Wallbanger (17 page)

“The tail is just an extension of your body.
Think of it like that when placing your fall and it’ll strike where
you want it to every time. That’s
my
hand on her thigh,” he
said, dropping the snap in the precise spot on her leg.

His hand.
She could feel it—the long,
thick fingers with the squared nail beds. The huge palm. The tip
hit again and she moaned.

“And don’t forget to check in.” Xander said.
“Gigi, what’s your color?”

She heard his voice in her head—an earlier
recording—felt herself lying on the bed listening to his soothing
words:
“Green is ‘go’, yellow is ‘slow’, red is ‘stop’”.

“Green.” Then she heard the music again, felt
the lash on her skin a little harder, the tempo increase.

Her toes ached. She’d been standing on the
balls of her feet for a while now to decrease the pull on her arms.
But if she focused on that, she couldn’t hear the song the whip
sang. Giving up on the position, Kizzie dropped her heels to the
floor. That it tipped her torso forward further wasn’t even a
concern. Time seemed to still, nothing but the crack and Xander’s
dark voice in her head.
Are you afraid of me, Princess…?

She felt so good. Weightless. Like she was
floating. That was the problem with being an agent—feet always
planted firmly on the ground. Dealing with the harsh reality that
the world was an utterly miserable place filled with people doing
their damndest to keep it that way. You can’t afford to dream when
you’re fighting. Have to be awake in your sleep. Can’t even for a
moment close your eyes and let your guard down, feel pain, feel
anything
.

Kizzie was taking this moment.

Another crack, sharp on her right leg and she
uuuhhhnn
ed, lifted on her toes again. This pain was
different. This pain she wanted to feel, to hold on to and ride
hard.

Then the oddest thing happened. Her mouth
flooded with a taste of…of… She couldn’t pinpoint it. Somewhere on
the scale between chocolate and chili—a memory of something she’d
had long ago. She could smell it. Dark and spicy and sweet;
deliciously indescribable. A perfect circle with a rich texture
coarse like raw silk, the edges frayed. She wanted more.

The next lash landed with intent between her
thighs, kissing her clit. It hit again, and again and again, each
accurate strike sending currents of electricity streaking from that
tiny spot throughout her body.
His hand
… “Oh, god!”

Yes. More. She
needed
more. The hurt
was too good.

“Color?”

She didn’t even think about it, the response
a greedy beg. “Green!
Green
-green, Sir!”

Knees locked and shoulders strained, her
whole body jerked with the force of her climax. She jumped at the
next smack on her leg sending another dose of ‘Oooooo, yeah’
slithering through her, creeping up her spine and exploding in her
skull.

The hits came harder, moans got louder and
every answer was “Green!”

That’s what it was—the taste. It was green.
And if it wasn’t it would always be associated that way. Green was
beautiful music and chocolate and spice; was Xander’s seductive
tone and heavy hand, the rough pain of the whip and the delicious
orgasms chasing each other, one after another.

It was the shade of the brink—lighter on the
top, darker at the bottom, and every color green in between.

Was the ribbon in the black hair the day
she’d found her:
“Doesn’t hurt anymore, Kizzie...”
. All that
red and all she could see was that teeny tiny strip of emerald
green.

Her heart sped up, tapping out a beat much
too fast.

The lash fell. She didn’t feel it.

The crowd clapped. She didn’t hear it.

Green was the metallic slide rearing back to
swallow a cartridge, the subdued nanosecond between the cock of the
hammer and the burn of cordite. It was hitting your target while
hanging upside down; the peaceful rush of danger when staring down
a muzzle and thinking about your
next
meal.

Green was midnight in Columbia and autumn in
Da Nang; Christmas in Oslo and sun-up in Jo’berg.

Wednesday in Finland.

Green was the tint of the car. Dad’s pajamas.
Mom’s favorite purse. The robes the choir wore—“
Goin’ up
yonnnddeerrrr…”
—and the new preacher spouting about joy coming
in the morning.

It was the stain of the grass, dark green—so
fucking green
she couldn’t see the red, white, and blue
triangle the man in the hat reverently pressed to her lap after the
bassline exploded 13 times—
Blam! Blam!

The whip connected—she gasped for breath.

