At His Whim (6 page)
Do it, Chloe
, my mind echoed back.
Which only went to prove we were both out of our minds.
To Be Continued In
In His Service: His #2
ALSO BY ERIKA MASTEN
AN EROTIC DOMINATION SHORT STORY
Brisa can’t imagine desiring anyone more than sexy, 6’4”, muscular police lieutenant Wayne Fulton. Sweet, patient, helpful, protective Wayne. Huge, towering, solid, powerful Wayne. Discovering that he has a dominant side in bed seems impossible for Brisa to reconcile with the image of the gentle man she’s so drawn to. But it also kindles unfamiliar yearnings in her that she can’t resist asking him to fulfill, if only for a few days, in a dark and consuming sexual experiment as his submissive for a single weekend.
AN EXCERPT FROM ERIKA MASTEN’S
WEEKEND SUBMISSIVE
It's rare but not unheard of for me to run into Wayne in the morning while I’m getting into my car to go to work and he’s headed out for a jog. I still haven’t shaken that wishful idea from last night, though, so seeing him so unexpectedly sets off all the physical reactions in spades. Fluttery stomach. Racing thoughts. Dry mouth. Wet pussy. He calls good morning to me and stops just behind my sensible tan sedan as I’m standing at the open driver’s side door. The navy blue sweatpants he’s wearing might not cling like a good pair of jeans, but his ass still looks amazing, and those thighs… Everything seems to flex and glow in the morning light as he stands regarding me from beneath thick black lashes, his head coyly lowered.
His gaze rakes subtly up and down my body, once, quickly, but it’s enough to make my heart leap in my chest. He looks up from my pale pink pumps. They’re the perfect shade to match the rosy plaid pencil skirt and solid pink silk blouse, all an excellent contrast to the tan I’ve acquired this summer on the local hiking trails and up at the lake with friends. Wayne flashes that grin again. “Very professional, Ms. Martin.”
I can’t help beaming at the compliment, though I manage to swallow down most of the giddy grin that rises in response. “Thank you, Officer Fulton. Putting in a few miles before work?”
Wayne shakes his head and wanders closer until, to my delight, he’s only about six inches away, looming over me. “Shift rotation. I’ve actually got Friday, Saturday, and Sunday off for the next four weeks. Only happens a couple of times a year.”
The desire to ask him out pounds inside my head like a hammer. “Welcome to weekends off,” I say instead. “Your girlfriend must be happy to have you around.” Not the dumbest thing I could have said, I realize, but close. A few extra-hard pumps from my heart become the exclamation marks at the end of that thought.
He tilts his head the other direction and stares at me pensively for a long few seconds. “Girlfriend?”
Stuttering and fumbling for words, I manage to blurt, “Sorry, I just assumed. The redhead I’ve seen you with?” The one who came after the woman with the black bob, who was after the willowy blonde. Pale and thin, tall and dark, upscale and sophisticated. He’s brought home just about everything
except
an athletic brunette professional.
Sucking thoughtfully on his full lower lip, Wayne nods. “Ah, you mean Tara. We’re not like that, just friends who like to hang out…”
And fuck. While living out domination fantasies. Even I’m surprised at the bitter, jealous edge to the silent response that rings out in my head.
“And blow off steam,” Wayne finishes. I glance up from my sour musings, and the look on his face makes my jaw drop so slightly open. There it is, that expression I’ve been expecting, the knowing glint in his dark gray eyes as he looks down his nose at me like a principal sizing up a naughty child. “You know what I mean, Brisa.”
That’s not a question in any way, shape, or form. Still, even with my chest constricting, crushing my pulsing heart, I resist the possibility that he knows I’ve been watching him. Surely, had he known, he wouldn’t have left the blinds open. Wouldn’t have kept up the steady, if careful flirtation with me. I mean, why would he?
I swallow hard. “I don’t…”
I don’t know what you mean, I want to say. I don’t understand.
I don’t know how to finish this sentence without sounding completely insincere and giving myself away
—that’s more like it.
“No?” Wayne asks, then steps closer, my face turned upward to regard him warily, his turned downward as he speaks low and confidingly. “You don’t what, Brisa? Don’t watch other people secretly or don’t do the kinds of things you’ve seen?”
