Maid for It (A Maids for It Novella) (4 page)

“Will that be all, Mr. Hardcastle?”

Sir nods. “Yes, Travis. We won’t be needing
you again this evening.”

The butler executes a sharp bow and
exits.

My stomach emits a low, painful growl at the
sight and smell of food. I daren’t eat before Sir does,
however.

“Eat,” he says. “You’re going to need your
strength.”

That sets off a different sort of flutter in
my belly, but I obey. The first forkful is so delicious, I almost
faint with the wonder of it. The sauce is silky and piquant, the
pasta
al dente
and filled with a salty-savory cheese and
herb stuffing. I’ve never eaten anything like it.

Sir watches me with something akin to pride.
“You appear to like it,” he says after taking a few bites
himself.

“It’s wonderful. What is it?”

“Asiago-stuffed tortellini in a pumpkin
sauce. My own recipe.”

My head snaps up in surprise. “You made
this?”

I immediately wish the words back. They imply
a curiosity and forwardness I’m not sure I’m permitted to have.

But Sir smiles and pins me with his gaze.
“Who else?”

The question and his hard eyes make me want
to squirm. “I just didn’t think…that is…I thought perhaps you had a
cook.”

“Travis is my only employee—well, unless you
include yourself in that number—and he can’t cook his way out of a
paper bag. I wasn’t always rich, and before I was, I taught myself
how to cook. I like good food, and since I prefer not to go out,
cooking for myself ensures I eat what I like.”

I’m still too unsure of myself to observe
that if he hadn’t made a fortune as a computer security expert, he
probably could have gotten rich as a chef. I simply continue to
eat. When he prompts me to drink my wine, I do that, too. I finish
the portion on my plate in embarrassingly short order, and he
serves me more, encouraging me to eat more.

By the time I polish off my second portion,
I’m both very full and a little tipsy. The wine is headier than I
expected, and he kept refilling my glass before I drained it, so
I’m not entirely sure how much I’ve had. I’m floating on a haze of
contentment when he pushes his chair away from the table and gets
to his feet.

“Undress me,” he orders.

It takes me a second to process the command,
but once I do, I slide from my seat—really, as lightheaded as I am,
sliding is all I can do—and begin by pulling his T-shirt up over
his tightly muscled abdomen toward his chest. As the fabric bunches
around his pecs, though, I realize he’s not planning to do much of
anything to help me get the shirt off over his head. He’s more than
a head taller than I am, and unless he bends over to assist me,
there’s no way I’m going to get it off him.

He’s watching me, amusement glittering in his
eyes, as I ponder this dilemma. This is another test, then—to find
out whether I truly will obey his every command, no matter how
outrageous or difficult.

I consider for a second, then pull my chair
in front of him and stand on it. Now I’m taller than he is, and he
nods with approval as I drag the shirt up again, and this time he
obliges me by raising his arms so I can tug it off over his
head.

The sight of his broad, bare chest makes my
stomach do a swan dive, and now my fingers are trembling as I get
down from the chair and begin to work on removing his pants. The
bulge in his jeans is unmistakable as I unbutton his waistband and
tug down on the zipper. Heat radiates from him along with the musky
scent of male genitalia. His cock pops free as I pull downward, not
quite fully erect but nearly so, and I want to take it in my mouth,
to lick and suck it, but that’s not what he asked me to do, and so
I work his jeans and shorts over his hips and down to the
floor.

When I’m kneeling at his feet, he lifts each
one to assist me as I remove his loafers and then again when I tug
each pant leg down and off. He’s wearing only socks now, and these
I peel off his tautly muscled calves, reveling in the sensation of
the prickly hair of his legs against my fingertips.

I look up at him, waiting for his next
command and doing my best to ignore the lure his dick presents as I
gaze upward.

He gives me one of those almost-smiles and
says, “Go to the gym.”

Fortunately, I know exactly how to get to the
workout room from here, since Travis showed it to me on the day I
first arrived. Perhaps the existence of that room with its plethora
of weights should have signaled me that my employer would not be a
98-pound weakling, but at the time, I’d imagined it as more for
show, especially after the butler told me Mr. Hardcastle spent most
of his time working.

