Falloir (Passion Noire Book 2) (5 page)

My job, from now on, will be to teach Dean to be a considerate lover. He needs to learn how to read a woman’s body and how to respond to it with skill. And, in order to break his burgeoning dependence and possessiveness of me, I’m going to throw him in the deep end with several club subs who help me out from time to time. Some of those who are without a current Master are often glad to assist me with clients who have physical needs. Plus there are a couple of clients I might consider for the purpose.

I bring myself out of my therapist’s bubble to find Jones, still on his knees, watching me intently. He looks so subservient for a moment that my nipples try to reach out and grab his attention. There’s hunger in his eyes, along with eagerness, tempered by restraint ... and there’s something else ... unless I’m very mistaken it’s respect.

My resolve to steer clear of him cracks ... the evil one had never looked at me with respect. As I’m struggling to repair my determination, and failing badly, Jones hops effortlessly back on to his feet. I blow out an unsteady breath. I was so close to throwing caution to the wind, right here, right now. But as Jones walks away from me, he pushes his jeans down, stepping out of them without breaking stride.

My eyes greedily take in the muscular canvas of art, narrowing to a lean waist that sits atop an arse that is so toned, it looks solid when he moves. Long, long, sculpted legs complete the package. I swallow. I recall the hunger in his eyes and I’m glad he’s no longer studying me. If he were, he’d see I’m fucking ravenous.

I KNOCK THE TEMPERATURE of the water down—not a cold shower exactly but something that will cool me the fuck down. Otherwise, I can see myself doing something incredibly stupid. I’d agreed to Veuve’s terms which basically meant that everything was on Veuve’s terms. The number one rule was that nothing happens outside Vouloir.

But that was before she ended up staying here. How the hell am I going to keep my hands off her now? It’s been a mindfuck of a day. My stress level is somewhere between volcanic and thermonuclear. When I’m agitated through stress, a good fuck usually relieves the tension. A good, hard, animalistic fuck.

I was tempted when I left the flat earlier. Fuck, was I ever? It would have been easy to jump in the car and drive to some bar, pick up some slut and take her back to hers. Balls emptied, stress level lowered—all’s good, right?

Wrong.

Since I’ve met that infuriatingly sexy Domme, I don’t crave sex with anyone but her. The one woman I can’t walk up to, proposition and then fuck. The one who is playing hard to get because she is hard to fucking get. But when I get her ... I know it’s going to blow my fucking mind. So I’ll play her games, do whatever she wants because I know it will be worth it.

I’ve no idea whether I can restrain myself or mould myself in the ways that she demands. But the thought of it makes my cock twitch. The challenge of satisfying her makes it hard. The challenge of making her crave me ... making her come back for more ... that’s what arouses my brain. Because I’ve read that it’s not the Dom/me that has the true power, it’s the sub. That’s what flicks my switch, so to speak.

But not with any Domme. No, only her. Because I know it would be just as demanding a challenge for her to embark upon this journey with me, as it would be for me, with her.

My cock lurches its agreement, tempting my hand but I’ve a feeling that having a wank with a sex goddess nearby will only make me hornier. She’s under my skin as surely as the splashes of coloured ink that I’m so proud of. She’s an indelible itch ... and there’s only one way to scratch her out. And that’s fucking her until I’ve got her out of my system.

I step out of the shower, feeling just as hot and bothered as when I stepped in. Nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the sex therapist across the hall. I towel myself off quickly, giving my hair a good rub and then make to go to bed.

I get halfway across the hall before realising that I’ve given up my bed for the night. But it’s a king size bed. Five feet wide. Plenty of room for two. Firmly sprung with a thick cashmere layer on top. It’s at the other end of the comfort scale to that damn sofa. Oh well.

I turn back towards the living room, take two steps and think, ‘Fuck it.’

I double back, walk into my bedroom and find she’s already in bed. On my side, the one nearest the door. The room’s in darkness but there’s some light from the bulb at the far end of the hall. I’m halfway to the bed when she speaks up.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she says, sounding half asleep.

‘Getting into bed,’ I reply, pulling back the duvet.

‘You said you’d take the sofa,’ she retorts, sounding much more awake now.

‘Did I bollocks. I told you to sleep in my bed because the sofa was shit to sleep on. I didn’t say it was a straight swap. I meant what I said, last time I slept on it, I could barely move the next day. How the hell am I supposed to break into your flat and secure it again afterwards if I can’t stand up?’

‘I’ll sleep on the fucking thing then,’ she says. I hear the duvet rustling. I can see her sitting up—and that’s only because my eyesight is so good in dim lighting.

‘Don’t be stupid, Veuve. It’s a king size bed. Plenty of room for us both without having to lie one on top of the other ... unless you ask nicely. Secondly, you’ve got shit to sort out tomorrow. How are you going to do that if you’re crippled?’

It’s gone quiet. There’s a click before her side of the bed is illuminated in a puddle of light.

She’s wearing my tee-shirt. It’s stretched so tight across her tits that it’s practically transparent. It’s thin, white cotton but there are two large, dark circles that I can’t help but notice. It looks like her fucking nipples are coming through the cotton. If I’d got a glass of water to hand, I’d throw it. No question.

I’m not joking. I’ve seen many wet tee-shirt competitions but none of the entrants looked anywhere near as good as Veuve looks right now—even when her tee is dry. Her black hair is framing her face and loose tendrils rest on the top of those mammoth breasts. I wonder if she’s wearing knickers—the duvet is still around her waist. I’m jealous of its contact with her bare skin. I’m jealous of the tee-shirt for the same reason.

There’s no way I’m letting her escape from my bed.

