Ice Queen (17 page)

“Will you…leave it?”

She could barely form words, so exhausted that the energy to move her lips was an effort. She wanted his mark on her, wanted to feel it dry on her skin, smell the heavy scent of him.

The immediate burn of hot possessiveness in his eyes told her she’d pleased him immeasurably. She didn’t want to feel the new flood of aroused reaction in her body that came as an involuntary response to it.

“All right. Sleep, Marguerite. Close your eyes.” Relieved to finally escape that direct, all-too-knowing stare, she closed her eyes.

“I want you to answer me a question before you slide off into dreams.” His voice was a murmur. A lullaby. “And answer it without thinking it through. What is it about BDSM that attracts you so?”

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The question rolled around her mind as if on clouds. The answer came slowly, dreamily. “People are…themselves, their real selves in sex. Particularly BDSM. Can’t hide evil, good…weakness or strength. When you strip a sub down, you know who they are. They can try but they can’t hide it—not if the top is good. It all comes out…”

“Good answer.” She felt his lips brush her nose, her closed eyes. “Sweet dreams, princess.”

“H’ve…you ever called someone else that?”

Another pause. “Yes. But I’ve never called anyone angel.”

“‘S okay.” And then she was lost in those clouds, somehow knowing he was around her, watching over her so she didn’t have to dream.

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Joey W. Hill

That sense of reassurance was the thought that first hit her when she woke. In the manner of coping she’d used for a long time, she turned it around. This whole weekend was about suspending her natural reality. She’d been reluctant to do so and yes, Tyler had masterfully, no pun intended, made her accept it. She’d known he was a powerful Master, capable of taking over a sub’s will. Well, perhaps most women’s wills, bringing them to higher pinnacles of pleasure than they otherwise ever would know. Kudos to him for that.

Why not enjoy the benefits of being his “play” sub for a weekend? When it was over, she would reflect on it as a truly enlightening experience that would help her achieve a deeper connection with her own submissives. As he’d said.

She was untied. Someone had cared for her, cleaned between her legs, cleaned the evidence of his desire off her back and buttocks at last. She’d been so exhausted she’d slept right through it. She, who was hyperaware of the casual brush of a passerby on the street, had slept through him intimately touching her. For she was certain Tyler would entrust her care to no one else.

She rose slowly, her muscles aching, and managed to get her feet angled toward the floor, her head in the upright position. Though sore, she felt alive, energized, aware of her surroundings and his scent. Not allowing herself to think about the compulsion, she leaned back, her hand finding his pillow. Hesitating only a moment, she brought it to her face and inhaled. He’d slept with her, she remembered. Waking up in the middle of the night, she’d felt his body against the side of hers, his arm on her waist, palm on her hip, idly stroking her buttock, his breathing even, deep.

Appalled at the fact she was lingering over memories of him, she dropped the pillow and noticed the chair set up near the bed. The robe she’d worn was draped over it. On the pool of silk in the seat were the nipple clamps, a brush and a note.

Leave your hair down. Put on the clamps and adjust them the way I had them, one turn
before they’re too tight. Wear the robe or not. Your choice.

And under those last two words he’d drawn a small likeness of a cartoon devil grinning at her.

Moving into the hallway a few minutes later wearing the robe, she took in some of the details she’d missed the previous night. The eclectic though sparse style of his home reflected that he chose only things that interested him. Intriguing, individualistic pieces lined the walls, drawing her attention as she made her way down the landing and out onto the open stairwell. A bronze sculpture of a dancer had been placed on a pedestal.

A landscape painting, showing a sailboat tacking off a rocky shore, was under a small spotlight mounted on the hallway wall. A trio of photographs showing her scenes of 108

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third-world children with simple pure smiles and mountain vistas in the background, was at the top of the stairs.

As she looked over the railing, she noted that the living room designed for male comfort with its sectional sofa and widescreen television had colorful area rugs that looked handwoven. Probably from some lovely South American village where the women who had made them couldn’t imagine what a widescreen television was, let alone that their handiwork would soften a room with one in it.

But it was as she walked down the staircase that she found the pieces that gave her a more personal glimpse of the man. There was a black and white photograph of Leila, one of the submissives who frequented The Zone and who had been an item with Tyler at one time. In this photo, the woman was sitting at a vanity completely naked. Her back was to the camera, her hands bound behind her back, her eyes studying the photographer by reflection in the mirror. Though he had taken the photo at an angle, standing clear of the shot so as not to mar its perfection, it was obvious from the avid look in her eyes, mixed with a quiet joy and tranquility at being where she was, who it was who took the picture.

