31 Flavors of Kink (11 page)

Willing to do anything to get off, I put my wrists into his grasp. He shuffles to his knees beside me on the bed, pushes my hands flat onto my belly, with his forearm pressing my body down even harder. The strength of the man comes to the fore. With his weight and muscles he can easily keep me there.

“Don’t kick,” he orders.

I nod and stare as he searches for the vibrator under my thigh, then slips it back into me. Yes. My body pulses one rung up the slippery ladder to heaven. Leaning on his other elbow between my legs, he begins the relentless in-and-out shuttling of the vibrator. And just like that, I’m panting again. Filled, empty, filled to bursting and empty again.

Then he lowers his head and sucks on my eager little clit. I feel the sweep and lick of his hot tongue on me, and my head thumps back into the quilt, deep enough that the bedding about my ears muffles my groans. The storm arrives in moments, climbing through my body, boiling up, centering on his mouth and what his tongue and lips are doing to me. Hot and wet, and I’m flung into the blinding maelstrom, my pussy clamping onto the thing inside, my thighs shoving up into him.

Slowly the thunder lessens; the storm dies, fades. Energy leaks from my exhausted muscles.

Oh. Hell. Yes.

He’s done oral before, a few times, but nothing compared to that. We’ve always been connected, but now…will I ever get enough of him?

After one last lick and nibble that makes me squeak, he sits up on his heels. I peer through slitted lids and whisper, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, honey.”

For a while he strokes my body, calming me like a horse or beast that needs the touch of its owner. “Do I need to cuff you?”

For what? Oh yes, the blowjob. I’m so at peace, I would give him anything right now, though one reservation pops up in my head. “You won’t come.”

“No.”

When he directs me, I roll over and kneel in front of him. Nick moves closer, takes hold of my hair with both hands. The control of my head is enough to drop me into the hazy aftermath of my orgasm. He pushes his cock to my mouth. I wet my lips, open wide, and take him in. But even through the blur of my thoughts, it’s soon obvious that standing on the bed as he is doesn’t make for a smooth blowjob.

My head moves with the bounce of the mattress, and my teeth graze his cock a few times as it slides into the depths of my mouth. The ever-present worry of where to put my tongue and how to not choke pulls me from my trance.

He growls, pulls out, and caresses my chin. The intensity in Nick’s eyes, then the way he makes me spin around on my knees and stick my ass in the air, signals impatience.

He grips my hips and enters me with his cock. I gulp and breathe hotly into the pillow I’ve half burrowed beneath.

The rhythm and thrust and slam of his body into mine drives me farther under the pillow. Trapped in that little muffled cave, I relish the sensations plunging through me. He increases the force until I’m hitting the headboard and have to curl up closer, arch higher. I want him deep inside.

Pulse thumping at me, air huffing through my mouth, I become a vessel for him to take. The last rough tunneling entry and drive of his cock makes my walls clamp down tight onto him. I shut my eyes and cherish this moment.

Shuddering, panting, we wait out the descent of our lust, then collapse raggedly onto our sides, cuddling.

When the lingering tingles and pulses finally fade, my mind flips back to the week we’ve had. Distant. Cold.

I snuggle closer to him, and his arms hold me tighter. Strange how the memory of recent misery climbs straight back into my thoughts. I don’t want to lose how I feel right now, yet we haven’t resolved anything. He gave me what I needed tonight. He fed the BDSM-craving monster I’ve become. But what happens when he gets tired of it? What if his hand hurts too much and he doesn’t want to spank me again?

The riding crop pops into my head, along with the erotic scene from a book. I should read him that. Maybe he’ll be more receptive to an implement that will save his poor hand from misery. A small smile touches my lips. I can’t believe he had the nerve to complain that his hand hurt while my ass was throbbing from his cursed hand. As I fall asleep in Nick’s warm embrace, my love for this funny, sweet, caring man overwhelms me.

Chapter Eleven

It’s Christmas morning. I’m in the kitchen making pancakes with blueberry sauce—Nick’s favorite and a holiday tradition—and singing to a Christmas CD. I ignore the complaints about my song coming from the living room, where Nick is checking the news online while having his morning coffee. Christmas is my favorite holiday. I’m a bit ridiculous when it comes to presents. Wrapping paper, shiny bows, and packages under the tree, all of it excites me in a way that should be inappropriate for an adult my age. But I don’t care. My theory is that I’m compensating for the Christmases I spent with very few presents as a child. My mom did the best she could, even made some wonderful things herself.