BLAM!

“Gigi, your color?” Xander urged.

That was the second time he’d asked and she
hadn’t answered. She didn’t hear him—didn’t know he’d stopped. Her
mind was nowhere near Helsinki—wasn’t even in the present. It was
cleaved between a multitude of pasts and lost futures she’d been
steadily moving away from; that had given her shape and
texture.

Purpose.

Shame she’d walled up and forgotten.
Helplessness she’d buried. Deeds she couldn’t undo.

Her life had never been yellow. Even as a
kid, never slow or cautious.

Red? Pssht! What. The. Fuck. Is.
Red
?

Nope, it’d always been green—just different
saturations of the same hue. Every experience, every moment dipped
in the decadent, addictive flavor of go. She’d gorged on
go—breakfast, lunch, and dinner was go. Sex was go. Pain was go.
Life was go. Go. GO!

The faster green moved the better.

No time for waiting; no room for
patience.

Air rushed from her lungs, burned on the way
back in; vision blurred by tears; the stench of people in the
room.

Couldn’t hear the chocolate.

Couldn’t smell the downbeat.

Couldn’t feel his voice.

Pain in Kizzie’s shoulders; her feet were on
the ground.

Green had never tasted so sad.

* * * *

It took Xander all of three seconds to
realize she was in subspace, and he was so surprised, so proud,
that wanted to keep going. His cock stiffened at the way she’d
begged—“
Green-green.
” She sounded so beautiful when she
came. He wanted to find a room and slip inside her, follow her back
to that state of absolute mindlessness. They’d be good together; he
just knew it.

He hadn’t used a whip in a long time, almost
gave in to the temptation to continue in order to ride out the
sensations her responses evoked in him. But then he would have
missed the shift. Something changed. Not with the way he threw the
whip, but in her. She struggled, no longer responding to his checks
or to the lash.

The euphoria of getting her there was
immediately replaced with regret for having pushed her. Unfastening
Kizzie from the bindings, she fought in his grip. “Stop,” he
commanded. “Let me help.”

Once free, he lifted her and carried her to a
couch, sinking into the leather with her on his lap. He was vaguely
aware of the crowd departing, focused on holding her, giving her
what she didn’t know she needed. She tried to push away.

“What are…?”

“Aftercare. What you just went through….”
Xander thumbed the water from her eyes, and she jerked away.
“Just...just relax. Let me hold you.”

She stiffened further, if possible, and she
seemed to come out of her daze in a flash. “Don’t need it.” With
efficient swipes she passed the back of her hand over her lids.

She’s new to this, X. Be patient. She
doesn’t understand.

Xander couldn’t be upset with her. He’d put
her in a dangerous situation—an untrained
non
-sub and a whip
was already a horrible combination. Then he’d pressed forward
without preparing her for how intense subspace could be. He had no
idea he would get her there. And as a result, he’d broken a dam on
emotions he was sure she’d worked hard to shore up.

He felt like an ass. What had Phil called
it—A life within a life? They were constantly at odds with each
other, the man and the Dom, and tonight they’d had a full-on
fistfight with Kizzie in the middle. She had a right to be mad at
him. He was mad at himself.

Sumi appeared with a bottle of water. Gaze
turned away from his, she offered it saying, “If you wish it, for
your Gigi, Master Duquesne.” She draped his discarded coat over the
arm of the couch.

Thanking her, he took the drink and unscrewed
the cap, holding it to Kizzie’s lips. She swallowed a mouthful,
another—shivered in spite of her skin being hot.

He never should have played with her, and
especially not with a whip. But after seeing her all tied up he’d
be damned if Sacha went and ruined her. Still, a good Dominant knew
his submissive’s mind first, learned what triggers to be aware of.
Then he worked his way up to intense play. He didn’t know Kizzie at
all; should have backed off, but that initial response stirred
things in him he hadn’t felt since—

God, he felt bad. What he wouldn’t give to
hear her smart mouth right about now.

The puppet departed, leaving Xander and
Kizzie alone. The bottle was almost empty, and he pulled it away,
set it aside so he could hold her again. He rocked back against the
cushions and hugged her closer, one hand stroking over her head,
the other caressing her leg.

