will.
Sliding my hands up the sides of his heaving ribcage, I let my fingers run over the welts I’ve left and scrape my nails over his arms. Not so hard I’ll leave marks for long because he wears T-shirts so often, but hard enough for him to feel, and then I thread my fingers through his own, lean down, and bite hard on his ear. He doesn’t release his hands from their strenuous position, but holds them still as I lick the trail of tears on his cheek.
“Let go, beautiful man. You’ve done well, and I’m pleased with you.”
His fingers crumple into fists, and he squeezes my hands as he shudders underneath me and lets out a ragged sob. “Fuck.”
It tears at my heart at the same time it gets me unbearably hard… What this man will do for me. Bear excruciating pain, let me mark his flesh that’s been marked so many times before. Though maybe handing it over willingly is reclaiming some of his own power instead of experiencing the loss of it anew. He enjoys this on some level, and he’s given me permission. God, I hope he realizes I’d never take it without him offering it up on a platter. Because I wouldn’t. The moment this becomes involuntary, it changes into something else entirely, something I don’t want to think about.
I press against him, letting him feel the aftermath of his hiding because he’ll like it, and I take the opportunity to kiss behind his ear and tell him how magnificent he is. In my head, where it’s marginally safe to think the most dangerous of thoughts, I have to admit he is in fact exceptional. Unrivaled in the pure emotion and sexual heat he manages to spur in me.
I am fucked. So totally, completely, and utterly fucked.
When he’s calmed to my satisfaction and is pressing his hips against my erection, I push back and up, coming to my feet in a swift movement and heading to the bedside table where I wrench open the drawer and throw a bottle of lube and a strip of condoms on the duvet and wave at the bed in a totally undignified way.
Jesus, Walter, get your shit together.
“On the bed,” I snap, because luckily Hart didn’t witness my indecorous flailing. He climbs up and flicks a glance over his shoulder. “You may decide if you want to look me in the face while I fuck your ass.”
Part of me wants him to collapse facedown in the pillows so I won’t have to watch him while I press inside his body and drive him crazy. The feel of being inside of him and the sounds he makes, the sight of the back of his neck I’ll undoubtedly bite—those will be about as much as I can handle. I’m not sure if I could…
But the damn man doesn’t give a crap about the lingering shreds of my self-control. He’s intent on destroying me. Or perhaps just doing what he’d like, flopping down on his back and raising his arms above his head, tucking his hands behind his neck. Looking almost arrogant as he stretches out on my bed.
I narrow my eyes and cock my head. “You’d best wipe that conceited look off your face before I do the same thing to your front as I did your back.”
I heft the belt to make my point, and his face goes a little ashy. I wouldn’t, and I hope he knows that somewhere deep inside. Truth be told, I don’t mind the cocky look on his face. Mostly because I know, with a look, I can make it disappear. I want him to be proud, and god knows if anyone were to treat him with anything other than the utmost respect, I’d have their head on a stake. There’s something to be said about having a person like him under your control.
Dropping the belt, I reach for my own and leisurely unbuckle it. It feels as though it takes a ludicrous amount of time to glide the leather through the loops. Okay, not ludicrous, probably more like three seconds, but with how badly I’m aching to be inside of him it feels like a transatlantic flight. When it’s out, I drop it on the floor and untuck my shirt before unbuttoning it.
Allie’s staring at me like a starving man would eye a bloody steak. I have a decent body, though my physique doesn’t hold a candle to his. I tend toward lean and I’m more sleek than solid, nothing like his raw power, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like a very fine specimen indeed. So I take my time, stripping the rest of my clothes as he watches. The late-morning light is breaking through the shades and streaking over me.
Perhaps it’s excessive amounts of vanity and power run amok, but I feel like king of the world. Or, at least, my own bedroom. In my experience, those things aren’t so different. Shoving off my pants and my socks, I kick them to the side and stand before him.
“Are you going to stand there and pose like a Greek god, or are you going to fuck me already?”
I raise an eyebrow because I don’t want to encourage his impudent sass. “I may not be a god, but I’m sure as hell your god. So if you ever want me to fuck you, you’d best keep your pretty mouth shut. Knees up.”
