RecipeforSubmission (15 page)

Drew came to join her a few moments later, bearing two
plates. He set one in front of her. Three bamboo skewers, each with different
kinds of meat and vegetables dripping with juice, sat on top of a pilaf of
basmati rice and orzo. It wasn’t the only thing that looked good enough to eat.
He was wearing tight jeans that accentuated the muscles of his thighs, and a
white open-necked shirt that tied up in the front rather than buttoned, with
billowy sleeves. It may have been a few centuries out of fashion, but it looked
damn good on him.

“You look lovely,” he told her.

She blushed. She occasionally, not often, got compliments
when she picked the right kind of clothes, but undressed he could only be
talking about her. “I just look naked, Sir,” she retorted, trying not to blush.
She was probably failing, but fortunately there wasn’t a mirror in sight and
the reflection off the wine bucket wasn’t at all clear. She hadn’t called him
Master since the night in the hospital. He hadn’t invited it, and she didn’t
want to push him somewhere he didn’t want to be.

“Same difference.” He grinned at her.

She stuck out her tongue.

He kept grinning. “We’ll put that to use later.” He sat down
and filled their goblets with white wine.

“What do you call this, Sir?” She was eager to get the
attention off her and the food was convenient. Besides, it looked delicious.

He laughed. “I don’t have a name for it yet, and that’s what
keeps it off the menu at the restaurant. The kabobs are a fairly traditional Afghani
seekh kabob, although the marinade includes some Western ingredients. The orzo
definitely isn’t traditional.”

“You never do anything quite by the recipe, do you, Sir?”
She smiled. They hadn’t had missionary position sex once yet. Cooking wasn’t
the only thing he didn’t do the traditional way.

“Not unless it’s my recipe. Objections?”

“Never. I’m a good girl, I am.” She fluttered her eyelashes
at him.

He laughed. “I didn’t think so. Try it! Tell me what you
think.”

She did. It was scrumptious, and she told him so, even
though she was sure he already knew it and it would feed his already healthy
ego. He watched her eat as if it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen,
barely touching his own food. That wasn’t like him. He usually wanted to savor every
bite, but this time he seemed distracted. She wasn’t exactly focused herself,
even though the succulent meats—lamb, beef, chicken and something else she
could only guess at—were perfect. She was all too aware of how naked she was,
and she wasn’t used to him being nervous. He was always so in control, except
for that one little glimpse of vulnerability he’d given her at the hospital.

The plate, she noticed as she uncovered more of it, didn’t
have a scratch on it. Either it was invulnerable or he had never used the china
before.

“Save room for dessert.” His voice was the one of command,
the one she loved to obey.

“Dessert? Oh, I shouldn’t, Sir.” She wasn’t sure why she
could let him tell her to strip and be bound, but dessert she objected to.
She’d been turning down the sweets for a long time.

“You should.”
You will
, she read in his eyes, but he
didn’t say it. She wasn’t sure what held him back. “Special occasion.”

“I’ll get fat.”

“Your weight is perfectly healthy. And you’re attractive to
me the way you are. Probably to most of the rest of the straight male and
lesbian population, but they can go fuck themselves, for all I care, because
you’re mine. One dessert won’t change you that much. Even if it is to die for.”

She was surprised at the vehemence in his voice.
His.
“The kabobs are to die for,” she told him.

“The dessert is even better.” He grinned. “And mind your
manners.”

“Dessert could get to be a bad habit, Sir.”

“Then you’ll have to trust me not to let you develop it,
won’t you? It’s part of my job to catch you if you fall, but part of the point
of that is to let you fly.”

She looked down at her plate, avoiding his gaze, and smiled.
“Yes Sir.” She picked up a bamboo skewer and got a mischievous idea. She looked
back up at him and put it into her mouth until her teeth could barely get a
chunk of juicy lamb. The point of the kabob was almost ticking the back of her
throat, but the effect on Drew was worth it. His eyes bulged as she slowly
withdrew the skewer. Lamb juice ran down her chin. She lifted a leg and felt
his groin with her toes, fully satisfied at the hard ridge she found there.

“Wench.”

