Beauty and Pain (3 page)

A member of staff had his back to us, refilling a coffee machine with water, and I went onto my toes slightly so that my heels didn’t tap and alert him to my presence. Though it wouldn’t have mattered, the ever-present
clack-clack, clack-clack
of the rails provided an appreciated cover noise.

I spotted the same door I’d seen previously.

Damn, it was shut.

I could only send a quick prayer heavenwards that it wasn’t locked. That would really scupper my plans if it was.

The member of staff was out of view now, hidden by a thin wall that gave him privacy to sit down, wash dishes, prepare sandwiches—I didn’t know and it wasn’t any of my concern.

I reached the handle and turned to Gabriel. He was close behind me. There was a little color on his cheeks. He tugged at his bottom lip, not the center, but to the right a bit, and as he did so he appeared to hold in a naughty smile, like a kid about to fire a catapult or cherry knock a neighbor’s front door.

I pushed down the handle, heart hammering, pussy clenching.

Was I really doing this?

Fuck, yes, I was. The door was unlocked.

I slipped in. My stranger followed.

He shut the door quickly behind us. I heard the click of a lock.

“How very convenient,” he said. “A private, secure place for you to tell me a little more about your penchant for pain.”

Just tell, not show? My stomach dropped a little. I’d been hoping for so much more than talk.

“Turn around,” he said, gently facing me away from him by maneuvering my shoulders.

I glanced at the small space. It wasn’t much bigger than if we had resorted to one of the toilets. But it smelled a whole lot better—chocolate, sugar and the lingering scent of coffee. There were two high windows letting in the watery autumn light, which filtered over the shelving units and a flat space covered in what appeared to be stock charts and Health and Safety notices.

Gabriel’s body heat left me. The sense of loss was acute, but then I saw him hang his suit jacket up and hook it onto a peg holding several catering aprons.

“Here,” he said, touching my collar. “Let me. I have a feeling it’s going to get hot in here.”

Chapter Three

Oh, please, Lord, if it was going to get hot in here, let it boil!

He whispered his fingers around my neck, sending a shower of delicious sensations scattering over my scalp and along my spine. He tugged at my coat, pulling it gently off my shoulders then down my arms.

He hung it next to his.

“Isabella,” he said against my ear, his hands once again on my shoulders and his fingers stroking the ends of my hair. “We need to establish one thing, right here, right now.”

I nodded.

We did.

“Tell me,” he said, “are you a giver or receiver?” He pressed his lips harder over my ear, his warm breath soaking into my skin, seeping to my breasts and making my nipples tighten.

Fuck, if just his breath can do that…

“You have no idea,” he said softly, “how badly I want you to be the opposite to what I am. No fucking idea at all.” He sounded in pain, like his want was almost too much to bear.

I pressed my arse backwards and the top rise brushed his groin. A seriously solid wedge of flesh drove into me.

“Oh, I think I have a fair idea,” I said, thrilled at the thought of having given him an erection so soon into our encounter—and a damn fine hard-on at that.

He let out a soft moan and seemed to push into me just a little. “Answer the question, Isabella. Now.”

“I’m a…”

“Spit it out.”

“No, I’m a swallower.”

He kind of growled, snapped his arms around my waist and chest, then dragged me into his body. My back hit his chest and my arse got full-on connection with his cock through his trousers.

“You are only making it worse for yourself,” he snarled.

“Or better.”

He stilled.

So did I.

Now we both knew my answer. I was a receiver. There were no two ways about it. I loved pain with my pleasure—the deep muscle sort of ache and the sharp sting. It all pressed my buttons. It all got me off.

“Isabella,” he whispered, nuzzling into my neck. “I just knew we were compatible. That you were a masochist, a sub—”

“I’m no one’s sub.” I curled my fingers over his forearms, wished we were naked and not in office clothes. “I just enjoy a good whipping—or a thrashing—as I come.”

He chucked, his rising and falling chest shifting me in his arms. “Okay, if that’s how you want to play, that’s cool with me.”

“Play? Like you said, no room for anything in here, and I don’t think banging a bar of Cadbury’s on my arse is going to cut it for me.”

“I was a Boy Scout, you know.” Suddenly he turned me within his arms and stooped so our noses were touching.

“Pardon?” I pressed my palms against his crisp white shirt.

“A Boy Scout. Do you know what their motto is?”

“Er, dib, dab, dob?” I gave a mock salute.

He tutted. “No, it’s ‘Always be prepared’.”

As he’d spoken the last word he’d caught my mouth with his and set up a delicious dance with his tongue as he searched for mine.

I clung to him, thoroughly enjoying the feeling of being desired, owned, swamped by a big, strong man.

Gabriel knew how to fire up a woman’s engines and within minutes I was panting. He had inquisitive fingers, too, exploring beneath my thin blouse, up to my breasts then brushing my nipples through my bra.

“Please,” I said, pulling back. “I want…”

What did I want? A quick, no-strings vanilla fuck with a stranger? An arrangement to meet some other time with a bag of toys to play with? Or perhaps just this, a swift kiss and a grope, then return to our seats and hope no one noticed our flushed faces?

“I know exactly what you want,” he said. “If you can bring yourself to trust me, just for a few minutes.”

Suddenly the light went. His face disappeared even though he was inches from me. The
clack-clack, clack-clack
seemed to intensify.

We were in a tunnel.

As quickly as it had gone dark in our tiny world, the light shot back in.

I was still gripping him.

Yes, I did trust him. For some reason I did. Oh, I wasn’t about to let him tie me up and gag me, but in here, a bit of fun? Yes.

