Model Release (The Art of Domination #1) (10 page)

Beal’s body ground
against mine, calling me back and anchoring me to the present moment, to him. I
moaned feeling the shift of muscle, the building pressure and tautness, the
power, and I bucked him and squirmed. The struggle against him and with him,
the back and forth and push and pull was the outlet my body needed after three
years of self-denial. Much longer, a part of me feared, and I would have been
paralyzed by the creep of cold anxiety. Free in this moment, I alternately
wriggled back against Beal’s bulging groin and thrust forward into his hand.
That was, until he pressed his weight forward to still me.

“It’s not that neat,
Iva,” he grumbled warm into my ear. “I few quick seconds of hard frigging isn’t
going to do it this time.” He scraped my ear with his teeth, again making the
other side of my body course with chills, adding, “Not for either of us.”

But I fought that
assertion, as the promise of a hard orgasm shuddered through the sheath of my
aching sex. Willful, I resisted his pin, trying in vain to gyrate my hips, to
force a climax. My skin had steamed and flushed with effort and heated breath
by the time I finally relented and went limp against him, head laid back on his
shoulder, two of Beal’s fingers seated deep but motionless in my grasping core.

“Are you done?” he
asked. His tone didn’t come off as nonchalant as I bet he would have liked.

Though I did press
extra hard back against the pronounced ridge of his erection, I pouted, “Yes.”

“Safeword, now.”

Words tumbled around in
my head in a meaningless jumble. I didn’t want anything that meant… anything.
Nothing that would remind me of the world outside this studio or this moment or
beyond this mask.

“Masquerade.”

“Aptly chosen,” Beal
quipped raggedly as he hauled me back until my grip on the loveseat broke and
left me grasping, off balance. He tossed me down on the sofa. I landed with
both my legs tangled to one side of him, but he grabbed one ankle and swung it
over his head to spread me wide, heedless of my gasp. “Make sure you remember
it. Say it again.”

“Masquerade,” I
breathed, sounding drugged, feeling drugged from the rush of desire and the
shock of the rough handling—how much I liked it. Wild sex was practically old
hat to the wild girl inside me, but domination was that
something new
, that unknown element proving so unstable and
combustible in this little experiment.

Where he knelt over me,
Beal threaded his hand through the hair just above the nape of my neck and
pulled, sending waves of stinging heat down my back and up my scalp in the most
unexpected kind of bone-melting bliss. “Say my name. Always say my name when
you address me, when we’re doing this,” he demanded smoothly, darkly. “Always
acknowledge it’s me using you, me you’re begging for the pleasure.”

“Beal,” I said weakly.

“Nolan,” he corrected
me, more sharply than he’d spoken to me thus far. There was a raw nerve there,
I recognized distantly. “Say it.”

“Nolan.”

I barely had his name
out of my mouth when he sealed his lips over mine. A bruising kiss, deep and
driving, plundering. A kiss that took rather than gave but made me shiver
anyway because of his want, because of the force of his appetite—for me.

The taste of him was
heady and warm, spicy with rum. And his tongue stroked the inside of my mouth
maddeningly, suggesting the ecstasy of feeling that tongue or his fingers or
his cock stroking in and out of me, my quavering sex. Wanting more, wanting
everything, and now, I sucked on his tongue as I wrapped my legs around his
waist.

Beal’s response was to
jerk back from the kiss. One hand continued to grip me by the hair at the back
of my head, and he used that hold to keep me still while he looked down into my
face. I was glassy-eyed and intoxicated with desire, lips parted, breath heavy
and hot, and I didn’t care or try to hide any of it.

“Not going to resist
me?” he asked, breathing just as heavily as I was and swallowing hard. I shook
my head no, and the look he gave me was equal parts scowl, smirk, smile. Like
I’d angered him, amused him, satisfied him, pleased him. Like there was as much
going on in his head right now as mine—more, as I pushed troubling thoughts
away to make room for what my body was feeling.

“Are you sure?” he
prodded. His free hand caressed my cheek over the mask—a sensation that
thrilled me, gave me chills. Because it felt good, his touch, but also because
the mask was there, a fragile and thin barrier but a protection just the same.

