Saving Sara (Masters of the Castle) (7 page)

“I am going to fuck this mouth,” he growled and began to crawl up her body, the look on his face almost one of anger as he snapped, “Headboard.”

She scrambled to get up to it and Jackson pursued her every kicking, clawing inch of the way. She destroyed the carefully made bed in her haste to get her back to the pillows and her head propped up against the headboard. In her haste, she got too high, but he grabbed her hips and jerked her just a few inches lower and then he was straddling her chest, with her hair in his fist and her head pillowed in his hand. He tugged and yanked to rip free of the confines of his jeans.

“Sir!” she gasped when the head of his cock sprang into sight beyond his open zipper.

He shoved both his jeans and underwear down just far enough to get them out of his way.

“Whose mouth is this?” he demanded, gripping his cock in his other hand.

“Yours!”

He jerked her head back against the headboard when, in her eagerness, she surged to get her mouth on him. “Hands.”

She grabbed the bedframe, hooking her fingers through the thin slit of space at mattress level and hung on, opening her mouth wide and becoming the willing sheath he thrust his cock into. Oh how devastatingly fast that fall back into the old familiar could be. She hadn’t had this, not in so very long. Not because Robert hadn’t wanted to take her here, to this visceral sexual level, but because she hadn’t let him. She wouldn’t now be letting Jackson either, she knew, but Jackson wasn’t asking permission. He was driving her, taking what he wanted her to give, thrusting into her mouth with the fury of a man intent on conquering it, and he tasted so good. So much like she remembered—salty but clean, masculine and demanding, beating against the back of her throat in short, rapid thrusts that gradually gave way to longer ones.

“Open,” he told her
, and she obediently relaxed her throat, letting her jaw go as wide as it could when he pushed to get deeper. He gradually fed her the full length of his cock, until he was right up against her lips and nose. His balls burned hot and tight against her chin; the dark spring of his public hair tickled at her lip, but he held himself deep and still, preventing her next breath while the strain in her jaw grew into painful discomfort and flashes of white light began to dance behind her eyelids.

He pulled out, letting her gasp and choke and catch her breath, before saying again, “Open.”

She opened wide, closing her eyes to fully savor both the pleasure and the discomfort of his full, deep-gliding slide into the very back of her throat again. He withdrew much faster than she expected him to, and she was just opening her eyes when he suddenly seized her jaw.

“When I am touching you, you are what?” he demanded.

“Looking at you, Sir,” she gasped.

His stare bored into her. His head angled. Coldly, deliberately, he said, “I am going to fuck this ass.”

His fist was still locked in her hair when he suddenly pushed back off her, rising off her even as he pulled her up off the headboard. He said nothing, but let his fist in her hair issue his orders for him. He dragged her off the pillows, bending her over and forcing her to crawl until she was facing the foot of the bed, and then he pushed her down.

“I’m sorry, Master Jackson!” she gasped, but she wasn’t. That was a lie. Her body was singing, thrilling at the roughness of his hands.

He straddled her thighs, grabbing both her bottom cheeks in his hands, squeezing hard and prying them wide apart before abruptly releasing her.

“Oh my God!” she said first and then shouted it because no sooner had he touched his finger to the puckered rim of her anus, than did he shove up inside her. Just one. One was more than enough. He didn’t even thrust. He simply pressed as deep as he could reach and held himself there.

His voice when he spoke was a low rumble just behind her ear. “Whose ass is this?”

“Yours,” she whimpered. “It’s yours. All yours.”

He shifted and she tensed, every muscle locking in the expectation of what she was sure had to be coming, but he didn’t fuck her. Not with his fingers, not with the jutting length of his swollen cock, twitching and bobbing just above her buttocks, still glistening with her saliva. Bending, he bit her—her shoulder first, then the small of her back, her hip. He shoved the bib of her tunic out of his way and bit first one side of her cringing bottom and then the other, hard enough now to leave the temporary impressions of his teeth, but nowhere near hard enough to bruise or even to hurt. Arousal pulsed through her, hotter and hotter, tighter and tighter, his hands and mouth winding it like the coil of a spring—biting, squeezing, caressing—until there was no such thing as holding still. She moaned, arching her bottom to chase his retreating mouth, aching to feel him sink his teeth into her soft flesh again.

