Firebird (11 page)

He wanted to fuck her forever, hold her down until his strength gave out, but soon enough he was losing control. One particularly throaty moan and snap of her hips pushed him over the edge. His groin and balls tightened almost painfully, and he came in a white heat. He held her wrists hard as he rode out the throb and release of orgasm inside her hot channel. He didn’t let her arms go until his dick had emptied itself completely.

He held her still, just kneeling over her, looking down at her prone figure. He had pushed her shoulders down on the bed so her back was arched. It rose and fell with each soft breath. If she had expected him to make her come, she didn’t make any remarks or pout about it. Good sub. She would come when he wanted her to come.

He noted with satisfaction that she was completely calm and relaxed now. His cock-tamed slut. He rubbed the small of her back as he pulled out and tossed the condom in the bedside trash.

“All better?”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you.” Her soft voice trembled with raw emotion.

“No, don’t get riled up.” He grabbed a fistful of hair and nuzzled his face into her nape. “Are you mine? Yes or no?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Yes, you are mine. I’ll take care of you for as long as you belong to me. Do you know that, girl?”

“I… Thank you, Sir…so much.”

“Come here.”

He pulled her back against him and wrapped his arms around her. He held her close between his knees.

“Are your legs still sore?”

“No, Sir. Not very much.”

“You have a beautiful body. And it pleased me very much, the way you gave yourself to me today. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I—I think so. Yes, Sir.”

“I like for you to be completely open to me. Mine to take. I don’t want you thinking about your own pleasure except as it pleases me. I like you to serve me in that way.”

She sniffled and turned her head to rest it against his chest. “That’s what I want. I just want to serve you.”

“That’s what makes you happy, yes? Making me happy?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And that’s why I don’t want you touching yourself when I’m not around. Have you been keeping your hands to yourself?”

“Mmm…so far I’ve managed it.”

He laughed at that, pulled her closer so they were skin to flushed skin.

“Try to be perfect for me. Yes, Prosper? Obey my rules. Or I’ll punish you.”

She shivered a little.

“What is it?”

“Will you…will you only punish me when I’ve broken a rule?”

Damn if she didn’t sound disappointed. He turned her face up to his.

“Do you want to be punished at other times? Have I got a little masochist on my hands?”

“No. I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. And it doesn’t matter anyway…does it?”

Jackson thought a long moment. It didn’t matter, since he was the one in charge, but his curiosity was piqued.

“I reward for good behavior, just as I punish for bad. Tell me what you want, girl. If you’re honest and truthful, you might get it.”

He turned her and laid her back on the bed, then leaned over her. He looked into her eyes. He could see the internal struggle there. Embarrassment, excitement. Shyness and desire. He thought for a moment of the irony of training assertiveness into a submissive. But he was a great believer in the “campsite rule,” leaving your subs in better condition than they were when you arrived.
Talk, Prosper. Ask for what you want.

“I…I…”

“Louder.”

Her eyes darted past his shoulder, and she took a deep breath. “I had this…thing I was thinking about—”

“Look at me. Look in my eyes and talk. Do it right, or you won’t get what you want.”

A ferocious flush spread across her cheeks all the way to her ears. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I know it is, but tell me anyway. Just pull yourself together. Look at me and talk.”

“Okay. I had a fantasy of you,” she began in a stronger voice.

Good.

“It was before, before I knew you were…”

“A pervert?”

She giggled. “A dominant. Before I knew that any of this was ever going to happen in real life. It was a fantasy that you rolled your sleeves up and gave me this stern look and then pulled me over your lap.”

“And what did I do then?” he asked.

“That’s where the fantasy ended. I never let it get past that point.”

“Why not?”

“I was too embarrassed. You were my boss.”

“I’m still your boss, in every sense of the word.”

“I was afraid you’d look at me and know it. What I was thinking.”

He laughed. “Honestly, I had no idea.” She smiled back at him, her blush subsiding at last. “Prosper, I want you to tell me—if you had let your fantasy continue, what I would have done to you?”

She thought a moment.

“I think I wanted you to do whatever you wanted to do to me. And I didn’t know what that was, but whatever it was, I wanted to take it, for you.”