Beal straightened up to
his knees and stared down at me as he unfastened his thick leather belt, then
slowly
slowly
drew down the zipper of his jeans. “Is the proper lady going to admit defeat so
quickly?” he taunted, ragged voice diminishing the smug humor intended in the
question. “A respectable woman—a good girl—wouldn’t just lie there with her
panties ripped off.” He traced his broad thumb along the slit of my sex before
pushing up into me, eliciting a moan that felt like it started at my curled
toes before vibrating up through my whole body to my mouth.

“She wouldn’t bare
those pretty tits so brazenly.” And he dipped his head down to flick his hot
velvet tongue back and forth over each of my aching nipples in turn,
alternately heating and chilling the wet nubs with his breath. He sucked them
hard and scraped them with his teeth before lashing them teasingly again. Nolan
had me arching up to meet him, shrinking away, arching….

“She wouldn’t let some
perfect stranger throw her down and put his hard cock in her soft little pussy
and ride her like….” His words sent shivers of dark, shameless lust through me.
The firm bulge of his erection pressed through the gap in his fly and against
the snug cotton of his black boxers, cockhead flaring the tight muscles of my
entrance even through the restraining material. He felt threateningly huge,
blissfully demanding, as he rocked against me, as he meticulously enunciated,
“Like a dirty, shameless little bitch. A. Very. Bad. Girl.”

Beal grabbed my wrists,
as I was clawing at the velvet cushion beneath me, and brought my hands to his
body. He forced my caress along his smooth chest and straining abs. “Is that
what you want me to think, that you’re a very bad girl who wants me to fuck
her?” Unthinking, I nodded my head, but he ordered, “Say it.”

I murmured an
indistinct, “Yes.”

He bucked his hips
ferociously, briefly pressing against my swollen, sensitized clitoris and
forcing my entrance wide for the tip of his cock. “Do to right, Iva. Say my
name,” he scolded me. Panting with me, resting his flushed cheek against mine,
he said into my ear, “Say my name and I’ll fuck you all the ways you know a
very bad girl needs to be fucked.”

A very bad girl, not
Iva, not Pop’s middle granddaughter or Darcie’s sister or that art department
secretary. A very bad girl in her expensive dress and stiletto heels begged,
“Please, Nolan, fuck me.”

In an instant he reared
back and hefted me up to flip me over, face down, before I could react or yelp
or decide if I wanted to protest. One hand pushed my cheek down against the
cushion while the other circled my waist to bring my lower body up onto my
knees. “Head down, ass up, and present for me,” he instructed.

For my part, I was
pressing one fist against my mouth to stifle the chorus of moans spilling
uncontrolled from the deepest part of me, the darkest part. Peering back over
my shoulder, I watched a savage, ravenous shadow spread over Nolan’s taut
cheeks, gleaming now with the first suggestion of sweat and effort. His thumbs
stroked the lips of my sex, drew me open, delved into me while I whimpered
against my knuckles and bowed my back to push my ass higher. He was staring
down at me, into the most private and vulnerable, aching part of me.

“That’s right,” he said
in a gravelly sigh. “Show it to me. Open up for me.”

Be hungry and eager for
him. A dirty little bitch. A very bad girl. I knew what he wanted, knew the
story, the unspoken agreement, the explicit submission. Wet and ready for him,
always for him, only for him.

“Nolan, please.”

He withdrew his touch,
pulling his hands away while angling his hips forward. “Then you do it. Take it
out and put me inside you.”

I started to rise, but
Nolan pushed my head back down and held me there for a second before leaning
away again. Reaching behind me to pull his rigid member from his boxers was
awkward this way, and lining up the silky shaft with my sex was a panting, flustered
exercise in desperate need—just as he intended. He was making me show him—show
me—how badly I wanted it. Badly enough to bare my ass and spread my legs, to
present myself like a cat in heat. Badly enough to whimper and beg and fuck
myself
on his cock.

