His Only Hope: The Maison Chronicles, Book 2 (12 page)

Her eyebrows arched. “You need to sign a contract?”

“Yep,” he said, stroking her hair. “It basically says we’ll be safe and responsible with our partners. And if you don’t follow it, she’s got grounds for revoking membership.”

She thought of Master Joseph. “Has it ever happened?” Wouldn’t that be nice, to have him publicly shamed like that?

He bent down to her eye level. “On occasion. Do you have more questions or can we get to the fun part now?” His smile was all lust, with heat in his eyes that could turn sand into glass.

“Fun, please, Sir.” Arousal swirled through her, tightening her nipples and dampening her thong.

“Good girl.”

He lifted her up and walked over to the cross, turning to beckon her with one finger. Her heels sank into the carpet as she scampered over. Great for kneeling, but she missed the click of heel on hard flooring.

He stroked a hand down her side. “God, you have the sexiest hips.” With his hand, Gabe pressed her against the cool wood of the cross, covering her body with his own. Heat poured off him, even through his black T-shirt and jeans, which did nothing to hide the thickness of his erection against the crease of her ass.

She whimpered. “Promise me you’ll fuck me again, Sir.”

His hips swiveled little circles against her before backing off. Cool air drifted across her back and between her legs, further sensitizing her flesh.

“Only if you’re a good girl,” he replied.

A trail of mirrors ringed the room at just the right height for Hope to see her and Gabe’s faces reflected. His lips curled into a bare hint of smile at the corners. Boy, was that sexy. Full mirrors would be too much of a distraction, but with this setup, she could lose herself in his eyes. And at that moment, such a reverie seemed preferable to the pain.

Yep, she was a goner.

“Don’t move an inch.”

She heard a zipper—too long to be his jeans, dammit—and rustling noises.

“
Cara,
do you want a blindfold?”

She’d always wanted one before, had wanted to block out any visual distractions, but now she wouldn’t give up one second of watching his eyes. “No, Sir.”

“All right.” The approval in his voice squeezed her chest.

“And,” she hesitated, knowing Gabe was different but still instinctively worried about his reaction, “can I have good, thorough aftercare?”

He stroked a hand down her back. “You didn’t like aftercare before.”

Was he going to deny her? She hung her head into the vee of the top arms of the cross. “No, you’re right, Sir.”

He smacked her ass and she jumped. “I wasn’t turning you down, Hope. Just remarking that this is new for you.”

“Oh.” She felt totally out of her element here. “Yeah.”

He crowded her. “Yeah?”

“Yes, Sir.” God, even saying the words made her skin prickle. And after one day back with the man.

What would it be like in a week, a year? Dangerous, delicious thoughts.

His body crowded hers once more. “You can have whatever aftercare you like, baby. I’ll hold you as long as you’ll let me.” His look pinned her in place. Forced her to really listen to his words.

Chills—the good kind—racked her body. Was it possible he wanted to keep her around after the weekend? He headed to the back of the room, leaving her to her thoughts.

When he returned, hands full, he buckled cuffs to her ankles before linking them to the eye hooks on the cross. He bracketed her wrists with his much bigger hands. “Would you like me to remove these cuffs, replace them with heavier-duty ones?”

“No!” The vehemence of her response shocked her. They were just stupid vanity cuffs, no good for true restraint. But she knew better than that. The cuffs marked her. She belonged to him as long as she wore them, and she’d be damned if she’d willingly take them off. That restrained her, in the best way, more than any true leather or metal binds could.

“Okay, baby, I was just checking.” He clipped her wrists to the waiting eye hooks and she gave an experimental tug. Neither the cross nor her cuffs budged. “Careful, sweetheart, don’t chafe your wrists.”

He reached up to rub her leather-covered skin and her heart swelled with his thoughtfulness, so different from Master Joseph. She sank into the moment, resting her head against one arm of the X. “Thank you, Sir.”

Gabe smiled at her in the mirror before kissing her shoulder and neck. The kisses sent shivers ricocheting through her body and she squirmed against her bonds.

And then he bit down on the sensitized juncture of her shoulder and neck, and she came undone.

“Good grief, Sir, not fair!” she managed between waves of tingles.