Outside the workout room is a long, narrow
swimming pool, the end of which appears to fall into the Pacific
Ocean beyond. I thought before it was for show, too, but now I
suspect Sir has logged many, many miles in that pool.

When I reach the designated room, Sir brushes
past me and lies on his stomach on a wide bench that’s about waist
high. The muscles of his back, ass, and legs stand out in high
relief as he settles himself.

“I’ve been tense all day. Give me a
massage.”

A massage? Once again, I’m flustered by the
unpredictability of his requests. Suddenly, I’m the one who is
impatient. The suspense and anticipation are going to drive me mad.
Does he want to fuck me or doesn’t he? Will he keep me or won’t
he?

“You can start at the shoulders,” he
suggests, his tone a little terse. He’s giving me a chance to
pretend I’m simply not sure how to begin, but if I don’t start now,
I’ll be in violation of the one rule.

No hesitation, no questions.

I stand beside the table and place my hands
on his shoulders. I’ve given massages to friends and family
members, of course, but they were always brief and certainly never
when the person I was massaging was naked and sporting a physique
that literally made me weak in the knees. I knead the muscles
around his neck and shoulder blades uncertainly, not sure how much
pressure to apply—or how much I can apply with my small, not
particularly strong hands.

“That’s it,” he murmurs in encouragement. “A
little harder.”

I exert more force, though it isn’t easy for
me, and he groans with obvious pleasure. I like the sound, and so I
continue, working my way down his back to his butt and thighs and
calves. By the time I finish his feet, my hands are cramping up
until they look like claws, and I pull away, assuming I’m done.

But then with a low rumble of satisfaction,
he rolls over onto his back and says, “Now this side.”

My eyes widen with horror. I
can’t
go
on. My hands are aching. I can’t question and I can’t hesitate, but
I
can
ask for mercy. Except the stony expression on his face
warns me he’s in the mood to brook no arguments, and so I flex my
fingers and begin again, starting from the bottom up this time.

When I reach his thighs, the pain in my hands
is so intense that tears well in my eyes. I know he sees the tears,
but he doesn’t release me from my torment. Not even when I gaze
longingly at his now fully erect cock and lick my lips in a
desperate attempt to signal my willingness to suck him if only
he’ll let me stop.

Please, Sir, please.
I won’t ask for
mercy. That might be all it takes for him to send me back to
Daniels, and then for Daniels to have me sent back to Mexico. It’s
too great a risk, no matter how much pain I’m in.

I knead his marbled abdominal muscles, my
tears dropping from my face and onto his skin. He seems utterly
unmoved by my distress until I reach his pectorals, and then he
closes his hands around my wrists.

“Do you want to suck my cock now, Slut?”

It’s the first time he’s ever asked me what
I
want, and I don’t know how to respond. If I say yes, he
may be angry because it means I don’t want to finish the task he
demanded of me. But if I say no, he may be angry because, as his
whore, I should always want to suck him.

“I want whatever you want, Sir,” I finally
manage to say.

That makes him smile, and this time, the
smile reaches all the way to his eyes. “What a diplomat you are. I
may keep you yet.”

Oh God, I hope so.

He releases my wrists and circles his penis
with one hand, angling the head up toward me. “Take it in that
sweet little mouth of yours. I want it nice and wet before I fuck
you.”

Wet heat flickers between my thighs. I’ve
been anticipating this for so long, just hearing the word from his
lips is a kind of completion. He really means to do it this time.
Maybe it’s foolish for me to think that it matters this much, that
if I give him my body, he’ll understand the true depth of my
willingness to obey him, but I can’t shake the notion that he’ll be
more committed to protecting me once we’ve crossed this
barrier.

I bend over and touch my tongue to the silky
tip, lapping up a drop of precum before licking the length of him
from stem to stern. My hair tumbles down like a waterfall,
shielding my face from him as I close my mouth around him and begin
to suck. He makes a guttural sound in his throat as I slide his
cock toward the back of my throat. I can’t accommodate all of him,
but I manage to encompass a solid two-thirds of his shaft before I
glide up again.