And now we’re not rich, but we’re comfortable. So I go a little crazy with gift buying for my friends and family. And especially for Nick, which makes him roll his eyes. He doesn’t get the same thrill from presents as I do. But he’s aware of my excitement and makes sure there are plenty of shiny packages with my name on them.

I am a notorious gift snooper. If Nick had discovered spanking earlier, I’m pretty sure I’d have been in for it the weeks before Christmases past. I snicker to myself. A little less ballsy now, knowing retribution is just a few rope knots away. So with great effort, I behaved myself this year and didn’t peek at a single receipt, e-mail purchase confirmation, or package hidden in the closet.

I am almost jumping out of my skin with excitement. Breakfast first, Nick insists. I purse my lips and flip a pancake. Easy for him to say. Anything he wants badly enough, he buys for himself. It takes the fun out of Christmas shopping; that’s for sure. The scrooge.

As we eat breakfast, I bombard Nick with a dozen questions about my gifts. He rolls his eyes, gives cursory answers, and pretends to hide behind the gold wire Christmas tree table decoration. From the pile of bonbons waiting in a stack to go to the family gathering, I select one and toss it at him. He ignores me, so I prop on my elbows and put on my grumpiest look. How can anyone eat so slowly? Finally he threatens to tie me up and gag me until it’s time for our family party this evening. I gulp and give a nervous giggle because I’m not confident he’s joking.

Since I cooked the meal, Nick gets to clean up after breakfast—our usual arrangement.

At the entry to the kitchen he pauses. “Go take a shower while I do the dishes.”

“Why?” I ask suspiciously. “Pajamas are traditional for opening presents on Christmas morning.” Besides, shaking the presents while I wait will be so much fun.

“Because I say so.”

I narrow my eyes. There’s something devious going on here, and to hell if I’m not going to try to figure out what it is.

He sighs at my hesitation. “You can put your pajamas back on if you want.”

“What are you planning?” To obey, or not to obey, that is the question. I suck my lip and shift from one foot to the other.

“Go.”

“Not until you tell me—”

“Go!”

I flinch at his demanding tone. “This Dom stuff has made you so pushy,” I grumble.

But the agonizing pull of a mystery is overcome by my sureness that nothing is going to happen unless I shower. So I curl my lip at him in a grumpy sneer that has him struggling to hold back a smile and make my way upstairs.

Showering in under fifteen minutes is inconceivable for me. Funny how this one takes about five. Once more in my precious pajamas—pink with sugarplums and candy canes on them—I dance past the kitchen in a little pirouette, grinning at Nick as he stacks the dishes.

“Don’t touch the presents,” he growls.

“Of course not, darling.” I give him my best angelic smile and pretend to adjust an invisible halo on my head.

He snorts. “I think your halo is flickering.”

“Needs new batteries.” I grin cheekily, leaving him laughing as I make my way to the living room.

I try not to shake the boxes and stare at them instead. Ten long minutes, then I run into the kitchen and pull on his arm. “I can’t take any more! Present time. Now.”

He chuckles. “You’re worse than a five-year-old. All right. Come on.” He swats my ass and follows me to the living room. “I’m excited this year too. I think for once you didn’t snoop.” His eyes narrow in suspicion, but I see the glint of humor there.

“I didn’t. That’s why I can’t wait anymore.”

He sits on the floor next to the tree and motions me next to him. “Okay, I won’t be cruel. Open yours first.”

I shake my head. “We’ll take turns.” I love giving as much as receiving.

I pull out one for him, and he hands one to me. The first few gifts we open are practical items. Socks, a travel coffee cup, a winter hat. I surprise him with a private golf lesson at a club. Though I’ve been making fun of him for taking up golf—which he assures me is only because he thinks it’ll help his chances of getting in good with the executives—I do support him in his career.

Nick surprises me with a new camera since mine fell off the sailboat we chartered around Block Island last summer.

“Sorry I couldn’t get your pictures back,” he says as I admire my gift. “But we’ll go again this year and recreate them.”

I grin. “Thanks, honey.”

