Authors: Maren Smith
“I want to bind you.” He alternately tugged and rolled her nipples between his fingers. “Has your boyfriend ever tied you up?”
She shook her head, needing every molecule of air she had just to keep herself in this moment, where everything felt so unbelievably perfect. He bent his head, opening his mouth and she gasped, clasping his shoulders when the incredible heat engulfed her right nipple.
“Put your hands on my knees and keep them there.”
Instant obedience, oh, but it was hard. She wanted so much to touch him, to cling to him and pull him closer while he licked and flicked and scrapped his teeth lightly across the sensitive peak. She wanted to wrap her legs around him, but the chair got in the way. He suckled, hot and hard, and she had to twist her fingers in the excess folds of his pants just to keep from grabbing at his shoulders again.
A slick wet pop accompanied the break of suction when his mouth abandoned her right breast, and then he was on to her left, flicking, nipping,
suckling until each breath came in tiny mewling whimpers.
He caught her hips; she hadn’t realized she was grinding until he did that. He bit her chest, her neck. He reached up to grab a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back to give him unimpeded access to the tender lobe of her ear. Her hands swept up to catch his arms, and his response was immediate. He swatted her hip. She grabbed his knees again and the torment continued.
“Oh!” She shivered, feeling the intense wet pull of his mouth tugging all the way down in her pulsing sex. “Oh!”
“Stand.”
She didn’t think she could, especially not when she saw the proof of his own arousal. The bulge of his erection stood out against the confines of his jeans. More than anything, she wanted to slide back off his lap, fall to her knees to touch him, worship him, like Greek gods were supposed to be worshipped, with both her hands and her mouth.
Her knees wobbled, but she stood, backing up against the table when he directed her to. She clung to the edge of it
with both hands, breathing heavily and swallowing back her disappointment when he left her there. He exited through the swinging kitchen door, but was gone only a moment before he returned with a set of black cuffs—one end of which was sized right for her wrist, though the other was much larger—and a wooden spatula.
His dark eyes sparkled. His smile was as seductive as his kiss. Though he set the cuffs on the table and kept the spatula in his hand, she couldn’t find it anywhere in her to be afraid. “What did I tell you to do with your hands?”
“Put them on your knees and keep them there.”
“Turn around. Put your hands on the table, bend over and hold that position until I say otherwise.”
Chelsea turned and bent, almost putting her hand in the middle of their breakfast plate. She got butter from the toast on her thumb before she realized it and pushed the plate away. Bracing her hands on the smooth wood, she waited, knowing what to expect and yet not knowing. Would he bare her? She was practically naked as it was. Maybe he’d pull her panties up between her buttocks, like he’d done yesterday.
She was so wet. Hot liquid need flooded her pussy, spurred on by the touch of his hand smoothing down her spine to settle in the small of her back. He pushed until she was lying flat against the wood, with her hips arching her bottom out into a nice round target behind her.
“Five swats,” he told her. “If you can hold still for it, that’s all you’ll get. If you can’t, not only will I strip you naked, but I’ll keep you that way the rest of the day. I’ll also start the count over again and add an additional five strokes.”
“Naked?” She felt the smooth coolness of the spatula caress a tiny circle upon her left bottom cheek. Apparently, he didn’t need to bare her after all. There wasn’t enough skirt on this outfit to cover the flesh of her bottom in this position and her panties were high-cut, leaving a good portion of both cheeks vulnerably bare. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“But you will.”
He sounded so confident. Chelsea snapped around, half laughing, “No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will.” He gave her bottom another caress, followed by a soft pat of the spatula right where the curve of her bottom yielded to her thighs. First the right side, and then the left. She jumped both times, but those pats weren’t anywhere near hard enough to hurt. They barely made a sound, but still it felt as if all the nerve endings there were ten times more sensitive than anywhere else inside her. “You’ll do it not because you’re an exhibitionist or because you find it titillating—which I can see you don’t. You’ll do it…” He stroked her again, caressing that spatula back and forth across the tops of her tender thighs. “You'll do it because I tell you to do it and because obeying me satisfies that desperate need within you that cries to be dominated.”
“I don’t have that need.”
“Yes, you do.”
She caught her breath, feeling his next soft pat all the way up into her heart and down into her toes. Her pussy wept with heated arousal. She had the most insane urge to spread her legs—to let him see, hoping perhaps he might be tempted to touch. She wanted to be touched so badly. She couldn’t remember when she’d last wanted anything more.
