Honor Bound (Knights of the Board Room #3)

Honor Bound (Knights of the Board Room #3) Page 24

She hadn’t moved, both hands clutched around Peter’s one large one, resting in her lap.

His fingers bracketed her thigh, squeezed. “You trust me, sweetheart?”

“I want to. I’m scared, though. And I hate it. I don’t think I can do this. Please don’t make me do this.” Her breath was starting to come faster. Fuck being calm. That wasn’t going to work. She’d been crazy to agree to this.

For months, being blind and mostly deaf had made her unsure of herself, frightened by new things in a way she’d never been. It was easier and safer to stay within her comfort zone, with people she knew, places that were familiar. People could call it a crutch, but they didn’t fucking know what it was like. What had she been thinking? Her good sense had been fogged by sex—that was what it was. Hell, she’d hardly known she still had a libido until Peter came to find her. Okay, yeah, she’d fantasized about him all the time, but like a dream, not a reality. This was reality, big-time, up close and way too freaking personal.

“Hey, hey.” He cupped her face. “Focus on me, sweetheart. Breathe. Breathe slow and deep. There is nothing to be scared of here. You remember why?” She swallowed. “No, no, I don’t. Peter, please—”

“Because I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Say it.” His fingers were stroking her face and she could feel how close he was. Hell, he’d pulled her into his lap, was cradling her, holding her . . . Well, she’d say like a child, except his fingers had slipped between her legs, and she was amazed as he used her earlier arousal to simply slide the tips of his fingers partway into her, past the thong. It centered everything there, throbbing, anxiety and lust tangled into a ball. “Say it, Dana.”

“You’re not going to let anything happen to me,” she whispered, and gasped as his fingers twitched, sending pleasure spiraling hard and tight through her clit.

“Damn straight.” Snapping the leash on, he gave her a tug, a sensual reminder of their afternoon. “Ten feet, remember?”

“It’s a club, Peter. There will be people I don’t know all around. . . .” He’d said she should feel comfortable touching, but what about being touched? And strangers? His friends were okay; she’d met them, but—

“You’ve known you were a sub since you were a teen. Remember telling me that? Trust in that, Dana. Trust your Master.”

When he brushed his lips over her temple, she pressed into that touch, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’ve got you.” He said it against her ear, a habit she was beginning to like, particularly when he took a little nip at the earpiece of her hearing aid, an unexpected sexy caress. “Let’s get you out of this.” Moving slow and easy, his fingers drifted down her sternum, molding over her left breast before he dipped down to the tie of the dress, loosened it and slid it off her shoulders. She’d be leaving it in the car, wearing only the corset, thong panties, stockings and low pair of heels he’d given her.

She’d worn as little the night she’d met him, less even, but she’d felt nowhere near as vulnerable as she did this night. Despite that, though, strangely, the removal of the outer garment almost seemed to help, because it truly left no doubt whose and what she was here. His slave. His submissive, under his guidance and protection.

“Here you go.” When he bracketed her face, a mask slid down over it, one that fit her nose and around her eyes, but stopped there, leaving her mouth and chin free of encumbrance. Lifting her hands to it, she realized it was a remarkable likeness to the mask she’d worn for him that night.

“Now”—he found her right nipple beneath the corset, began to do a slow pinch and roll that had her mouth dry—“be whatever you want to be tonight, sweetheart, as long as you remember you’re mine. This is your fairy tale, however you want it told. Anything that worries you, you tell me and I’ll fix it. You hear?”

Tears threatened as she touched the mask, smoothed it under her fingers. “Peter, we can’t live in a fairy tale.”

Easing his touch up under her jaw, he cradled her face, and then she was close in his arms again. They wrapped around her back, her hands settling on his chest, curling into the cotton oxford he was wearing, the silk of his tie. “I’m giving you one tonight, Dana. I’m going to convince you that you are my happily ever after. I want to be yours, if you’ll give me the chance.”

She wasn’t sure if he was teasing, and if she was crazy for wanting him not to be. So she summoned an indifferent smile, struggling for their earlier banter. “I don’t know. I’ll have to compare your portfolio to Ben’s. You know I’m a gold digger.”

“Hmm. Then let me give you something else to think about.” Catching her lips in an unexpectedly aggressive kiss, he put his hand back between her legs, massaging her clit, delving deep inside with devilishly clever and aggressive fingers that demanded nothing less than full surrender. The ambush caught her off guard. In less than five seconds, the climax took her like a fast rush of machine-gun fire, jerking her back against the cushions, her hands clutching at him for an anchor as he continued to kiss her senseless, her ass rubbing in frantic rhythm against him and the plush fabric of the seat.

