Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (18 page)

My juices made the surface of Rodney’s penis slick
and shiny as a new penny, and I could have sworn that his glans was
smiling at me. My nipples stood as sharp and erect as arrows,
threatening to tear through the flimsy fabric of my teddy.

I watched Rodney thrust in and out of me for several
minutes, amazed at the degree our desire for each other had brought
about such drastic changes in our bodies. As I did I could feel the
heat and friction that had been concentrated around our joined
nether parts begin to build and spread wider. Waves of scorching
intensity undulated up and down my thighs and torso with every
thrust, bump, and grind. I encouraged Rodney to pick up the pace by
raising my hips to meet his at quicker and quicker intervals, which
just made those scorching waves spread even wider.

The sound of our genitals slapping and slushing
against one another was deliciously obscene. Our breathing,
grunting, and moaning became perfectly synchronized. I closed my
eyes and could see my orgasm approaching from far away. It was
taking its time getting there, but even from a distance, I could
tell that it was looking good.

Rodney leaned forward and took my left nipple into
his mouth, sucking it through the rough lace fabric until it
swelled and pointed itself into a little round, pointed cone. Then
he switched to sucking the right one, while rolling my newly
sensitized left one back and forth between his fingers. He worked
my boobs like a professional, but never missed a beat with his
thrusts down south. The man was truly a master.

When Rodney had sucked both my nipples raw, he
lifted my hips from the bed and then spun me around like a top with
his cock as its spin-pin. Now I was on all fours, my butt up in the
air and my chest resting on some pillows. Rodney adjusted his hips
to take advantage of the new angle, and penetrated me even deeper
than before. Now he was ramming me so hard and so deep that the
head of his cock was thumping against my G-spot with every thrust,
and the Chinese balls came close to popping out every time. The
resulting sensations were like having a throbbing discotheque
inside my vag. Rodney turned his attention from my nipples to my
clit, which was as hot and swollen as it had ever been in my
thirty-four years on this planet. He tweaked it and toyed with it
until I cried out for mercy.

My orgasm was coming, and coming fast. It started in
my clit, throbbing and pulsating, then spread to my vag, where the
Chinese balls intensified the sensations to the point of a
near-earthquake. I went into full-body convulsions as my orgasm
took hold. “Yessssss,” I groaned, banging my fists against the
mattress. “Yes!”

Rodney exploded a moment later, groaning and
swearing as his orgasm rocked his body so hard he lost control of
his limbs, too. I knew I’d probably have a few bruises from where
his fists hammered my back involuntarily at his moment of orgasm.
He landed on me in a heap, biting down on my shoulder so hard at
the last spasm of his climax that he drew blood.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he breathed, then rolled off
my back and spooned me from the side.

“You’re welcome, Slave,” I replied, then fell
asleep.

I woke up hours later in an empty bed. The lights
were dimmed, and the room was quiet. I found my watch on the
bedside table and checked the time—3 a.m.

I padded on bare feet into the marble bathroom and
took one of the Egyptian-cotton bathrobes off its wall hook and put
it on. After cleaning myself up a bit, I set out to search the huge
penthouse suite for Rodney.

I found him in a small den at the end of a long
hallway, sitting in an overstuffed leather chair and brooding over
a laptop. He was wearing a tattered old plaid robe with nothing
underneath, chewing his thumbnail and appearing in deep thought. A
cold cup of black coffee sat half-empty next to the laptop.

I sneaked up behind him and placed a hand on his
shoulder. “Awfully late for you to be working, isn’t it?”

Rodney looked up, startled. “I thought you were
asleep.”

“I was. But I woke up. Sometimes it’s hard for me to
stay asleep in a strange bed.”

Rodney rubbed his temples. “I can relate. Sometimes
it’s hard for me to sleep at all.”

I tried to read Rodney’s laptop screen over his
shoulder, but he had one of those privacy guards that made it
impossible to see anything unless you were looking from a certain
angle. But I surmised it was probably something due to appear in
the
Beltway Times
morning edition. “Any good dirt
there?”

Rodney flinched and snapped the laptop shut.
“Nothing I’m prepared to discuss with you,” he hissed.