The flat head of the spatula passed another caress down the back of her right leg, almost to the knee, before passing across to her left leg and rising up again. It got halfway to her bottom before changing course and dipping in between her thighs. It wasn’t the touch of his hand that she craved so much, but it was a touch, and when it settled directly over her wet and quivering folds, applying pressure in the most delicious way, she gripped at the table, buried her face in her arms and sighed.
This pat was just as soft as the others had been, but she felt it in ways she’d never felt anything else. It was so intense, so seductive. It made her gush, and it was impossible to hold still afterward. It took real effort just to raise her head up off her arms and open her eyes when she heard him say, “This tells me you do.”
He showed her the spatula, glistening and wet. “That first night in the garden did too.” He stepped in behind her. His fingers combing up the back of her neck into her hair, weaving into the long strands as he wrapped his hand in it. He caught her in his fist and pulled back, applying gentle pressure until her neck strained and her back arched and she rose up off the table. He brought her all the way back until her head almost touched his shoulder. “And this does. This tells me everything.”
The arch of her back pushed her bottom into the cradle of his hips. Now, all she could feel was the heady pressure of his jeans-locked erection, pressing back against the soft folds of her sex, parting her, coaxing her to yield the way women were meant to yield to their lovers. It was the most intoxicating touch of her life, and she soared when she felt that first circling grind as he moved against her. It was a dance as old as time, and yet it felt so breathtakingly new to Chelsea.
“What do you want, Red?” His breath, so hot and seductive, caressed the shell of her ear. It was followed by the flick of his tongue an instant before he pulled the fleshy lobe between his teeth. Her whole body felt the pull of that first suckling draw. She groaned, melting back against him. “What do you want?”
“You,” she moaned and convulsed, feeling that first thrust of his hips like a shock of sparking electricity that leapt from pussy to womb and back again. She tingled. She burned.
“You’ve got me,” he countered, and ruthlessly thrust again. The sound of his hips slapping into hers was almost as overwhelming as the sensation. It felt so hard, so powerful, so commanding. It felt owning. He owned her.
“What do you want?” he demanded. “I’m right here. Tell me what you want—to finish breakfast, play a hand of pinochle, what? Does it start with ‘please’ and end with ‘fuck me, Master Kade’? Tell me what you want. Open your beautiful little mouth and say it. Whisper it. Moan it right now, just for me.”
And she did moan. “Please!” That single word tore its way through her throat, spurred out of her on the jolt of his next commanding thrust.
“That’s not the magic words.” He reached around her and she felt the cool edge of the spatula dig into her thigh when he gripped her. One short jerk pulled her legs further apart. He shifted his grip, covering her pussy with the flat head of the spatula. “Tell me what you want.”
His erection was digging into her from behind and the pressure of the spatula over her clit was driving her to madness. He swatted. Just once. Little more than another soft pat except that where he struck made it feel like so much more.
Chelsea gasped, her hips bucking back against him. Shaking, she lifted her head and as clearly as she could, her voice trembling every bit as badly as the rest of her, moaned, “That’s five.”
Everything stopped.
Kade didn’t move, not for the longest time. His arms remained around her. His cock still burned and bulged into her from behind. The flat business end of the spatula still rested against her pussy in front, but strangely, everything else felt…frozen.
At least, until Kade laughed. It was a soft, self-deprecating sound.
“I actually hadn’t started yet, but my, what a blow to the ego. You were counting?”
“I didn’t move, either.” She looked back at him over her shoulder, knowing that wasn’t entirely true, all but daring him to contradict her. She hoped he would. Five more pats like that last one, and she might actually come.
The door to the main dining hall suddenly swung open and Selena walked in.
“Morning,” she said brightly. As if she hadn’t noticed what she was interrupting, she set her breakfast plate and orange juice on the table across from them. “Did you guys see the furry out there in the tiger suit? He’s eating a bowl of mini frosted bondage flakes and every few bites, he throws his spoon in the air and says, ‘Theeeeeey’re great!’” Chuckling, Selena shook her head. “I love this place.”
Pulling out her chair, she sat and spread her napkin across her lap. Only belatedly, did she seem to realize Kade was glaring at her and Chelsea was blushing and trying to cover her naked breasts with her arms.
“Don’t let me interrupt.” Selena rolled her hand at them. “Carry on, carry on. Pretend I’m not even here.” She giggled a little, bowing her head as she sought to preoccupy herself with her jelly, toast and eggs.