He rolls his lips between his teeth and then makes a gesture like he’s zipping them closed, locking them up tight, and throwing away the key. Once done, he bends his knees, taking hold of his shins and pulling them in toward his chest. He’s shamelessly on display, and I’m flattered I’ve gotten him so turned on he’s thrown modesty entirely out the window. His gorgeous cock is standing up at an angle just shy of vertical.
I climb onto the bed and settle between his spread thighs. When I sit back on my heels, I stroke myself. Because I can and because he looks delightfully wanton, spread out and waiting for me.
With an uncharacteristically desperate whine, he begs me and I tsk. “Not until I’m ready. Who knows how long I could jerk myself while you wait? Looking at that thick, hard cock of yours, how frantic you are to get my dick up your ass. It wasn’t so long ago you would’ve claimed you didn’t want this. Now look at you. Legs spread and all slutty for me.”
He closes his eyes and he makes a choked sound, but doesn’t lower his knees, doesn’t try to close his legs. If I’m a judge of these things—and I like to think I am—his cock gets even harder, thicker, swollen and pulsing with want. Now I really can’t wait anymore.
I tear open one of the foil packets and slick some extra lube over my cock before I pour some more on my fingers and move closer into him. I rub at his hole, coaxing and gentle, and it’s enough to make him squirm, his hardness bobbing against his stomach. Then I push. Just a little. My finger goes in easily with the copious amount of lubrication, but it still makes him gasp. Satisfaction? Craving? I can’t tell. So I push farther, gentle, because penetration is still new to him and I want him to like it. I want him to enjoy having me inside him.
There are few things in life a satisfying as being buried to the hilt in a beautiful, compliant man, and because I’m a selfish creature, I don’t want anything to get in the way of my desires.
I slide my finger in and out of him, the warm, welcoming heat of him surrounding me and making me wish it were my cock inside him instead of my finger. Soon enough. Stroking in and out, I let him become familiar enough with the feeling to relax. That’s when I add a second finger and coax it inside him, urging him to relax when his muscles stiffen.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Hart. I promise. I’m going to make you feel good. Do you remember the last time we did this?”
“Yes, sir,” he pants, looking at the ceiling. He’s focusing on being open, obedient, relaxed, so I won’t make him look at me. I’ll give him the space he needs to get used to this incredibly intimate and vulnerable feeling. If I’m being honest, I could use a minute myself. When he’s calmed enough that my two fingers can make their way in and out of his passage with ease, I reach up with my other hand and cup his balls.
His back arches, and he sucks in a breath, eyes still on the ceiling, hands still grasping his shins to hold himself open for me. I take the opportunity to toy with him, palming his sac and tugging on it the way he likes. His muscles clench around me, and I can’t wait to bury myself in him, feel that same pulsating pressure on my cock. Feel him come around me as I make him cry out in pleasure. Maybe even my name.
I debate whether to work another finger inside him, but not today. He’s open enough that he can take me inside, and I don’t mind going slow, pressing inside him inch by slow inch, exerting every ounce of control I have because I want to be balls-deep inside him yesterday.
So I remove my fingers and climb over him, settling a hand above his flexing shoulder and using the other one to direct myself inside him. It’s as much to slow my pace as it is to get the angle right. And then, then, I’m inside him. Just a little, but god, it’s good. So fucking good.
I’ve had a lot of sex with a lot of people—good, bad, and oh-so-ugly—but Hart feels good to me in a way most people don’t. We fit together, and I hope he feels the same way. Judging by the way his eyes have rolled back and he’s arching off the bed, he does.
“Fuck,” he mutters and squeezes his eyes shut. There’s no pain in his voice, no regret, so I don’t withdraw, but I do stop. Reach my hand up to his neck where I stroke the tendons standing out with my thumb and cover his throat, finding the beat of his pulse with my fingers, feeling him breathe under my touch.
He’s mine.
Mine and therefore my responsibility, so I ease forward, drawing back each time to give him the friction he craves and at one point adding more lube, because goddamn is that marvelous stuff. He rocks against me, begging for more, and I give it to him, slowly.
When I’ve pressed inside until I can’t get any deeper with slow movements and soothing words, he opens his eyes, and I love that drunk look on his face, as if I’m the best drug he’s ever had.
Damn straight.
“Please,” he says, his lips never fully closing and his breath barely enough to supply the word.