She reached to pull his head closer, to keep him there, but she was cuffed, dammit.

His wicked laugh taunted her and led into a panty-melting whisper in her ear. “Oh, this is just the beginning,
cara
.” He pressed her to the X and continued, “First, I’m going to get you all hot and bothered, using only my hands and tongue. And then you’ll get your choice of toys for me to use—crop,” she let out a helpless moan, “flogger,” and another moan, “or paddle.”

Beneath the sanity-wrecking swirl of lust and love, Hope realized her love for Gabe added another dimension of pleasure to their play. Her heart didn’t just race from his touch anymore. Her mind didn’t float off into nothing—it floated off into his presence.

God, she was beginning to sound like one of those sappy romance heroines.

A sharp pinch to her ass brought her back to reality before she could get any sappier.

“Oh no you don’t, baby. I saw those eyes glazing over. There’ll be plenty of time to sink into subspace later. Besides, you haven’t heard yet what the rest of my plans entail.”

She gaped at his reflection. “I get
more
? What, is it my birthday?”

“No, it’s not, and yes, I still remember when your birthday is.” He’d known exactly what she was thinking, damn him. He met her gaze in the stripe of mirrors. “Don’t give me that look. You’re an open book for me, baby. From the way your pupils dilate when I do this,” he nibbled her ear and Hope sagged against her bonds, “to the taut skin of your neck and cheeks,” he trailed his hands down to cup her hips, squeezed, before one hand dipped to her wetness, “to this.” Her throat went tight with emotion. “Yes, this sweet, tight, hot cunt that I’m going to sink into once you’re crazed from my touch.”

A whimper escaped from her throat and she lolled her head back to rest on his shoulder. He shifted to capture her mouth with his, kissing her with such passion and skill that she was glad for the cuffs keeping her upright.

Gabe pulled away and took a step back. She laid her head against her arm and used the narrow mirrored band to figure out what he was doing. Was he just staring at her?

Fine, she could stare back. He looked dangerous in the dim light, tattoos running up both arms, firm jaw clenched, a nose that had been broken a time or two. And all that before she got to his eyes. Focused, relentless and dark as hell. She shivered, loving the contradiction between the tender way he treated her and his bad-boy appearance.

“Hope, you are so beautiful.” Strong hands rubbed her scalp, down to her neck and shoulders, until she was a puddle of sated goo. “Your hair…”

She saw him lean in and inhale.

“Every time I smell lavender, I think of you. And your collarbone is so sexy, and your shoulders, too, all soft lines and pale skin. So perfect, delicate and flawless.”

The man really was an artist, whether using his hands or his words to create something of beauty. Hope was both awed and jealous because she lacked his facility with sweet words.

Awe won by a mile.

Strong hands drifted up and down her ribs, his fingers brushing along the sides of her breasts. Long sweeps of his calloused fingers, which only amped up the eroticism, teased the flesh inches from her hardened, anxious nipples.

“Please, Sir, touch me!”

At his rumbling laugh, her pussy clenched. God, had he classically conditioned her like one of Pavlov’s dogs? All he had to do was
be
and she got turned on.

“I thought I
was
touching you, pet. Should I stop?”

“No!” She tried wiggling into his hands, her aching nipples begging for relief, but he pinned her hips to the X with his own, restricting her movements and pressing an insistent erection against her ass.

“No? And without giving a specific request? You know better, baby. That’ll be two spankings.”

“Okay, Sir. Sorry.” She tried for contrite but her words came out lust-ridden and ravenous.

He smirked. “And a third for fudging. You’re not sorry—you love this.” He stepped to her side and the cool air on her inflamed skin was welcome, but a poor trade for the press of Gabe’s body.

She relaxed against the X and waited patiently for her discipline. Three smacks landed against her right ass cheek, each sharper than the last.

“Please, Sir, more?”

“I don’t think so, Hope. You’ll have to earn those. Now to get off to a good start—what did you want me to touch?”

“My nipples, Sir.”

He stalked around to the other side of the X so they were face-to-face. A long, deep, wet kiss later and she was panting as if she’d run a marathon.

“What, these nipples?” He’d cupped her breasts while she regained her bearings. With each squeeze and roll, she keened in pleasure-pain. His rough touch was perfect.