Rodney stood up, and walked over to the window.His
body was wracked with tension. Something was wrong. Very wrong. I
curled up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He shrank
at my touch, and slunk away. “Is there something you want to talk
to me about, Rodney?”

He shuddered and began to pace the room. I caught
sight of his face when he passed through the faint beam of light
emitted by his laptop, and saw he looked distraught and haggard.
“No,” he growled.

His abrupt tone stung. “I thought after what’s
happened between us that we wouldn’t have secrets from one another
anymore.”

“You thought wrong. I never made any claim that you
and I would be intimate in any way other than sexual. And as I
recall, I made it very clear that the sexual relationship was with
no strings attached.”

“Oh really?” I crossed to him, shoved my way between
him and the windowpane. “You also said in that same conversation
that you were
smitten
with me. What exactly did you mean by
that?”

Rodney looked at the floor. I reached for him but he
stiffened, even seemed to recoil a bit from my touch. “Nothing,” he
said. His tone was low and terribly sad. “Nothing at all. I must
have misspoken.”

“Bullshit.” Something in Rodney had changed
drastically, that was for sure. But what?

He sighed, ran a hand through his tangled hair, then
stared at the floorboards for a long, painful moment. “Jasmine, I
think it would be best if you went home now.”

I gasped. “What? Why? It’s the middle of the
night!”

Rodney turned to face me, his expression dark. “I’m
really sorry, Jasmine, but something’s happened. Something serious,
and I can’t risk you being here when the shit hits the fan. And I
expect the shit to hit the fan in a matter of hours. So please, do
as I ask and go home. For your sake.”

“But—“

Rodney raised a hand. “Don’t argue with me, Jasmine.
Go.
Now.”

My mouth dropped open. I was stunned. After all that
had happened that night, how could he do this? After the
incredible, earth-shattering intimacy we’d just shared, how could
he just send me off anonymously into the night treat me like a
common whore? “What the hell am I supposed to do,
walk
home?
The subway’s aren’t running, and I’ll never get a cab this time of
night—“

Rodney’s expression softened. “I’ll arrange a
private car for you.” He reached for the phone.

I scoffed. “No thanks. I’ll see myself home, thank
you very much.”

I turned on my heel and dashed out of the room. At
the last second, I glanced back over my shoulder, and saw Rodney
slumped back in his chair, his head in his hands.

Chapter
13

Dexter and his cab arrived in front of Rodney’s
apartment building only ten minutes after I dug his business card
out of the bottom of my purse and called him. I guess he meant what
he said when he promised I could call him “anywhere, anytime” for a
ride.

“I had a feeling you’d be needing me someday soon,”
was his greeting when the cab pulled up in the building’s circular
driveway. “Though I really would have preferred it if you’d waited
to call me until after sunrise.”

I got in and slouched against the taxi’s rear seat.
“Sorry, Dexter, but that just wasn’t an option tonight.”

He smiled at me in the rearview mirror. “Sorry to
hear that, miss.” He paused, his expression grandfatherly. “Man
trouble?”

I nodded.

“Want to talk about it?”

I shook my head.

“Fair enough. Where to then, miss?”

I gave him my address. To my surprise, I found
myself choking back tears.

“Pardon me, miss,” Dexter said, “I don’t believe I
ever learned your name.”

“My name is Mud,” I said, faking a laugh that came
out more as a croak.

Dexter flinched, then pulled the cab out onto the
deserted street. “Miss, I know it’s none of my business, but in the
past two days I’ve either driven you to or picked you up from some
dangerous places. First to a seedy house in Columbia Heights first
thing in the morning, and now somebody else’s apartment building in
the middle of the night. Are you in some kind of trouble,
miss?”

This time I laughed for real. “You have no
idea.”