“What do you have in mind?” I asked.

He unwound himself from me then reached for his jacket. “This,” he said, “requires very little room and is the perfect portable plaything.”

From the inside lining, by the breast pocket, he pulled out a long, thin piece of what appeared to be metal, just over ten inches I would guess. It had a neat black handle on one end and reminded me of a super-thin knitting needle.

I folded my arms. It looked pretty innocent and my brief bubble of excitement at the mention of a plaything popped. How could that give any kind of deep stimulation?

He held it up, and with a cocky twist of his mouth showed me just how bendy it was—it could almost flex to ninety degrees.

“Unbreakable,” he said. “And easy to carry around in the lining of a jacket.”

“What is it?” I asked, feeling considerably more intrigued now that I’d seen its supple qualities.

“It’s a misery stick, although I think that gives the little blighter a bad reputation, because actually it can give immense pleasure.”

Misery stick? Okay, add nervous onto intrigue. Toys in our world didn’t get names like that for nothing.

“You really haven’t seen one before?” he asked, licking his lips and letting his gaze drop down my body.

I felt like he was undressing me with his eyes and already flicking that stick all over my lily-white flesh, streaking me with the red lines it would no doubt leave—if indeed that was what he planned on doing with it.

“Yes, it does mark. Quite heavily if a Dom isn’t careful.”

It was as though he’d read my thoughts.

“So what do you say, Isabella?”

I swallowed. My panties were getting damp. The need for an orgasm, an orgasm and pain, was like a sudden need to breathe when swimming under water. It was becoming the only thing I could focus on.

“I say yes,” I said, quickly unzipping my skirt at the side and letting it fall to the floor.

“Excellent decision,” he said, flaring his nostrils slightly and gritting his teeth. “Excellent decision and excellent choice of flesh for me to play with too.”

“Just play with?”

“Our type of play.” He narrowed his eyes. “This will hurt, you know?”

“Yes, I know.”

“It will become your worst enemy and then your best friend.”

I shoved at my knickers, unbashful about the dot of cream on the gusset and my damp pubic curls. “I’m all about extremes,” I said, kicking them aside.

He shoved his hand down his suit trousers, seeming to adjust himself. “Jesus Christ, you’re really hot, you know.”

“Wanna feel?” I parted my legs, set my hands on my hips.

He stepped up to me, eyes flashing. “Face the wall.”

I did as he’d asked, flattening my palms over a list of chocolate bars stocked and a notice about Christmas holidays.

“Ah, fuck.”

I jerked as he went straight for gold, delving his fingers between my cunt lips and slipping right up inside me.

“So damn wet. You really are a pain whore, aren’t you? Just the thought of it has nearly got you coming.”

“Yes, yes, I want it, but please. I want to come, too. At the same time as getting the pain. It’s what I need.”

“Oh, I have got myself a greedy girl, haven’t I?” He hooked his fingers forward, stroked over the needy pressure point on the front wall of my pussy.

“Ah, yeah, oh, that’s it, work me up a bit.”

He bit my ear—quite hard.

I gasped and tried to shift my head away but couldn’t move anywhere.

“You are a terrible submissive. Stop ordering me about.”

“I told you, I’m not a sub.” I paused, shunted my hips backwards so that I took more of his long, strong fingers. “I just like pain. It gets right to my core, makes me feel real.”

“But perhaps I want a sub to dish out pain to.”

“Do you?” Why was he complicating things? It was just getting good.

“Yes. When I’m in a scene I insist on being called Sir. Can you do that?”

“Yes, anything… Sir.” Sure I could do that. What did a word mean, after all?

He kissed the sore spot on my ear. “If you hate anything I do, say London, okay, and it will stop, instantly.”

“London. Yes. Okay.”

He worked me a little more. I could hear the juicy noises of my arousal over the sound of the train. I groaned too, wanting to reach that point where pain would mix so sweetly with the precipice of bliss. I could dance there for hours if I was with the right kind of sadist. One who knew exactly how to play my instrument, sing to my tune.

It had been so long.

“I think you’re ready,” he said. “Ready for the gift that keeps on giving.”

He withdrew.

I moaned a complaint. Shut my eyes and waited for the hit.

The anticipation of it, being unable to discern the whereabouts on my buttocks the new toy would strike, was the most rewarding torment imaginable. Not only that—the not knowing how it would feel was honeyed torture.

I grunted as a long, thin slice of pain hit my right buttock, on the roundest part of the globe. It was a sting, no more than an elastic band, and I couldn’t deny that disappointment blackened my arousal.

But only for a second.

His fingers were back inside me, his clever thumb just stroking my anus, and the sting… Jesus… The sting had rushed into something else. Now it screamed through my entire arse, wrapping up my muscles in agonizing want. Instead of fading it grew, blooming, turning into a blistering heat. So that’s what he’d meant by the gift that keeps on giving.

“You didn’t expect that, now, did you?” he said then kissed my neck.

“Ah, fuck, no, bloody hell.” I clenched my fists on the wall. Writhed against him. “It’s getting worse…not fading.”

He chuckled. “Vicious little thing, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “More.”

Again he pulled his fingers out.

I reached down, found my clit and pressed it hard, clenched my cunt around nothing.

Oh, where would he treat me this time?

“Ah, fuck.” I squeezed my buttocks together as a whole body tremble attacked me.

He’d gone for symmetry. My left buttock had taken the full force of the misery stick, the sting harder than the last twang, which meant the blistering poison in my nerves would be even greater.

“You can come whenever you want, sub,” he said.

“Not your…sub… Sir.”

“Oh, I think you will be.”