His gut clenched with desire. “Good answer.”

He stood without a word and started to dress. Pulled his pants over his thickening erection, pulled on his shirt, buttoned it up. Then he fixed her with a look.

“Stand up. Put your panties on.” He threw them to her. She faced him, wringing her hands. He let her wait and worry over what was coming while he walked downstairs to the kitchen to get a chair and bring it back to the room. He put it down just inside the door with a sharp crack, then crossed to the bureau. He opened the bottom drawer and drew out a black leather paddle. He dropped it on the chair, thrilling to the wide-eyed look on Prosper’s face. Then he reached for his right cuff, flicked his wrist, gave her the
look
, the look all submissives recognized. She bit her lip. He started rolling up the first sleeve with an exaggerated frown on his face.

He watched her shift, playing her part beautifully. Her distress was gorgeous and, well, probably partly real. He reached for the other sleeve, unbuttoned the cuff, flipped the sleeve up to his elbow. For extra effect he flexed his forearms, then picked up the leather paddle from the chair and stood up to his full height.

“Come here, Prosper. Now.”

She took her time crossing to him. He noted as he seated himself in the wooden chair that her breath was already coming faster. He glared at her to heighten the fantasy, and she dropped her eyes like a naughty little girl.

Never mind that she hadn’t been naughty. It didn’t really matter. He took her arm and pulled her closer none too gently, then draped her over his knee. She was shivery. The paddle did look forbidding, but he wouldn’t hurt her with it. Much. This was playtime, after all.

He pulled her panties down to just above her knees. She tensed as he caressed her trembling bare cheeks. He gave her some warm-up smacks, and she pressed her face into the side of his leg. When her bottom was nice and pink, he spanked harder. Almost immediately she started to struggle.

He made a warning sound and held her more firmly with his palm on the small of her back. More sharp spanks without any respite in between.
Smack. Smack. Smack
. The paddle made a spectacular sound even when he wasn’t using it full force. He still hurt her, because he knew she needed it. When she started to squirm, he focused her again.

“Behave. None of this fidgeting around. This isn’t even a hard spanking.” Her indignant groan made him laugh. “Would you like me to hit you harder?” Her groan turned to a whine, and he pinched her inner thigh when she tried to grind against his leg. “Not yet. Soon.” He landed a few more blows, but his mind was headed elsewhere, watching her squirming ass over his lap. He reached between her legs and slipped his fingers down to her opening. She was hot and dripping wet.

“Please!” she gasped.

He dropped the paddle and pushed her onto her back on the floor. He took his pants down to his knees and fell on her. Her squeak of alarm reminded him he needed a condom. He crawled to the nightstand and ripped open the drawer, then returned to her.

“Arms over your head.” His voice came out sounding more like a growl than human speech. He pulled her panties off, then slapped her thighs open. She spread them wide, watching with big eyes as he rolled the condom on. He put his arms around her and gathered her hot, paddled ass in his hands. She arched her pelvis against him, and he slid inside her all the way to the hilt. His blood hissed in his ears from the intense sensation of being enveloped by her.

“My God, girl. The way you feel…”

He fucked her, cradling her close. Since he made her keep her arms over her head, her back was arched and her breasts were thrust forward. He took full advantage, licking and biting her exposed nipples. She squirmed under him, and her hips snapped against his. They were both uncontrolled, caught up in a frenzy of sexual pleasure. Some part of him was afraid of hurting her, but another part of him was powerless to stop driving in her with all his strength. When he felt her walls contract, felt her quake against him, he kissed her hard and caught her gasps in his mouth. Those gasps were already ingrained in his psyche, deeply familiar to him. Like an animal, he reacted in kind. He clutched her and rocked against her, let his own orgasm shake him free of the world. Gasp, sigh, shudder, melt into oblivion. He already knew her inside and out.

Chapter Nine

She slept in his bed, and he watched her. Their scene had been so long and involved that he hadn’t felt comfortable letting her go home. Nor was he ready to crawl into bed beside her and sleep himself. Not yet.