“Stop.” He resigned to only passing over her
hair and she said, “All of it. I told you, I don’t need this. Sir.”
It was whispered, but the tone was harsh and she didn’t relax
against him as he’d hoped.

“Maybe it’s not for you,” he said softly.

“Honestly, Xander, I couldn’t give a damn
about what you need at the moment. I’m here for Harvey. So get the
hell off me, and let me go find it.”

Anger engulfed him in the span of a blink.
Why couldn’t she just accept the comfort he was giving? He ground
his teeth, said evenly, “Sacha would have beaten you till you
bled.”

“Red would’ve been a blessing…” she murmured.
“I don’t get you. Your protective streak is confusing the hell
out’a me. This was
your
game plan—Trojan horse? Using each
other? I know I’m expendable, Duquesne. Knew it when I signed on;
live with it every day of my life. And I can take a lot more than
you or Sacha or anybody else can dole out. Go back to being a bad
guy, and get your head in the game.”

Kizzie pushed off his lap and he let her go.
“Where are you going?” When she whirled on him, there was no
mistaking the haunted look in her eyes, regardless of how hard she
tried to mask it.

“To the bathroom,
Sir
. Then I’m going
to take another look around—Maybe keep Sacha occupied for you.” She
motioned to his watch. “I know what that really is. Clearly you
have a secondary agenda I’m not privy to. Ya’ might want to go make
that happen, slick.”

That angered him further, but he reached out
to help when she stood on wobbly legs. “You—”

“I’m fine.”

Xander watched until she left the room. She
was right. He needed to take himself out of Master mode and get
back to focusing on the goal. She wanted to be left alone, he’d
leave her stubborn ass alone. She wasn’t his sub—wasn’t his
anything
.

And she damn sure wasn’t her.

Kizzie Baldwin was a trained agent who could
take care of herself. Didn’t need anybody, especially not him.
She’d probably been through worse. Beneath the sexy façade was a
ruthless killer, and ruthless killers didn’t need equally ruthless
criminals to feel bad for putting them in dangerous situations.

“Fuck it.”

He’d follow through with Plan B. Wouldn’t
think any more on Plan A. He’d gotten her in, now he’d let her get
to work on enticing Sacha into keeping her around. Xander wouldn’t
think about Sokoviev being so coked out of his brain that he beat
the shit out of her. Miss Billy Badass could take it. Even if that
meant she had to screw the guy. Kizzie wasn’t worried about it, why
should he?

Yeah…Fuck it.
Xander shrugged into his
coat, shifted his shoulders.

He wanted to hit something.

He stood and left the room, hoping they found
Harvey so he didn’t have to leave her in this madhouse.

* * * *

Standing a short distance down the hall,
Sumi’s eyes tracked Gigi to the bathroom. Whipping scenes had
always been thrilling for her, and she knew what it was like to
have an emotional release the way Gigi had. She could only imagine
what that would be like with everyone watching. That thrill she
didn’t know. The Kukol´nik didn’t use Sumi to play at the parties,
relegating her to hostess. Still, she admired Master Duquesne’s
skill with the tail, and for a brief moment wondered what it would
feel like to be under his command of it.

The Kukol´nik had never been good with a
whip. But then he’d never taken the time to learn how to wield it
properly. Not that she’d ever mention it to him. He was not the
type of Master who fostered open dialogue. His way or no way—and it
had taken some getting used to, but she’d done it.

She knew from his blank stare that the
Kukol´nik had not been pleased when Master Duquesne took over
Gigi’s punishment. He would be even more demanding of the puppet he
took to the Dungeon later.

The guests had migrated to another room where
mummification was taking place. It was always interesting to watch,
especially when the person being cocooned was a first-timer. Some
panicked; some enjoyed it; some had emotional breaks. There was
something very powerful about being completely bound with your arms
and legs secured tightly to your side, dependant on someone else to
release you. She enjoyed seeing it, but a good hostess knew where
she was needed. Sumi had a feeling she was needed here.

Nearly ten minutes had passed and Gigi had
not emerged. Her Master Duquesne had gone, and only a few people
roamed the hallways, looking for a place for private play. Even
Master Vadim had disappeared.