Dropping the spatula on the table, Kade walked a few steps away. He rubbed his face, stabbed his fingers through his short black hair and then laughed again, that same rueful chuckle that meant happy was definitely not what he was at this particular moment.
Her body was humming with need, throbbing in the most dreadful and insistent places. The mood was broken and yet, as Chelsea shrugged self-consciously back into her tunic, covering herself as much as the mini outfit would allow, there was no doubt in her mind that a single touch from Kade’s hand was all it would take to rekindle the fires inside her. Just one small touch, a stroke, a pat. His hand or the spatula, she didn’t think it mattered.
Kade stalked away from the table. He glared at the top of Selena’s head when he passed her chair, but she didn’t look up. Her body rocked in movements reminiscent of a little girl swinging her feet under the table. She was humming, pretending her toast and jelly took up her entire attention. Kade wasn’t fooled. He looked like a man on the verge of throttling a woman.
Then his gaze rose, leaving the back of Selena’s head and stabbing across the table into Chelsea.
Her stomach clenched and quivered.
Backing into the door, Kade beckoned to her.
He was so dangerous, especially when he smiled like that. And yet, one shaky step after another, Chelsea couldn’t stop herself.
She trailed around the table after him and, God help her, when he held out his hand, she took it. She was no angel and he couldn’t possibly be the Devil, but the kiss he pressed into the back of her hand burned as if it were branded in.
He led, and she followed.
It felt wonderful.
A
cross from the gift shop was a tiny stone storefront. It had a wooden plaque carved to look like a Ye Olde English scroll and the words “Maybe’s Candies” burned into the wood in heavy cursive. Unlike real storefronts, there was no window to allow Castle guests peeks at all the goodies Chelsea imagined must laden the shelves inside, but there were poster-sized photos. After leaving the Masters’ private dining room, this was as far as they’d gotten before a familiar plump blonde waylaid them in the hall. That had been ten minutes ago, and although Chelsea had spent the last nine and a half staring at the same six posters, it wasn’t solely because the chocolates looked unbelievably delicious.
“Stop,” Kade told the blonde some six or so feet behind Chelsea. “Just stop. This is not appropriate behavior.”
Chelsea was trying hard not to eavesdrop, but the blonde was making that increasingly harder to do.
“Where is your master and why aren’t you trying to please him?”
“I don’t want
him
!” the woman declared. She softened her tone, turning wheedling, and Chelsea had to fight herself to keep from turning around. The last thing she wanted to see was the blonde pressing her soft body all up against Kade’s hard angles.
“Stop that!” Kade snapped again, leaving Chelsea wondering what the woman had done. Rubbing her hand over the bulge that filled the front of his pants, maybe. God, she didn’t think she could stand to see that. Already she felt sick. Her stomach was twisting, as if she had any right to feel jealous over anything or anyone that Kade did. A girl had to know a guy for more than three days before she was allowed to get jealous. Even better, she had to have a commitment, and that was one thing Chelsea definitely did not have.
“You liked what I did for you,” the blonde woman was cooing. “I know you did.”
“Enough,” Kade said, sounding angry. “If you are unhappy with your match, then go to Master Marshall’s office and ask to be reassigned.”
“I already know who I want.” Her voice dipped husky and low.
She couldn’t listen to this anymore. Grabbing for the door of the candy shop, Chelsea went inside. She helped the door close just a little bit faster just to seal out the argument. She could still hear the murmur of their voices, just not the actual words. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on simply breathing—in and out, slowly, steadily—without bursting into tears and why? Because some woman liked the same man she did. How much more “high school” could she get?
The smell of cinnamon, chocolate and licorice waged a gentle assault on her nose. Opening her eyes, Chelsea found herself surrounded by clear plastic displays and racks upon racks of candy containers, everything from fudge to peanut brittle to Applets and Cotlets and wasabi-flavored Kit Kats. The licorice bullwhips hanging in clear plastic wraps by the door and chocolate handcuffs by the register were entirely expected, considering the venue. But the hundred or so jelly-belly flavors and perfectly ordinary Mallow bars weren’t.
“Wow,” Chelsea said, letting her nose draw her deeper into the store. At the front counter, she surveyed the fresh-baked wares: cake balls, fudge and s’mores bars—melted marshmallow and creamy fudge sandwiched between two graham crackers and dipped in dark rich chocolate. Her mouth watered.