Down another few steps were the family shots. Tyler’s parents probably, an old black and white of their wedding as they stepped out into a new life together, rice scattered over their head and shoulders. It was positioned diagonally with a more recent photo of the couple. She saw Tyler’s bone structure and height in his father, his complexion and nose in his mother. Some of his implacability was in his mother’s face, his tender side in his father’s.

If she was right about the way he did his decorating, these photos all had significance, important memories or relationships stored behind each one. Nothing in this house had been randomly chosen. And that, she realized, included her.

When she heard the sound of a pot clanging into a sink, she drew in a breath. Her nipples tingled in the grip of the clamps, reacting to the evidence of his close presence.

Bemused, she continued down the stairs, though she trailed her fingers over the pictures as if she were absorbing his life through her touch.

Stepping into the kitchen, she found Sarah absent and Tyler her chef for the morning meal. He wore a pair of drawstring cotton pants, a natural undyed fabric that was long enough that the back cuffs were worn from his bare heels stepping on them.

He wasn’t wearing a shirt and he’d not yet shaved. The muscles along his back shifted with smooth grace as he moved around the kitchen. Unlike most of her subs, Tyler had a light mat of silky dark hair over a powerful chest and sectioned stomach muscles. She liked the definition there, a man who kept himself in good shape.

Desire didn’t rise, it roared up through her as if it had not been sated again and again less than a few hours before. She wasn’t going to be the way she was yesterday, immature and embarrassingly intimidated in the face of their undeniable attraction.

She’d given herself permission to indulge it, contingent upon her belief that she could enjoy this reality without censure for two days. So she found herself moving into the kitchen, only one thought in her mind.

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Joey W. Hill

He turned at her approach. Whatever he had parted his lips to say never came forth as his gaze registered her expression. When she reached for his waistband, he caught her hands in a firm grip, causing her to stumble mentally.

“Do you want my cock, Marguerite?”

His eyes were vibrantly gold, filled with her, helping her find herself again.

Nodding, she shifted her gaze away, remembered and brought it back just before he brought his hand to her chin to make her meet his eyes. And then she did what her mind told her unbelievably that she wanted to do. Keeping her eyes on his, she sank to her knees, the silk pooling around her like a queen’s mantle.

“Open your robe, Marguerite. Take it off your shoulders.” He would have her serve him naked, as a slave would.

Even knowing that, she slipped the belt free without protest and let the robe fall behind her. She moved her attention now to his hands as they went to his waistband.

Loosening the drawstring, he let the pants fall, showing her at close range a cock that was already becoming erect despite the fact she’d stepped into the kitchen less than a minute ago. She was actually salivating, and it wasn’t for the breakfast he was cooking.

Reaching down, he used the nipple chain to tug her off her heels onto her knees. He dropped the chain over the top of his cock and curled one of her hands around the base, which served the purpose of keeping the chain anchored there.

“Suck me, Marguerite. Suck me hard.”

He was a big man all over. She reveled in the need to stretch her lips to work her way down to where her hand held him. She made a noise of pleasure as she took him in, her whole body reorienting her to the position, the moment.

At the first touch of her mouth, he let out a feral growl. Wrapping his fingers in her hair to better control her movements on him, he held her there, aiding her greedy sucking and licking of the hard organ in her mouth. She liked the salty taste of him. The nails of her free hand curled into his upper thigh, marking him.

“That’s right,” he said, his voice low, dangerous to her sanity. “Dig your claws into me, angel.”

As he drove her up and down on his shaft, the nipple chain drew taut, tugged and released, creating an excruciating sensation that built in her chest and belly. With him keeping her on her knees off her heels, there was no friction or relief for her pussy.

Every stroke of her mouth on him felt like a stroke deep in her mind.

She’d never felt so single-minded, so untroubled by anything else in her world. His heat was in her pores, her mouth, her nose. She realized she was making animal noises of need as she went down on him, her hair brushing her back, his harsh breaths the most beautiful song she’d ever heard. She wanted to be closer. Hoping he wouldn’t deny her, she moved that free hand up his leg and around to his buttock to find hard, flexing muscle. The movement changed her angle so he was driving more deeply into the back of her throat. The jerk on the nipple clamps grew more insistent. Her eyes 110

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watered, her lungs burned for air but she didn’t care. She used her teeth, scraping him, her nails now digging into his buttocks, her other hand stroking him, her thumb rubbing his silky underside.