I can actually feel my eyes shoot wide and round. Is this where Wayne confronts me about my completely obsessive desire for him? Where he tells me I’m a sweet girl, but it’s just not healthy or attractive to spy on a man just because he’s handsome and playfully told me I look good? Where he suggests therapy or threatens a restraining order? I certainly couldn’t blame him. Even I think my attraction to him is crazy, too constant and consuming.
Yet the way he’s lingering near instead of distancing himself, the soft but steady eye contact, the deepness of his breathing… These don’t convey disapproval. Still looming over me like this, he seems ready to fall upon me, a powerful hunter poised above prey.
“I’m sorry,” I say at last, dragging my gaze from his as my cheeks begin to burn. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Why, Brisa?” he whispers, and I feel his soft breath against my temple, stirring the loose waves of my hair. “Why watch me with other women? Did it excite you?”
“No,” I snap too readily, too loudly. I squeeze my eyes closed, imagining the lonely nights stretching out ahead of me without even the fantasy of Wayne Fulton to occupy me. More softly, sighing, I say again, “No.”
A heartbeat passes, painfully still and silent, but Wayne does not give me the cold comfort of distance.
“Was it what you saw
me
doing? Are you into being dominated, Brisa?”
I wish he’d quit saying my name. My cunt pulses every time he does it, like he’s touching me, seducing me from the inside out. I catch myself leaning toward him. My stiffened nipples brush his chest through our clothing, and I jerk back like I’ve felt an electrical shock. The nubs ache and throb and tingle like the shock was real. Did I imagine Wayne catching his breath at the contact?
“I’ve never been…,” I confess and then wonder why I’m being so honest. I should just apologize and get in my car and go to work. Pretend this never happened. Avoid Wayne as much as possible. Lose myself in paperwork, helping citizens understand all the convoluted laws pouring out of the capitol, being the good little public servant. When all I can think about is being with…
serving
this man the way I’ve seen other women please him.
“You’ve never been dominated, but it fascinates you, makes you wet. Is that it?” Wayne’s warm breath glides over my cheek and neck as his mouth inches toward my ear. In exquisite contrast, shivers run down my body like trickles of cold rain. With my eyes closed, the feeling of him towering over me intensifies. He blocks everything else out of my senses. “Do you want what you saw me doing to those other women?”
Weekend Submissive is available now at online retailers.
ALSO BY ERIKA MASTEN
SWEET RESISTANCE: THE DOM NEXT DOOR #2
AN EROTIC DOMINATION SHORT STORY
Rina’s fantasies about her next door neighbor, personal trainer Sam Kettler, have driven her past the point of exasperation. All she can think about is Sam using his perfect body to hold her down and take her while she struggles and vents months of sexual frustration. When Rina overhears Sam talking about BDSM and force play, the fulfillment of her fantasy is too close to resist.
AN EXCERPT FROM ERIKA MASTEN’S
SWEET RESISTANCE: THE DOM NEXT DOOR #2
I curse the well-known fact that Sam makes the best cocktails in Los Angeles, having been a bartender before picking up enough clients to earn his living as a personal trainer. Drink requests from his guests draw him away from me and keep him busy a good part of the night. Without being asked, and despite feeling a bit presumptuous, I appoint myself a sort of co-hostess. Keeping drinks filled with fresh ice, cutting more cheese and fruit for the snack table, and asking after everyone’s needs give me the distraction I need to control the excited nausea churning in my belly and the anxious worries bleeding into the outer edges of my thoughts.
It’s after one in the morning before the last stranglers start wandering toward the door. As Sam wishes them off, I’m stacking glasses in the dishwasher, with the overflow arranged neatly on the counter for the next load.
“Stop it,” Sam tells me when he finds me putting bottles away in the cupboards, catching my hand and nodding toward my half-full drink before tugging me into the living room. “You’re not the maid. Relax and finish your drink.”
My thoughts have never left our encounter in the kitchen at the beginning of the evening, but I’ve nearly exhausted my bravery. Sitting on a sleek beige loveseat while he drops wearily onto the matching sofa across from me, I take a deep draught of the sugary cocktail and sigh out a giggle a little more freely than I should. If he’s about to break my heart by telling me his flirtations were innocent fun and his interest in me is purely friendly, I want to be able to claim I was tipsy earlier in the kitchen—still am, in fact. Yes, that’s what I’ll say.