He slapped her ass, just once, the prelude to a dark chuckle, and the dress box clattered to the floor when he drew up just far enough to pull his fingers from her bottom and flip her sharply onto her back. His hands weren’t gentle; Sara didn’t care if his fingers left bruises. She’d have worn them for him. She’d have worn them like jewelry.

He gripped her inner thighs, and she opened to him. The look on his face had her bottom lifting, eager to feel his conquering bite there now, too. He was so dark and intense, hungry for her, and she was so fixed and focused on being devoured that at first she didn’t realize what he intended when he caught the bottom hem of her tunic and shoved it up past her waist. With a sharp tug, he had it out from under her and had sat up to pull it all the way off her before she suddenly understood what he wanted and came crashing sharply back to herself.

He had already seen all the bad parts of her in the dungeon bathroom, and yet just that fast the sexiness of the situation died, leaving behind only tides of dread. Sara clamped her arms to her body, locking under her pits and preventing him from stripping it away.

Jackson butted up against the block of her elbows twice before he stopped, and that split second look of thwarted desire abruptly shifted into something darker. He looked at her, naked, with wanting on his face and the hard, jutting length of his cock standing high against his belly, and right before her eyes she saw it when he suddenly realized she was doing it deliberately.

She couldn’t hold his gaze. She tightened her arms around her, curling in on herself as that look in his eyes changed, sharpened, hardened. His head tilted warningly to one side. He tried to tug again, but Sara hugged herself and didn’t move.

“Mm.” It was all he said, but he didn’t move either. Only his head, turning first one way—looking at the headboard of the bed—and then the other—taking calculating stock of the sparse furniture in the room. Finally, he glanced back over his shoulders at the bondage rings that studded the tall bedposts. He looked at his belt hanging up by the door. Eventually, his dark eyes came crawling back to hers, and she shivered at the coldness she saw staring her down.

Letting go of her tunic, Jackson pulled his pants up, adjusting himself with visible discomfort twice before grabbing a fistful of her hair and dragging her off the side of the bed.  “Get your things,” he ordered, with a not-so-gentle push in the direction of the closet. “Don’t bother dressing. Hurry up. You think you can stop me from taking your tunic off you, just try dragging your feet right now.”

Sara moved quickly, shakily. She gathered her things, hurriedly stuffing what few things she had already unpacked into the new duffel bag someone—Robert, Jackson, the management? She had no idea—had given her. She glanced back in time to see Jackson irritably adjusting himself behind his fly again. He did not look happy. Not at all.

He stalked toward her and, hugging her belongings to her chest, Sara backed away. The wall put an abrupt end to her retreat. In the next step, Jackson had her again, by the lobe of her ear this time, a grip that brought her dancing up onto her tiptoes. She hugged her bag even tighter to keep from grabbing at his hand and winced, quickly marching out ahead of him when he pushed her to the door.

“Where are we going?” she finally worked up the nerve to ask.

“Where I should have taken you three years ago, before you ever had a chance to run.” Jerking the door open, Jackson shoved her out into the hall. “I’m taking you home.”

Sara made no protest when he directed her up the stairs, but climbing each step behind her gave him a singular perspective: her ass was amazing. It had always been amazing, frankly, but now it was impossible to take his eyes from. The desire to kiss, suck and bite those wobbly nates watered in his mouth. The need to slap, spank, grip and caress made his hands both itch. Somehow, Jackson managed to keep himself under tight control. All he had to do was wait a few minutes more and then he would have her in the confines of his apartment. And then…oh, and then that gorgeous little ass of hers would be all his.