He ran his eyes over every part of her for the hundredth time. She was naked—he’d insisted on that—and curled up in his bed like a kitten. A stray kitten that was grateful for a home.

He frowned. It was dangerous ground, this. To think about how lovely and natural she looked there in his bed, to think about the possibilities. A full-time arrangement would be complicated if not impossible. He couldn’t be around her without wanting to control, to own. To grope and fuck. It wouldn’t only drain him; it would drain her too. It would be too much on top of everything else. He didn’t want her moving in. It would be bad for them both.

But he ought to take her in, his conscience chided. She was going to be waitressing after performances, for fuck’s sake, to pay for her new place. After rehearsals and class and makeup and stage calls and curtain calls, she’d be trudging off to work. After dancing his Firebird, she would be fetching beers for frat boys and horny businessmen. It would be easy to put her up, a small, quiet girl like her.

No.

No, it wasn’t fair to lead her on that way, to offer what could only be temporary help. Soon he’d be going back to Chicago. He already had work lined up, commitments.

He ran a finger up her calf. They fascinated him, her calves. So feminine and yet so strong even in repose, the shapely, lithe muscle tapering to the impossibly tiny ankle. Like those racehorses whose ankles looked ready at any moment to snap. He shook his head. No thoughts of snapping. If that clod Blake ever dropped her or caused her injury, Jackson would kill him himself. No, she was stronger than she looked, he knew.

She didn’t need him. He intended to keep it that way. For her, not just for him.

He crawled into bed with a sigh, pulled the covers over both of them. She was on the side he’d pointed to when he’d ordered her to stay the night. He’d intended to stay on his side but found her sleepy, sated body impossible to resist. He curled around her, fascinated as always by how petite she was. His hairy thighs dwarfed her smooth ones, and when she turned and nestled into his chest, her head fit perfectly under his chin. He ran his hand down her arm and rested it on her hip. Her skin looked like delicate porcelain under his tan, hirsute fingers. He smiled at how deeply she slept. She shifted closer to him but didn’t wake. Sex seemed to unwind her. Hell, it tranquilized her.

And he had capitalized on the opportunity, pressed her to conversation as they lay on the floor afterward. She had been so relaxed and open to him. He’d asked her to tell him about her dancing, about what drove her. They talked about ballet companies—the New York City Ballet, the Joffrey, the Ballets Russes—and about Alvin Ailey and the way modern dance moved and thrilled her. But when he suggested she move to a modern dance company, she shook her head, the calm relaxation chased away and replaced with doubt about her capabilities.

Damn, the girl was capable as hell. He wished she were less hard on herself. He knew she would be happier if she were. He wished he could figure out the terror behind her eyes that she might disappoint, that she might fall short. That even her typical perfect would never be good enough.

* * *

Prosper looked up at the tattooed and pierced bartender as he loaded her tray with drinks. “Don’t drop it, love,” he said with a wink.

She didn’t smile. It would be a miracle if she could thread her way across the club without dropping drinks again. She’d done it yesterday when an overexuberant patron had thrust his hand up her skirt and nearly insinuated his fingers into her panties. She’d dropped the beers on the head of an older man and his wife, who had drunkenly insisted she be fired. The manager had comped their tab for the night and taken it out of her tips, so she’d basically worked for free.

She picked back and forth, avoiding anyone who looked the least bit dicey, and finally arrived at the table to drop off the drinks without incident. Picked up a few more orders, made her way back to the bar. The music pounded in her ears, and every pore of her being felt saturated with smoke. She picked up another tray and wondered to herself how the bartender ate and drank with all the piercings around his mouth. She made her way through the pulsing crowd again. It was nearly one, and the place was still filling up. When would the bar start to thin out so she could walk through without brushing against body after body? She was still too aroused from her time with Jackson the other night.

Still aroused? She was constantly aroused. She didn’t know how she made it through class anymore, constantly watching for Jackson to pass by in the hall outside the window. Then there was that moment when she arrived at rehearsal, when she had to settle herself so she didn’t go in and fall at his feet. The looks he gave her made her wish they were still rehearsing alone instead of with the whole cast.