Sam shakes his head at me, a slow smile spreading along his lips like honey, gleaming and lickable. “You’ve had exactly one and a half drinks all night, Rina.” His focus grows harder, more serious, tightening in on my face. “I’ve been keeping track.”
Embarrassment flows through me like ice water down my spine. Sour over being called on my little ploy and stripped of its defense, however small, I defiantly knock back the rest of the drink. “Why would you do that?” I ask as the alcohol warms my throat and chest. Too bad there really wasn’t enough of it to fog my head now that I’m getting scared.
“Because if you really were even a little tipsy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.” Sam leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You started something in the kitchen, but we’re only going to continue it if you’re absolutely sober. Understood?”
I’m not used to the stern edge to his voice or the hard stare in place of the boyish gleam in his eyes, but I nod and put the drink down on the low glass coffee table separating us.
“Good,” Sam says, though he doesn’t relax at all with the pronouncement. He is still pitched forward like he’s going to come to his feet any second. Is he anxious as well, I wonder. Angry at my ploy? Frustrated with me for pushing the issue of whether he’s interested in me or not? “You didn’t challenge me for once, Rina. I’m surprised. In certain circles, people might call you a brat.” He raises one hand when I stiffen defensively at the remark. “And before you get mouthy with me, that’s a specific term in BDSM. Fairly self-explanatory, but it basically means you like to push until someone pushes back.”
Unable to argue with that based on…well…
any
of my behavior in the two years I’ve known Sam, I fold my arms and try not to look like I’m pouting. It’s a struggle. Cautiously, watching my tone if for no other reason than to avoid proving Sam so utterly right, I mutter, “So you never did tell me exactly what you’re into…
on the scene
.” Is it just me or did that emphasis come out sounding a tad snotty?
He rubs his hand over his mouth, almost certainly to hide a smile and muffle a chuckle. After a moment, Sam grows still again and watches my face. “I’m dominant, if that’s what you’d like to know. Nothing very extreme, no blood or knife play, no flat-out sadism.”
“How did you get interested in it?” Please don’t say it was your girlfriend, unless there’s an ex- in front of the word.
“A client,” he admits with a grin bordering on bashful. “You’ve worked with me, Rina. You know I push. Some women like that. Some women like being pushed
hard
. After a workout session that went, well, about the same way ours do, it became pretty clear that resisting me was arousing my client. As inadvisable as it is to mix business with pleasure, I let her introduce me to BDSM and resistance play.”
“Resistance play?” The word resistance rolling off Sam’s tongue tightens the back of my neck with anticipation. The mention of
play
, however, leaves me uneasy, my fingers fidgeting and twisting the hem of my dress.
Sam nods as I repeat the term. “It’s also called force play.” There is a heartbeat’s worth of pause. “Or rape play, if it gets a little more hardcore.”
My voice doesn’t sound like my own—distant, guttural, hungry—as I ask, “Can we try that? You and I?”
Sam’s reaction confuses me. He swallows hard, like the thought leaves his mouth as dry as mine is right now, but he uncoils and sits back on the couch. A very calm, controlled demeanor passes over his face like a cloud over the sun, and sweet, playful Sam is suddenly completely unreadable to me.
“That’s an advanced form of play, Rina. It usually involves partners who have been intimate for a long time, a lot of conversation beforehand, even a contract setting limits. Because once the play starts, nothing stops it. The adrenaline is pumping, and blood is pounding in your skull, and safe words are just a whisper in the distance.” Sam shakes his head at some private thought. “And if I knew better,” he starts to say. Then he mutters under his breath. “And I obviously do, goddamnit.” After a rough-edged breath he continues. “We shouldn’t even be considering something so dangerous this late at night after a long party with just enough alcohol and flirtation to warp our better judgment.”
The urge to argue with Sam wars with the desire to plead with him to force me, to take me, to
play
with me, if that’s what he must call it. I don’t have play acting in mind so much as I want to be the prey this predator plays with before pouncing. “Are we?” I finally find the breath to ask. “Are we considering it?”