She wasn’t the only customer in the shop. Two women stood at the counter ahead of her, waiting not so patiently, for the somewhat frazzled attendant to wrap their fudge order. She must have been new. She was carefully weighing each piece of fudge, trying to get precise weights while fumbling to wrap each flavor neatly in the presentation box. She fumbled again with the register.
“This is taking forever,” one customer said out of the side of her mouth, though not quite softly enough for the attendant to miss.
The poor girl flushed. “I’m sorry.” Her hands shook as they hovered over obviously unfamiliar keys. She pecked at buttons, got even more frazzled when the relatively small purchase came to over a hundred dollars, and then cancelled out the order and tried again.
The two women ahead of Chelsea sighed and exchanged looks.
“That’s eight-fifty with tax,” the attendant finally pronounced. Her hand was shaking when she took their room key to record where to bill the order, and then she handed them their sack. She even smiled—the way new service employees did when they were trying really, really hard not to cry—and turned her attention to Chelsea once the other two women had gone.
Chelsea smiled back, a sincere offering of condolences. How many times had she stood on that side of the counter, new and with no idea yet how to work the register, in the last couple years? She couldn’t even count. “Hi. You okay?”
A flicker of desperation moved through the sales attendant’s eyes. “I’ll be okay.”
“First day?”
“Yeah. It’s not even my real job. I usually work in the kitchen, but they needed help here so Cook Connie sent me over.”
“That ought to be a relief though, shouldn’t it?” Chelsea quipped, trying to be friendly. “I ran into Cook Connie my first night here. That is one scary woman.”
That thin budding light of friendliness closed in the attendant’s eyes like a shutter being slapped into place. Her smile died behind an expression as cool and hard as Castle stone. “I know you’re just making small talk and maybe even trying to make me feel better, but please don’t ever talk badly about Cook Connie again. I am proud to be one of her kitchen bitches. I am proud to take my stripes when I’ve earned them. I’d rather be in the kitchen program than anywhere else in the Castle. I’d sure as hell rather be there than here!”
“I’m sorry,” Chelsea stammered. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine.” Back stiff and head high, the attendant stared straight ahead so she wouldn’t have to look at Chelsea. “What can I get you?”
“Uh…” Flustered now herself and not sure how to fix her accidental blunder, Chelsea turned back to the display. “How much are the cake balls?”
“Two dollars each.”
“I, uh…” She patted at her minuscule
slave girl skirt, as if she needed the reminder of what she did and didn’t carry with her. “I left my money in my room.”
“We don’t take money here. Like the gift shop, it’s all billed to your room.” There wasn’t an ounce of friendliness or forgiveness anywhere about her.
One of these days, she really needed to learn to keep her big mouth shut. “One cake ball please.”
Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, the salesclerk glared at her. “Which flavor? Chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, cherry cheesecake, blackberry walnut, carrot cake, raspberry, lemon, spice with cream cheese, almond butter, black forest—”
“Raspberry, thanks.” Chelsea watched as her single cake ball—for all appearances, a donut middle dipped in white chocolate and drizzled in red frosting made to look like a ribbon and bow—was wrapped in thin food paper before being bagged. The urge to apologize again was intense, but having put her foot so thoroughly in it, at this point, she wasn’t sure there was anything she could say to fix this. So she didn’t try. She simply waited while the sales attendant returned to her nemesis, the cash register, and glared at it.
Flustered, her cheeks pinkened. She poked a button, glared at the purchase sack, then poked another one and eventually came up with a price of twenty-seven dollars. She slapped as many of the register buttons as her hand could cover.
“Here.” Leaning over the counter, Chelsea studied the register a moment before clearing out the sale and starting over. “Quantity first, then item. Subtotal it, then tax it, then total it again.” The new price came up at just over two dollars. “See?”
Chelsea offered a smile, hoping the attendant might take it as the peace offering she’d intended, but the moment she looked up from the register, she could tell it wasn’t going to happen. The attendant didn’t look as angry now as she did close on to tears.
“I hate this job,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She more flung Chelsea’s purchase across the counter than she handed it, and then fled the store. Just before the side door slammed behind her, Chelsea heard the clerk begin to sob.
From the back room, a concerned voice called out, “Molly?”
There must have been a kitchen back there somewhere. A few seconds later, while Chelsea was picking up the bag that had not only slid across the counter, but gone flying off the other side onto the floor, Sinclair stepped out from the back through a swinging door. She had powdered sugar or maybe it was flour all the way up her arms to her elbows. It was on her face, too. Most prominently splashed across her right cheek, likely deposited there when in some minutes past she did like she did right now—swiping the back of her white-dusted wrist up the side of her face.