He reaches down and lifts the curtain of my
hair with one hand so he can watch me work. “That’s it,” he groans
softly, and I redouble my efforts, forcing even more of his length
into my throat.

I startle when I feel his free hand slide
along my thigh, under the satin fabric of my gown and then between
my legs. He dips his fingers between my pussy lips, and the
slippery fluid of arousal gushes from me in answer.

“God, you’re wet. You really love cock
sucking, don’t you, you dirty little whore?” The words
dirty
little whore
are an endearment coming from his lips.

I’m too engaged in the actual act of cock
sucking to answer the question, but he doesn’t seem to require a
response since the answer is clearly that I do. As I continue to
bob my head up and down, he searches for and finds my clit,
stroking it hard and fast. I come quickly, in a fiery burst that’s
as short and satisfying as a single firework, which is to say
glorious, but somehow inadequate.

“All right, that’s enough,” he says, roughly
disengaging his cock from my mouth. “Take off the dress and get up
on the bench.”

My heart pounds in my throat. This is it. I
slip the straps of the gown from my shoulders. It makes a satiny
sigh as it collapses to the floor. By the time I step out of the
purple circle of fabric, he’s vacated the table. I climb onto it
and find the leather padding pleasantly warm from his body
heat.

His eyes rake over me, hot and dark as coals
despite the light green rings of his irises. The pure carnal intent
in his gaze blisters my skin, makes me painfully aware of the
weight of my breasts, the sensitivity of my hardened nipples, and
the swollen dampness of my pussy.

The bench was waist-high to me, but it’s
perfectly level with his hips. All he needs to do to fuck me is
spread my legs and slide inside me, but perversely, he doesn’t do
that.

“Get on your stomach.”

My breath hitches but I roll onto my belly,
my nipples aching as they press against the bench. I wonder what he
has in mind as he walks behind me. Or at least I wonder as long as
it takes him to position me the way he wants me at the very end of
the bench—my knees drawn up beside me, my forehead pressed against
the leather padding and my ass tilted up toward the ceiling.

He slides a finger in and out of my sopping
cunt a few times, dragging the slippery moisture outward to
saturate my entry. My muscles tense in apprehension as he withdraws
his finger and presses the velvety head of his cock there instead.
I know I should relax, but I can’t. Not now.

Without warning, he grabs my hips and thrusts
forward.

Santa Maria, Madre de Dios!

I clench my hands into fists, my fingernails
scoring my palms. The pain is brutal as I go from empty to torn
asunder in a single heartbeat. I’m not sure what hurts more, his
girth or his length, but it hardly matters. Either way, I’m sure
he’s shifted the geography of my body, and I wonder if the land
feels this way after an earthquake—broken, buckled, ruined.

Ruined.
The use of the word to
describe a fallen woman makes sense to me now. I’m sure I’ll never
be whole again.

“Jesus fucking God, you’re as tight as a
virgin.” His breathing is harsh, uneven, and I realize he’s
trembling as he twists himself a deeper inside me.

That’s when the tears start. I can’t stop
them, because I
am
a virgin. Or I
was
. Now, I’m
damaged goods.

But the instinct for self-preservation tells
me not to communicate the true measure of my distress to him, and
so I remain obediently motionless as he works his cock in all the
way to the balls. I bury my face in the leather padding and steel
myself to endure this for however long it takes.

With a grunt of satisfaction, he begins to
fuck me, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out, each withdrawal
and thrust another assault on my raw flesh. Though he doesn’t
piston me hard and fast, there’s nothing gentle about his frank
possession of my body, the way he drives in and out of me telling
me I’m his to take whenever and wherever he likes. Whether I like
it or not.

And I don’t like it, or that’s what I tell
myself, but then he reaches around my waist and finds my breast. He
takes the distended nipple between his thumb and forefinger,
rolling and pinching it, and it’s the oddest thing because it’s as
though my nipple is connected to my clit. Each throbbing,
pleasurable sensation his fingers awaken blossoms between my legs.
The pain of his invasion hasn’t lessened in the slightest, but now
it’s becoming muddled with arousal, and I can’t decide if I hate it
or love it.