He milked her to the end of it, took her down to a gasping, shuddering aftermath, and then nipped at her lips. “That’s the last I want to hear about Ben’s fucking portfolio.”

“Sure,” she said faintly. Though, privately, she thought if she ever wanted to be overwhelmed with a mindless climax within seconds, she’d shamelessly chant, “Ben, Ben, Ben,” to elicit that reaction from her captain again.

She bit her lip, shuddering with an aftershock as he used a handkerchief to clean her, holding her thong to the side, rubbing her as she clutched his jacket sleeve. When he readjusted her clothes, she wondered if the handkerchief was his. If he left it on the seat with her scent, or put it back in his pocket to carry. Then he was getting out of the limo.

Her legs were trembling now for more reasons than nervousness, so he supported her as she emerged. She blessed him for thinking of the mask, which would conceal that her eyes were sightless. Taking a deep breath, she tried to imagine how she looked. The nightclub lights would gleam off the curves of breast, hip and waist encased in copper corset, most of her scars beneath the garment and stockings. Her ass would be shown to good advantage in heels that were flattering but not ice pick or too high, Peter’s sensitivity to her balance. She was going to have to look into that yoga instructor, and practicing walking. She did like how stilettos made her ass look. She thought Peter would, too, if she got the confidence for that fuck-me-if-you-dare pendulum swing she’d had down pat before.

The clothes helped. Lord God, did they help, as every child who’d ever played dress up knew. Instead of being in a dark room in a sweat suit and mindless stupor, indifferent to her life, wallowed down in fearful misery, she stood in front of a BDSM club, in the company of a man who’d made it clear he thought her capable of anything. Who, despite what scars might be showing, thought she was sexy, gorgeous. His.

It wasn’t the clothes. It was him. The corset was his weapon, one he’d deployed with maximum devastating effect. With that Master’s intuition he had, he’d discerned its power over her from nothing more than her brief reaction to the suggestion, on one far-too-short night, more than a year ago.

Before this had happened, she’d always believed in herself, her own strength. It shamed her, the way she’d faltered. In the army, she’d accepted certain things couldn’t be accomplished alone. She just hadn’t realized she might need someone to stand at her back even when it didn’t involve AK-47s and insurgents.

Could she dare to hope he stood there for the right reasons, or was it pity? Powerful, deceptive nostalgia goaded by a titillating memory, instead of present reality? She wondered if it was a sign her perspective was changing, that she was more worried about what was going on in his heart than her own. Was that good or bad?

His hand was on her hip, stroking the top of her buttock, his thigh pressed to the back of hers. Reaching down, she curled her fingers over his. They overlapped hers, his lips touching her throat below the collar, so that she tilted her head back to his shoulder, giving him immediate access.

“We’re going inside now,” he said. “It’s going to be impossible to hear in certain places, okay? Pay attention to the leash, to my touch. If you get confused or disoriented, don’t worry. I’m right here.”

She nodded. Leaning down, he brushed his cheek against hers once more. “We’re going to have fun tonight, sweetheart. Right?”

She latched on to the relaxed quality of his voice, tried to take it into herself, despite the fact she was all too aware that the human world was a very visual and auditory one, not one that encouraged touch. Even fetish clubs had stringent rules about touching anyone without invitation, though if there was a large segment that liked to play public, there were often a lot of invitations. But she couldn’t see or hear any of those invitations.

Peter promised they would have fun, that he was here. She had to trust him to keep her out of trouble. Still, her pulse was pounding in her throat as he took her up the ramp toward the entrance, steadying her at the change in angle. He’d described it in detail on the way, so she focused on the image. Blue and silver lights outlining the main doorway, people in all manner of fetish garbs inside, paying their cover fee, having their IDs checked. Of course Peter and his friends were already members, so they passed through that area. It was crowded, though. Peter’s hand was wrapped in the leash, lying on her hip, keeping her close, but she still bumped people. A brush of velvet from a cloak, smells of latex and leather, that humming vibration of arousal. Music from the approaching dance floor resonated through her feet. Realizing they must be passing through the public play area, she heard snatches of things. A muted, rhythmic sound she realized was a flogger. A cry of pain laced with pleasure, the plea to a Mistress for more.