As much as I’m eye-fucking her, I realise when I tear my eyes away from the stretched, white cotton, she’s eye-fucking me right back. I’ve walked back in here naked. Her pupils are totally dilated—and there’s no way that’s caused by the bit of light coming from the lamp. No, something else is causing her almost non-existent irises. The realisation makes my breath catch in my throat before making my heart pound a little louder in my ears.

She’s horny. The sight of my body is making her body respond. My cock’s already showing its appreciation for her shapely form. It flexes unashamedly when I realise she’s getting turned on. The movement makes her eyes widen and she looks guiltily to my face. No, not guiltily ... I think she’s just checking whether I was observing her.

She’s feeling wrong-footed—just how she makes me feel all the damned time. I stretch and fake a yawn, making sure that I pump my biceps and my pecs. I watch her gaze stroll lazily across my torso. I can’t hold the stretch any longer without it being obvious that I’m provoking deliberately so I flex my cock. I grin when her eyes dart south. Oh yeah, she’s just as affected by my body as I am by hers. Any second now, she’ll recover herself and feign disinterest.

‘
If I ask nicely?
’ she says eventually, tearing her eyes away from my cock. ‘That’s likely to happen at approximately the same time that you’re able to ice-skate across hell, you do know that, don’t you?’

‘Uh-huh. Now are you going to lie down or do I need to cuff you to the bed?’ I say, knowing that I’m pushing my luck.

‘Jones?’ she says, sounding suspiciously pleasant.

‘Yes, Veuve?’

‘Fuck off!’ She flops back down on to the mattress before reaching out and flicking off the lamp.

I can’t help but grin as I slide under the duvet.

We lie there, like statues resting against the edges of the mattress for a few minutes.

‘Jones,’ she whispers. ‘Do you really have cuffs in here?’

‘Do you really want to find out?’ I tease.

‘You wouldn’t...’

‘What? Dare? Oh Veuve, do you really want to play that game?’ I taunt.

It falls quiet.

‘So you have to secure women when you get them into your bed ... I can’t help but wonder what you have to do to get them here.’

‘Well, if one of my chat up lines doesn’t work, I find that firebombing their place usually does the trick.’

‘That’s not funny, Jones.’

‘Neither are my chat up lines.’

‘Hit me with your best one.’

‘My dick just died, can I bury it in your arse?’

‘Goodnight, Jones.’ Her tone closes the conversation more than her words.

I can’t help but chuckle softly as I close my eyes. It’s like being back in the Corps ... watching my step, dodging bullets, planning my next move, knowing when to retreat.

‘Goodnight, Mistress,’ I deadpan.

Her hand lands on my thigh and immediately cups my balls. She squeezes gently yet menacingly. I always did like to sail close to the wind. Risking my balls always gave me a thrill; I guess nothing’s changed.

Well, risking my balls never felt
this
good before ...

We lie here, neither of us moving, neither of us making a sound. I can’t sleep with her hand on my balls—it’s maintaining my hard-on and fucking with my head. And I know she isn’t drifting off because of the tension in her fingers ... she’s still squeezing. It feels like she’s provoking me ... no, testing me. One wrong move and I fail. I can’t help but wonder what happens if I win.

Maybe the prize is that my balls remain intact. Having someone gripping them like this really concentrates the mind. I suppose it might freak some people out, but me? It gives my cock plenty to think about and it makes me consider my next move. If I want to impress, and I do ... fuck, yes I do. I realise my next move shouldn’t be to move at all.

I acclimatise to the feeling of her fingers, unmoving against my ball sack and my cock begins to lose interest—exactly what I’m willing it to do. My breathing gradually becomes deeper and I feel her fingers relaxing as her breathing deepens too. Her hand begins to slip as her muscles relax and her body succumbs to sleep. The heel of her hand comes to rest on my inner thigh, her fingertips splaying across my balls.

It feels good, almost protective rather than threatening but I know it’s accidental. I can tell from her breathing that she’s asleep. What are we doing here? What is it that I want from her?

This isn’t my thing. I fuck then fuck off. I come then go. There’s no drama because I make it clear that’s what I do, what I want, what I need. I don’t lie or manipulate to get laid. I don’t promise to call them again. I don’t promise them anything more than a thorough fucking. I call the shots and if they don’t like it, there are plenty more who will.

But they’re unremarkable, unmemorable ...
unlike her.

Fuck, she’s messing with my head. And the worst thing is, she made it clear she wasn’t interested—I’m the one who pursued it. I’ve never chased a woman in my life yet the more she made it clear that she wasn’t interested in me, the more determined it made me to wear her down. Now I’m lying next to her in my bed with her hand on my balls. I don’t know what’s more surprising, I have a woman in
my
bed or that she’s as sexy as fuck and I’m quite content to lie here with her fingers resting on my bollocks until I fall asleep.

That doesn’t mean I’d refuse her ... fuck no! Come on, I’m a hot-blooded male and she’s sex personified. But I’m playing the long game ... something tells me that it’s the only game she plays and that it’s the only way to find what I’m searching for. A dominant woman whom I respect enough to allow me to rein in my own dominant side and surrender myself to her. It’s not a challenge I’d take lightly—and fuck me, it will be a challenge—but it’s where I feel satisfaction can be found.

I don’t mean the satisfaction of emptying my balls. That’s just short-term relief. Useful but ultimately unfulfilling. Satisfaction through sacrifice. Release through respect. Whatever you want to call it. Whenever a woman tries to take control in bed, it ignites something inside me. But none of them have been strong enough. I’m an alpha. Don’t bow to anyone. I need to be broken. That can only happen out of respect and desire. I’ve never found anyone whom I respected and desired enough.