Looking at Chelsea, Sinclair took quick stock around the rest of the empty store. “Molly?”
“I think I ran her off, I’m so sorry.” Chelsea cringed a little. Even recognizing it wasn’t all her fault, she still felt awful.
“Oh.” Sinclair groaned, her shoulders falling in defeat. “Damn it. That’s the third one this week. You’d think someone who deals with Cook Connie on a regular basis would be made of sterner stuff!”
“I’m sorry,” Chelsea said again. “I tried to show her how to use the register, but I think I only made it worse.”
“That’s okay.” Trudging to the counter, Sinclair joined Chelsea in glaring at the register. “She hated this job anyway.”
“Yeah. She said that.” They looked at one another.
“Chelsea, right?” Sinclair arched her shoulder in a helpless shrug, half-smiling as she quipped, “Want a job?”
Chelsea felt that stab all the way down into the pit of her stomach. “Yes,” she said, though part of her already knew the offer wasn’t genuine.
A cringe of instant regret crossed Sinclair’s face. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Waving her hand, Chelsea tried to laugh it off.
“Please believe me, I would hire you in an instant, but there are rules…the whole client-customer-staff confidentiality thing…If Marshall knew I’d offered, he would absolutely…well, maybe not kill me, but I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that he’d leave me wishing I were dead. And, oh my God, Parker—” Sinclair clasped her forehead with a heavily powdered hand. “Wow, he definitely wouldn’t be happy. He’s been threatening to spank me for real for months now. This might actually push him over the edge.”
She bit her bottom lip apologetically, and Chelsea again tried to wave it off, more upset with herself than Sinclair. She knew better than to let her neediness show. “It’s fine, really. I won’t tell anyone. I’ve been sending out resumes like crazy, so I’m sure I’ll have something lined up when I get back home anyway.”
“Where’s home?”
“Granger.” Chelsea thumbed over her shoulder. “I live just down the road, actually.”
“Really?” Some of the cringe left her mannerisms. Wiping her hands on her apron, she reached under the counter and, looking cautiously around the ceiling of the empty shop, passed over a standard employment application. “What’s your name?”
“Chelsea.” Chelsea took it, her hand actually shaking just a bit. This was the closest she’d come to a real job in almost a year.
“No, no.
Your real name. Marshall said he’d give me complete hiring control once I was ready. Wait to send this in until you get home. The minute it crosses my inbox, unless you’ve been convicted of a sex crime, you’re hired.”
Her real name.
Chelsea’s stomach sank all the way to her toes. This time, it felt sickeningly permanent. “Beth.” She tried to smile when she said it, but she knew it fell just a little flat.
“Hi, Beth.” Sinclair offered a conspiratorial smile. “Put my name on the envelope and, no matter what, don’t tell anyone I put you up to this.”
“Put her up to what?”
Chelsea jumped, grabbing convulsively at the application, but Sinclair was faster. She snatched it back, tucking it out of sight under the counter. They exchanged what must have been identical ‘oh-shit’ looks before glancing back at Kade.
“Well, don't that look guilty as hell.” Easing the door closed behind him, Kade affected a smile meant to cover the telltale irritation from—Chelsea hoped—his confrontation with the plump blonde. His attention now, however, was solely on them as he strolled through the candy aisles, heading straight for them. “What mischievous plot are you two hatching in here all by yourselves?”
“No plots,” Sinclair replied, smiling back. “I just offered her a free cake ball for helping out my counter girl.”
“You mean Molly?” Picking up the small sack, Kade unfolded the top and looked inside. “The one who just ran out of here in tears?”
“Yeah.” Sinclair sighed. “That would be the one.”
“She hates this job,” Chelsea supplied when he glanced at her.
“Yeah, I got that impression.” Kade smiled again. This time, it seemed more genuine when he leaned down to brace his elbows against the counter. He whispered to her like a conspirator. “Are you fond of chocolate, Red?”
“Sometimes,” she countered, dropping down to her elbows beside him. As awful as she had felt just moments before, funny how it took only a few playful words from him to mask it all. Nothing was fixed. Nothing was really better, but it felt better. Besides, since he seemed willing to forget what he’d overheard, she was more than willing to help distract him. “Are you going to buy out the entire store for me?”