Then he gets that devilish look in his eye that reminds me of when he’s got me tied up and at his mercy. “One more.”

He pulls a square box from behind the tree and places it in my hands. He’s excited about this—I can see it in his eyes. I unwrap it, then stare at the label on the box.

The Toy Box.

The Toy Box is an online sex toy shop notorious for selling BDSM products. My heart leaps, and I tear open the box. If he bought me a BDSM-related toy, then I know we’ve hit some kind of milestone. Excitedly I shove away the tissue paper and pull out what’s inside.

The blood drains from my face as I hold the item up to inspect.

“Underwear?” Black satin underwear with a little pink bow. They’re nice, but my heart sinks. I was hoping for…more.

“Not just underwear.” He snatches them from my hand and unfolds them. “Crotchless panties.”

He looks so thrilled with them that I can’t bring myself to tell him I think they’re dumber than stupid. I keep my disappointment to myself.

I never really understood the point of crotchless undergarments. If you’re going to remove the part that covers that, um, area, why wear underwear at all? I sigh. One of the many mysteries of men I’ll never understand.

“Uh…they’re nice, honey.” I force a small smile. “Thank you.”

His gaze darkens, and he hands them back to me. “Wear them today. Please? It’ll be hot.”

Since I plan on wearing slacks to his family’s Christmas party tonight, I suppose it’s not a big deal to wear the silly thing. I shrug. “Sure.”

His wicked grin is the only warning I have before he pounces, knocking me flat on my back. Balancing on his hands and knees, he leans in and kisses the breath out of me.

“Honey,” I rasp. “I have to start making the lemon cream pie.”

“
Mmm.
” His gaze is locked on my lips. “Pie can wait. Put on the panties.”

I chuckle and push against his chest. “No, really, it can’t wait. I told your family I’d bring pie.”

He frowns and sits back, and I rise from the floor, laughing at his exaggerated pout. “Don’t be a baby.” With a flirty smile I tell him, “Maybe you can eat
my
pie later.”

His male rumble of displeasure fills the room as he watches me like a hungry lion stalking its prey.

My inner red flag is waving. Distract him. “Go get dressed; then come help me bake.”

He points to the underwear, thrown haphazardly on the floor. “Panties or else.”

The monotone deadliness of his delivery tells me he won’t budge on this.

I fold my arms, and we try to outstare each other until he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

I giggle and cave in “Okay. But I have to cook, and my pajamas are going over the top.”

After a moment, he sighs. “All right. But I’m taking you up on that pie-eating promise later.”

* * * *

“You promised to help!” I yell from the kitchen, bowl of cream in one hand, beater in the other. With a little wriggle of my butt, I try to get comfortable—the lace on the panties is soft, but something about the elastic running between my legs is driving me nuts.

“I have to get ready,” is the response from upstairs.

I grunt and mumble, “Liar.”

He can get dressed and out the door for work in three minutes flat when he sleeps through the alarm. Now, all of the sudden, he needs an hour to get dressed?

I hitch one ass cheek against the kitchen island to shift those damn panties. Yes! The part of me down there that was trapped is now happy again. The renovated kitchen in our little house is gorgeous, but who’d have thought I’d be using it for underwear adjusting?

“I can give you some product tips for stubborn hair, Ryan Seacre— Ah!” I yelp and squirm away from the pinch on my butt.

When I spin around, Nick is standing in front of me with two challenging brows raised, dressed neatly in tan trousers and blue cotton shirt, looking so…formidable. My heart skips a beat. I like him this way—a little unpredictable.

I shake my whipped-cream-covered spoon at him. “If you’re not going to help, then leave me alone so I can finish.”

He firms his mouth, then slowly shakes his head. Though I’m nearly as tall as he is, Nick has a broad and muscled male physique. When he’s set on doing something, he can be pretty imposing. I back away from the island with him following me, and the counter bumps at my back.

The recipes occupying my thoughts are swept away. I focus instead on eluding my husband, who is stalking me in my kitchen.

“Honey.” I go for a stern tone. “I have to finish this. I promised your family.”

He takes another step forward, determination in his eyes. This isn’t going to end well. Late to dinner and maybe a half-finished pie. In an act of desperation, I grab the spoon out of my mixing bowl, hold it up, and fling a big glob of cream at him. It lands on his neck, to the right of his Adam’s apple.