“As you wish, Milord.” She realized she was wet herself.
With her leg lifted, she could feel a cool breath of air from the air-conditioning
on her pussy.

“Time for dessert,” he said abruptly, picking up her plate
and whisking it off to the kitchen. She watched him, her gaze first on the
package in front, then on the nicely sculpted ass he presented when he passed
her.

He brought out one plate. There was a little round pie on
it, the size of a single slice of a normal-sized pie, with bits of curled dark
chocolate on top of what looked like whipped cream. Definitely fattening. She
wasn’t sure her willpower could have held out even if she hadn’t been ordered
to eat it.

But around the pie was a black leather collar, an inch wide
with a trail of small clear stones all around it, except for the buckle in the
back and an o-ring in the front. The leather was a shade darker than the
chocolate. He set the plate in front of her and sat down in his seat.

She picked up her dessert fork. “Aren’t you going to have
some?”

“No. Collared French silk pie is only for you, my love, and
no one else will ever have any.”

She blinked and her heart started pounding again. “You want
me to put the collar on, Sir?”

His gaze was intense. “Only if you want to be mine forever.”

Yours. Forever. Doesn’t one normally do that sort of
thing with a ring, on bended knee? Then again, he never has followed the
recipe.

She set down the fork and lifted the collar, careful to move
it straight up so that it didn’t get any chocolate or cream on it. She knew she
was stalling. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
His. Forever. His slave.
“Would I call you Master, then?”

“You’d be permitted,” he said, still watching her. She wondered
if his heart was thumping as hard as hers was. “But we can do our own thing.
Always. I’ve never aspired to be called Milord before I heard it from your
lips.”

The leather was stiff in her hands. Like the plates, it
hadn’t seen any use before tonight. Wanting to avoid his gaze, she was
transfixed by the glittery stones. She couldn’t see the collar through the
glass. She realized she was holding her breath and exhaled. For a moment, the
metal on the steel ring clouded over, but not the glass stones.

She’d had Garrett Chandler chase down a jewel thief once,
and remembered the research she’d done for that book. Diamonds didn’t get misty
when breathed on, or the mist dissipated so fast there was hardly had a chance
to notice it. They dissipated heat too fast. Almost everything else that looked
like a diamond would stay misty for at least a couple of seconds. There had to
be thirty or more diamonds on the collar.
Oh my
god.

She hesitated. She didn’t want the diamonds to sway her
decision. But the fact that he’d had something like that specially made for
her—it had to be a custom order, didn’t it?—made her eyes water. She stared at
it, not trusting herself to look at him, but it didn’t help. Tears started
streaming down her face.

“What’s wrong?” She heard his chair scraping the floor as he
pushed it back, felt his strong hand on her shoulder.

“Nothing, Milord,” she managed to get out. She unbuckled the
collar. It didn’t matter if they were diamonds or not, her answer was still the
same.

“I don’t mean to pressure you. I thought—well, you’re
perfect for me, and I want to make this evening perfect for you. And I want you
in my life, Kyra, not just for a few romps in the bedroom. But the pie can just
be pie, love, if you would prefer.” He brushed the tears from her cheeks with a
soft touch of his fingers.

“Shush, Milord.” She opened the collar up and held it
against her neck. The leather was cool enough to make her shiver, probably from
proximity to the chilled pie, but it would warm up quickly enough. She breathed
in the smell of new leather. “Would you be so kind as to buckle it on your most
obedient wench?”

“God, yes.” His fingers were only about it for a moment, and
then it was on.

It felt strange to have something snug around her neck.
Strange but good. “I’ll never take it off, Milord.” She turned her head up to
smile at him.

He moved back to his chair before he replied. “Most slaves
have something a little more discreet to wear at work and in other public
places, love. We can find a chain or something that will still symbolize our
relationship.”

“That’s a lovely, very considerate thought, Milord. But I
don’t work with other people, and we don’t have to follow the recipe, do we?”

He grinned. “No, we don’t. It still might be practical to
take it off in the bathtub, love.”

She laughed. “Yeah, leather doesn’t like being soaked, does
it?”