“Please, what?” I squeeze his throat, not enough to deprive him of any sorely needed oxygen but because I can. I bet he’d let me. He’d trust me to do breathplay, and the idea makes my hips jerk forward involuntarily, making him moan. Oh yes, I’ve hit that delectable spot.
“Please, sir?” he offers, his forehead wrinkled with hope.
I love being above him, being inside him, owning him. In this moment, I wonder if it will ever be this good again. If this is the pinnacle of what I’m allowed to expect. The thought’s alternately depressing and thrilling. Thrilling because I’ve been allowed something so magnificent, so goddamn pleasurable my brain could explode and my body break into a thousand shining pieces with the idea and the feel of him. Depressing because this might be it. This is the best I’ll ever have, and I’m having it now.
Getting older’s never bothered me. To be honest, it surprises me more than anything else. I always expected to die young, but here I am, edging up on thirty-nine. It’s as good a time as any I suppose to hit my peak. Too many people have their glory days in their teens and twenties. In that respect, I suppose I’m lucky.
“Be. More. Specific.” I hope I don’t sound as desperate as I feel, but no man should be expected to maintain this level of control forever.
“Please fuck me, sir.”
The words send a rush through me, lighting up my veins like a hot burning line of sparklers. I force myself to cock my head, creating that extra second of delay that’s going to drive us both crazy. “I think that could be arranged.”
Then I rock back, drawing out of him only to plunge back in, angling to hit that spot that will drive him wild, and I fuck him for all I’m worth. Driving into him like I’ll never get to do it again. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t, but I’m not going to waste this moment. I’m going to extract every particle of pleasure I can.
Every time my hips hit the welts on his ass, he makes a sound—this lovely “ngh” I wish I could record and listen to over and over again. It could fuel my fantasies for months. All because of the things I’ve done to him. That he let me do.
Though I’d like to listen to that sound forever, what I’d like even more is to possess every inch of him, to taste and feel and occupy him in every way possible. So without slowing my pace, I lean down and kiss him, take his thick bottom lip between my teeth and bite before slipping my tongue into his mouth where it tangles with his.
Breathless, I pull back and lean my forehead against his.
“Come on, Hart. Give it up for me. I want to feel you come.”
I’m not expecting it, because honestly, it takes a long time to train someone to come on command—though if you’re skilled at watching for the signs, you can create the illusion by demanding it when they’re on the edge. Sometimes a Dominant’s words are enough to push them over. But I hadn’t anticipated the hot, thick spurts of Hart’s orgasm against my stomach, how his muscles squeeze my cock, how he lets out this guttural groan that sounds like “Yes, Rey, Jesus, yes.”
Surprise is the only excuse I have for why I lose it. Just fucking lose it and come inside him, my orgasm so intense my brain goes entirely blank for a second and a sound I don’t recognize escapes from my throat. In the name of all that’s holy—
No, not all that’s holy. All that’s flesh and blood in front of me, around me, under me.
“Fuck, Hart. You’re…fuck.” At least my sense hasn’t deserted me entirely. I managed to bite back my thoughts, swallow them down. You’re perfect. Brilliant. I adore you. I love you. Because that’s exactly what your lover wants to hear from you when you’re orgasming, something you’d never say when your brains aren’t shooting out of your dick.
We move against each other, grinding out the rest of our climaxes until there’s nothing left to give. Before I pull out, I bend down and kiss him again. Sweetly, because I can’t help myself. His lips are full, warm, and languidly responsive, pressing against mine in an obliging, satisfied way. He makes another noise, this one not the pure sex of his “ngh,” but an endearing half-sigh instead.
I pull out reluctantly, glad he won’t be watching the kids for a couple of days because he’s going to be sore. Thankful for my foresight, I reach for the washcloths I wrapped around a hot stone and set in water when I was gathering my supplies. I hand Allie one, and we lay side-by-side as we clean ourselves up. When we’re through and he’s lying there looking as though he’s going to pass out, I pull a blanket over us and my heart nearly explodes when he moves closer and rests his head against my chest.
My heart pounds against my ribs, and I hope he can’t hear it, feel it. I don’t need to worry. It’s only seconds after I wrap my arm around him and brush my fingers up and down his smooth, firm flesh that he’s snoring in this completely uncouth and oblivious way. It’s charming. Sleep well, Hart.