“My ass, Sir. Sp—” she gasped when he gave one nipple a particularly erotic twist. “Spank me.”

If he kept that up, there was no way coherence would be possible. And he knew it too, damn him. A grin melted across her face. She loved playing these games with Gabe. But it didn’t feel like a game anymore. Or if it was, the stakes had grown. She’d lose more than just a competition if she lost him again.

He growled and captured her mouth in a searing kiss. She reached for what she knew would be a tight, hard erection, but her arm only got two inches before being snapped back to the X.

“Let me touch you,” she managed between breaths. “C’mon, Sir, I’ll lick you and suck you just the way you like.”

Gabe paused, swayed closer, and she thought she’d won him over, but then he took a step backward. Looked like she got more punishment. Win-win either way.

“That’ll come later—don’t worry, you demanding wench. And that has earned you another punishment for trying to speed me along.” He stalked behind her, dragging his warm, artist-rough fingers across inch after inch of her back. He branded her flesh as he’d branded her heart.

She wanted to feel his weight against her again. It made her feel so loved, so protected. His body heat radiated to her and his dark, leathered smell made her swoon.

Slap after slap landed on her backside until she knew the skin would be red and warm. Pain flooded from her ass to the rest of her body, turning her nerves up to eleven. The stings washed over her, erased everything but that moment. She didn’t feel anything but his hand, care about anything but Gabe and his desires.

He pressed her body to the cross and his body heat made the wood feel cold. “I fear my patience is in short supply.” His words trickled through her haze of lust, but just barely. “So choose now—crop, flogger or paddle?”

After a few failed attempts, she managed, “Crop, Sir.” It could redden or bruise with ease and had a stingy touch. She needed the pain—enough would clear her head, and she’d figure out what to do with her new, intense feelings for Gabe.

She watched his retreating figure in the mirror. Even clothed, his body was unmistakably muscled and powerful.

With a black leather crop in hand, he returned to her. She wanted to ask how many lashes, but the thought was stolen by his first strike. Fire arced across her right thigh and she sagged against the bonds, needing to rub the tender area but unable to do so. One heartbeat, then two, then three before another smack erupted through the room—leather on ass this time.

The slaps formed their own beat, the baseline to her moans and gasps and squeals. Hope felt as if she were very far away, only the pain reaching her. Time, light, darkness, heat, cold—nothing had meaning except the cadence of being cropped.

Then it slowed, and her heartbeat along with it.
No, more
, she wanted to scream, but using her voice seemed too much effort at the moment.

“How are you doing?” One hand caressed her tender skin, bringing a shadow of the initial pain.

She struggled for the words, but only managed, “More, Sir.” Through hooded eyes she saw him straighten his shoulders.

“Are you sure?”

She was close, so close to breaking. Those tears were essential, necessary, cleansing. She hadn’t cried like this, a soul-deep cry, in far too long. And he wanted to stop now? “No. Please, Sir, more. I need more,” she somehow spoke.

And as her eyes closed, he picked up the rhythm once again, each smack drawing her closer to the edge. It was like orgasm, only purer. Each blow drew away some of the poison left behind by Master Joseph. Once that was gone, her fears and doubts about Sir melted away too. It was so clean, so good, the tears started rolling down her cheeks. She’d never felt so free of tension. It was beautiful.

With each blow, Gabe’s heart shrank away from the sound. How could this be helping her? He tried to block out his father’s voice and listen to Kat’s, to Hope’s saying this was something she craved.

And he might have conquered those fears too. In his favor, Hope had not gone numb under the beating—he’d seen that before, where subs sank so deeply into the feeling that they shut down. She was twitching under each stroke, making her cuffs rattle against the St. Andrew’s Cross, moaning and yelping and turning him on more with every second.

He’d thought he was doing so well.

During a check of her reflection in the mirror—even someone as closed as Hope revealed a great deal on her face during a scene—he saw her tears, just like in his nightmare. Cathartic, maybe for her. For Gabe, each one was a liquid reminder of how quickly his control could spiral away.

Another check in the mirror, and his father’s face looked back at him.
“Hit her harder,” he said. “You’re a Cassidy. Our women need to be taught lessons.”