His voice was strained. “Take me into you, Marguerite.” His hand convulsed in her hair and then he was pumping hard into her mouth, yanking on her nipples with the force. Pain and pleasure came together as he jetted, spraying the back of her throat with liquid heat. She worked him with her mouth, growling, only gagging once as he plunged so deeply into her. He kept going and she wanted him to, wanted his desire to override all else.

When he finished, he was still hard and she didn’t want to let go. She slowly took her mouth off him. Rubbing her cheek along his length, she felt the sturdy wetness of him, the life pulsing beneath her face. What would it be like to have that pulsing inside her, ramming into her pussy with his overwhelming strength?

“Angel.” Reaching down for her, he brought her to her feet. Before she knew what he was about he’d lifted her, set her bare bottom on his kitchen counter, leaving the robe on the floor. He readjusted his pants and took a warm washcloth from the sink to wipe her tears, her running nose and the remnants of his come from her lips and chin.

“You keep this up and I’m never going to let you go.” She told herself it was just the mood of the moment, but why did it feel so inviting, the idea of staying in this world forever and never having to face her reality again?

Stop it, Marguerite. Don’t make it more than it is.

But it made her tremble, the way he could hold her on her knees and make her service his cock, and a moment later he stood between her knees wiping her face and caring for her as tenderly as a woman could wish. She’d never allowed herself to experience a lover’s powerful passion or tender nurturing. Both held equal dangers for her.

“Come here.” He scooted her off the counter into his arms, further turning her world upside down by holding her in his embrace. A hug. He was hugging her, holding her naked body close to his nearly naked one, her head tucked under his chin. She raised her own hands, skimming over his buttocks and the small of his back, holding him as well.

“You hungry?” It was a soft murmur against her hair.

She smiled, despite herself. He felt it, chuckled. “Well, we satisfied that appetite already. I’m thinking we need to get something else in your stomach.” He released her to pick up her robe, put it back on her. When he re-belted it, he arranged the sides deliberately so the chain was revealed, as well as the curves of her breasts almost to the nipples. “God, you are a beautiful woman, Marguerite. You’re wet for me. I can smell it.

Tell me you are.”

Her lashes lifted, eyes dwelling on that ruthlessly sensual mouth a moment before rising to meet his gaze. “Yes.”

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Joey W. Hill

“Good. I like keeping you that way. Go sit at the table and I’ll bring you some breakfast.”

She stopped beside the small bistro, noted the lovely blue and rust mosaic tile design on it now that the tablecloth and candles had been removed. The early morning sun coming through the surrounding windows made the tiles gleam, bathed the area in sunshine. “So, do you keep pictures of the others around, or just Leila?” There was a pause. “I have pictures of some of the others.”

“Are they trophies? Will you have a special photo of me?” Tyler met her challenging gaze and thought her moods were as mercurial as the sunlight haloing her pale hair. “If you’re trying to bait me, angel, I’d rethink that course.”

“I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Yes, you are, on both counts. You’re afraid of everything. In England there are castles with stone walls that go up over a hundred feet, built during a time when it was the strength of your fortress that won battles. Each time I look at you, I marvel at the feat of organic engineering that’s allowed you to create such a fortification within a perfect composition of female flesh.”

“How do you do that?”

He sprinkled chopped tomatoes over the omelets he’d placed on plates and carefully arranged a sprig of greenery alongside. “Do what?”

“Compose words in the air like you would on paper. It’s remarkable.” She looked back out at the landscaped grounds, the live oaks beyond them framing the view of the water.

He could have demanded that she look at him but chose not to at this moment.

Instead he brought her breakfast. Let her sit with her head tilted at that angle, the lips that had so cleverly brought him to a ripping climax simply sipping juice now. It made him hard again, knowing that his taste was still in her mouth. Thinking about how she had walked into the kitchen with that hunger in her eyes, her desire to take him down her throat so obvious.

Her emotional and physical reactions were all over the map right now. She’d probably figured a way to rationalize her reaction, chalking it up to a temporary insanity that would retreat into nonexistence the moment she drove back down his driveway. If that was the case, he was going to have to make damn sure the experience was impossible to confine to this weekend.