They were still six steps from the second floor landing when he suddenly noticed she was limping. He settled a hand on her hip, ignoring the way she jumped at first contact, and felt the knots of scarred muscle bunch and tighten under the bib of her tunic skirt. “Does your leg hurt?”

She tried to brush his hand away. “I’m okay.”

“Then why are you limping?” Annoyed, he caught her elbow and pulled her around far enough to grab the duffel bag out of her arms.

“Stop.” This time, she caught his wrist when he tried to touch her, and the look that crawled across her face as she backed up to evade his reach did something that no submissive in the history of all his years at the Castle could lay equal claim to—it pissed him off. What the hell did she have to be embarrassed about? Did she think she was ugly or weak? Did she think he would take one look at that twist of scar tissue and suddenly, magically forget all the times in the last three years that he’d dreamed of having her walk back into his life again? As if he’d never stroked himself to sleep imagining how she had felt when he’d had her laughing, moaning, gasping, confident, sexy, undulating, sighing, pleading, begging, submitting self beneath him. What did she think, that he only saw her skin when he looked at her? That she wasn’t worth his time somehow?

Who the hell did she think she was? Who did she think
he
was?

Jackson stood opposite of her, two steps lower down, and glared, on the verge of the kind of colossal eruption no dominant worth his leathers would ever have surrendered to on a public staircase. He was a Master, in control of himself first and her second. And rather than lose his shit right there in the middle of a steady flow of ascending and descending Castle clientele, he chose to wait from one slow-bleeding second to the next, until she dragged those dream-haunting blue eyes back to him. And then he knocked that look right off her face.

He didn’t slap her, not really. The backs of two fingers only just made contact with the curve of her cheek. It didn’t sting or pinken her skin. Hell, it barely made a sound and would have qualified better as a caress. Jackson just couldn’t bring himself to hit her any harder than that, not on the face. Some submissives craved that, but he wasn’t sure if Sara did. Some Doms enjoyed it, but he wasn’t one of them. It tasted too much like disrespect, especially when he was angry. And of all the things he felt for Sara right at this moment—anger most certainly included—disrespect wasn’t among them.

Still, that one touch, soft as it was, startled her. Her eyes widened, her soft mouth fell open, but that look of unhappy embarrassment didn’t go far. It was still there, lurking right under the surface of her surprise, and not trusting himself to slap her again, Jackson did the next best thing. He ducked and hooked his arm across the backs of her knees and this time succeeded in knocking that look off her in the only other way he could think of.

“No! Jackson!” She probably thought he was going to drop her headfirst down the stairs. He slung her over his shoulder instead, just another unwieldy piece of cumbersome baggage, and then picked up her bag. He continued on to the second floor while her soft hands fluttered across his back, wanting to grab onto something stable, but unsure of what and where.

There was a third
-floor wing above the nursery and schoolgirl dorm for employees, but the Masters had another, private section for their living arrangements and that’s where Jackson took Sara. The staircase was hidden behind a key-card protected doorway, located just off the main hall past the conference rooms and tucked around the corner in a short corridor just out of sight of the passing public. He set her bag down long enough to unlock the door, then propped it open with his foot while he bent to retrieve it.

“Watch your head,” he said, giving the spring-loaded door a kick to get it open wide. He was very careful to make sure no part of her bumped against the frame as he carried her through and began to climb the wide straight staircase on the other side.

“Wh-where are you taking me?” Sara’s small hands gripped worriedly at the waist of his pants as she pushed timidly to lift herself far enough to see where they were going. Those meager efforts stilled entirely when he flipped that tiny bib of a skirt up off her bottom, baring it to the cool whisper of air flowing down from the A/C ceiling vents as they passed under them. He didn’t spank her; he didn’t have to. She reacted to being bared as if that in and of itself were a punishment and there wasn’t anyone else in the hall with them.

He was going to break her of that. He didn’t know how, but at the moment he was just irritated enough to think making her walk naked through every corner of this castle might just be a good place to start.