“Nope.”

She looked again at the pie, and at him. “You’re going to
watch me eat this, and not have any yourself?”

“Oh, I have the ingredients. I’ll have mine later, my way.”
The smug look on his face was good to see. He was himself again, fully in
charge.

Whatever that meant, she had the feeling she wasn’t going to
like it. No, that was wrong, she always liked what he planned, she just found
some of it challenging. But he always made sure the payoff was more than worth
it. “Yes, Milord.” She dipped her fork in for a dainty bit and raised it to her
mouth. He was right. It
was
to die for.

The collar made her even more aware of her nakedness. The
cool chocolate and cream of the pie melted on her tongue. She closed her eyes
and concentrated on the sensations. She was vaguely aware of his chair moving
again, but that didn’t seem very important to her next to the taste of
chocolate, the smell of the leather, and the embrace of the collar. Her whole
body felt good, especially her tongue and deep in her core. She spread her legs
wider, enjoying the freedom she had to be a sexual woman—a wench—no prim and
proper lady.

Something wet and soft stroked against her pussy. She opened
her eyes and Drew wasn’t sitting in his chair. Strong hands held her thighs
open when she reflexively tried to close them. She slipped her hand beneath the
table and buried it in Drew’s soft hair. It was all she could do not to press
down on it, to mash his face against her pussy and rub her clit against his
nose.

“Keep eating, my wench.” His voice was muffled but not so
much that she could pretend not to hear. She picked up the fork she hadn’t
remembered putting down and stabbed at the pie. She closed her eyes again and
licked the creamy chocolate slowly, languorously, the same way he was licking
her pussy. Her core muscles contracted, rolling her hips forward to improve his
access to her most intimate parts. She put a leg on the chair he had been
sitting on and sprawled the other on the floor.

His tongue pushed at her as if he were trying to stick it
all the way inside, then flicked her clit with wet delicacy. She moaned around
a dollop of whipped cream. Her hips ached with the desire to undulate, to match
thrusts that he wasn’t making. It didn’t matter. His tongue felt so good. He’d
fuck her when he wanted to, and right now he wanted to do this. All she had to
do was enjoy.

She crunched down a thick curl of chocolate, then let it
melt in her mouth. His tongue licked around her clit and made her burn with
desire. Suddenly the fork seemed out of place, and it fell out of her limp
fingers to the floor.
I’ll pick that up later.
She dipped her finger
into the pie and then licked it off. The sweetness flooded her mouth as his
tongue stroked upward to send her nerves into a frenzy. She moaned as her
release rippled through her body, and then opened her mouth wider as if to
scream, but only a series of short breaths came out, almost like laughter. She
loved it. She wanted more.

She dipped two fingers into the pie, making a mess of
chocolate and creamy white topping. A moment later, as if he knew what she was
doing, she felt his fingers enter her pussy. At least two, she thought. Maybe
three. They slid right in so smoothly she felt as if she must have melted down
there the way the chocolate melted in her mouth. She pushed her fingers into
her mouth, thrusting in time with his fingers, licking all the soft sweetness
off them. He pushed faster, harder, almost filling her with his fingers. Every
nerve between her thighs felt overloaded. This time she did scream, grabbing
the edge of the table for balance. Waves of pleasure crashed over her.

She wasn’t sure when he pushed her chair back, exactly, but
she felt him pick her up in his big strong arms. She looked at him.
Mine.
She supposed it wasn’t the most submissive thought ever, but that was fine.
We
write our own recipe.
He carried her into the kitchen and laid her down on
a long counter there, with a bath towel rolled out on it to stop the cold
counter from touching her back. She noticed a bowl full of chocolate mousse and
another full of whipped cream on the part of the counter the towel didn’t
cover. His dessert, she imagined. He’d planned everything. She grinned. He was
so organized. He was so wonderfully, masterfully in control.

Her nipples, already tingling from sex, tightened further as
he spread chocolate with his finger around each one. A line of whipped cream
went down from the center of her chest to her navel. It was cold, but she didn’t
care. Each bit of sweetness promised that a warm tongue would follow. A few
goose bumps were worth that.