But my effort ended as
soon as the broad, satiny head of Nolan’s member sank into me. With a gruff
rush of breath straining at the tensed planes of his cheeks, Beal thrust the
rest of his thick, unyielding cock into my core. My fist couldn’t cover my
squeal as the ache of need became the sting of blessed, merciless penetration.
Nor did it match his groan of satisfaction. He paused seated to the hilt in the
tight embrace of my body, his fingertips digging into my hips, his eyes glazed
under half-shuttered lids.

Then, gathering in a
great bracing breath, Beal ran one hand almost gently up my spine before
gripping the hair at my nape again, setting off shivers again. “I hope you’re
ready for this.”

“I am,” I rasped, not
sure I was loud enough for him to hear me, not really even sure I made a sound.
Was it just a sigh, a moan? “I am, Nolan.”

Whether he heard me or
not, Nolan laid into me. With one hand gripping my hip to control my squirming
and the other hand pulling my hair to force an arch to my back, he began to
piston ruthlessly in and out of me without the slightest build-up. Without
hesitation or concern or pause. I was wet enough for it. There was never a
moment when the exertion tired him or interrupted the steady increase in the
speed of his thrusts, the bone-jarring force. Our bodies smacked loudly against
one another, the sound lost in the cavernous space of the studio. Skin slicked
with sweat, chests pumping hard for breath.

I had never taken
anyone so big or so hard or so deep. After the first punishing strokes, my body
didn’t even bother to protest with pain. My sex stung and burned and quivered
and ached but strained for more. Nolan’s rhythm jerked me back and forth
against the loveseat cushion until even the velvet was a torment to my engorged
nipples. Every muscle I had, from sheath to calves, stomach and back and
clenched jaw, tightened and shook as I reached out into the infinity of
sensation for my climax.

I thought I’d found
that moment of orgasm. But when the walls of my pussy tightened just that
little bit more around the smooth member working into me, Nolan responded with
a renewed assault of furious thrusts. The tip of his cock worried my cervix at
the end of each stroke, not with pain but at the apprehension of it. I whimpered
openly now in time with the onslaught.

“Come, Iva,” he growled
in an insistent rush between breaths. “Come for me. On my cock.” Only now did
his pace falter, interrupted every few seconds by a harder stroke that took
each of us longer to recover from. Over my open-mouthed mewls, Nolan coaxed,
taunted, panted, “You’re close. Do it. The good little girl…. The proper little
bitch…. Coming hard while the bad boy fucks her like he owns her.”

He did own me in that
moment. Nolan owned my body, my pleasure, just as surely as he owned this
studio and everything that went on here—and all the hopes of everyone who
entered his presence.

Beal seized on it when
I moaned his name. “Say my name, Iva. Say my fucking name when you come. Every
time.” I was ignoring the implication that this would happen again, that I was
starting something here instead of finishing it, but he wouldn’t let me.
“That’s my… that’s my rule for you, Brown Eyes,” he huffed, the effort of his
hard use finally spending his strength. “You may only ever come if you’re… if
you’re moaning my name.” He emphasized his order with one more demanding thrust
that breached my core, my deepest and most sensitive space with the wide head
of his cock.

“Nolan,” I cried in a
tone that pleaded urgently for mercy.
Enough
,
I said over and over.
I surrender
.
Though what I actually said, again and again, was, “Nolan. Oh, god, please.
Nolan.”

He didn’t draw back
from me for another stroke, instead grinding his hips in a circle and pushing
deeper. It was just a fraction of an inch and just enough.

Nolan. I said his name,
like a cry of discovery. That was how he knew when the sensation hit me, how
I
knew. My body, the sheath of my sex,
tightened down so hard that I felt the most minute tremor of muscle like a
rolling earthquake, fracturing foundations in a wave of energy far under the
surface of… me. I contorted in an impossibly hard arch as arms and legs and
stomach and spine all drew up taut. My heartbeat thundered in my ears and the
back of my throat. Until I couldn’t say his name anymore. And I sagged limp and
trembling on the velvet loveseat. Under Nolan weight as he leaned forward over
me, one hand gripping the sofa arm so hard it creaked, as he spilled over
inside me.