Dexter drove on in silence for a while. Then when we
were a few blocks from my apartment building, the cab came to a
stop at a red light. The grizzled old cabbie turned around to face
me. “Miss, again I know it’s none of my business, but if you’re in
some kind of trouble here in town, I happen to know a lot of
important people. People who could probably do a lot for a nice
young lady like you. You don’t drive a cab in Washington for as
many years as I have without meeting at least a few folks who have
their fingers on all the right buttons. If there’s anything I can
do for you, you just give me a call. All right?”
I stared back at Dexter, stunned. How could this gentle old man
possibly comprehend the mess I’d gotten myself into? There was no
way. But I didn’t want to be rude, so I just said, “Thanks. I’ll
take that under consideration.”

The light turned green, and Dexter crossed the
intersection and turned the cab onto my street. He stopped the car
in front of my building and shut off the meter. I dug in my purse
for cash to pay the fare, but Dexter refused it.

“This one’s on me, miss,” he said. “And remember
what I said. If you need anything, anything at all, all you have to
do is pick up the phone and call me. All right?”

I nodded as I stepped out of the cab. “Thank you so
much, Dexter. By the way, my name’s Jasmine,” I said. “Jasmine
Rand.”

Dexter smiled. “That’s a helluva lot better than
Mud,” he said, and drove off.

****

I collapsed into my bed as soon as I got home, but I
only tossed and turned until my alarm went off at six. Rodney’s
cold words and sinister expression back at his penthouse weighed
too heavily on my mind to get any sleep. I got up as soon as the
alarm sounded and headed straight for the shower. I turned the taps
all the way over to “HOT” in hopes that the scalding water could
chase away the ice-cold numbness that had crept into my limbs and
groin, but to no avail.

I chose my work clothes and makeup for the day
carefully. I didn’t want to risk running into Rodney Doyle (or
anyone else of importance, for that matter) looking like my former
frumpy self. I found a stylishly cut red blazer that I’d seldom
worn because of its low neckline in the back of my closet, and
paired it with a tight black pencil skirt. In a bold move, I
decided to wear black silk stockings and my red fuck-me stilettos.
I kept my makeup mostly muted except for some green eyeshadow, and
I topped it off with a triple strand of glittering black onyx beads
and matching dangly earrings. When I saw myself in the mirror, I
was surprised to find that I was as well-groomed, fashionable, and
attractive as any of the female anchors on CNN.

I hadn’t been grocery shopping for weeks, so I
skipped breakfast and headed outside, figuring I could grab a bagel
and coffee on my way in to the office. I’d have to drop by a
newsstand to pick up all the morning editions, and the one closest
to Senator Grayle’s office had a breakfast bar. I had a sinking
feeling that there was going to be some very bad press for Senator
Grayle this morning since he bailed on the rest of his senate term
yesterday.

But I could deal with bad press. It was part of
being a PR staffer, after all. Even if I was two-timing my
soon-to-be dead-end PR job with a sleazy tabloid, I was still a
seasoned professional who knew how to handle even the worst press
day.

Or so I thought.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I found on
the front page of every newspaper on display at the newsstand that
morning. Nothing.

I stood in front of the rack of newspapers, bagel
and coffee in hand, and felt the bottom drop out of my stomach.

Every Washington daily—from the
Post
to the
Tribune
and everything in-between—featured blown-up, grainy
images of Senator Grayle and Mistress Violet in the midst of
yesterday’s wild sex play at the House of Flowers. There were two
blurry photos featured side-by-side on every paper’s front page,
underneath seamy headlines ranging from the
Post’s
SEX-OFFENDING SENATOR IN HOT WATER AGAIN to the
Tribune’s
SLEAZY SENATOR GRAYLE SEEN SUCKING UP TO YET ANOTHER SEX
WORKER!

I recognized the first image immediately, because
I
had taken it with my cell phone. Whoever had deleted the
images from my phone’s memory had made a point to download them to
their own file source first. But it was the second image—and its
caption—that really packed a punch.

The second photo—grainy and digital, probably taken
with a cell phone as well—was of
me.

My black mask was still in place, so it wasn’t
obviously me as the person in the photograph. But that was the
only
thing I had on in the picture. Whoever had snapped the
pic had caught me in the most undignified position possible, when I
was spread-eagled against the wall with Mistress Violet’s Rabbit
shoved up my vag. There were little black boxes placed over the
most explicit parts, but even with those in place it was clear to
any onlooker what I was up to.