Sierra Cartwright - Doms of Dark Haven

Her pussy milked the last spasm out of his cock like a hot fist, even as the little sub's shoulders flattened onto the bed. Her hair spilled over her arms, and her skin was a creamy white against the royal blue of the bed quilt. She was utterly beautiful in her surrender. He remained in place for a moment, savoring the tiny shudders that rippled through her body at intervals, before pulling out. He quietly used the bathroom to remove the condom.

She hadn't moved when he returned. After unclipping the chain—she looked so pretty in cuffs that he left them on—he lay down beside her and gathered her against his side, settling her head in the hollow of his shoulder. With a soft sigh, she snuggled into him like a well-fed kitten, draping an arm across his chest and a leg over his thigh.

Cuddly and responsive, smart and submissive. He'd known her such a short time, and yet she filled the emptiness inside him. He wanted to keep her. Right here. In his bed.

In his home.

He rubbed a hand up and down her back. A few seconds later she patted his chest and stroked him in return. As thoroughly as he'd used her and as she'd come, her body must be as exhausted as her mind—yet she still tried to give something back. The woman warmed his heart, and his arm pulled her closer. Damned if he'd let her go.

Unlike a relationship that moved gradually from friendship into love, his feelings for Rona had bloomed suddenly, like the mountain wildflowers of his birthplace. Even at first, Rona hadn't seemed like a stranger. He'd known her.

Much like when he'd arrived in San Francisco and something inside him had said, This place. I belong here.

He felt the same with Rona. She belongs here. With me.

As she snuggled against him, he touched one breast, smiling at the still-puffy, reddened nipple. When he plucked the velvety peak, he felt the sensation jolt through her. Yes, the way she responded to him, to his voice and his body, said that part of her acknowledged the tie. But her practical brain wouldn't accept something so illogical.

She was a stubborn woman. He admired that. Dammit . She'd set her course and wasn't the type to lightly turn aside. Made a dom want to bring out the flogger.

Rona's head rested on Simon's shoulder, and under her hand on his chest, his heart beat with slow thuds. The room smelled of sex and his subtle cologne. When he pulled her closer, she let him, needing that comfort as a barrier against the lost feeling creeping through her. The knowledge of how alone she'd be in a few minutes.

When he let her go.

That just didn't make any sense. She'd just had good—no, fantastic—sex, but now… She blinked back the tears stinging her eyes.

His arm around her tightened, and his free hand caressed her cheek. “Lass—”

“We need to get up,” she interrupted quickly, her voice husky. He knew. And she didn't want to talk about it. About anything.

His hand paused, and his chest rose and fell in a silent sigh. “All right. I am the host, I suppose.” He stroked her hair back behind her ear. “But we will talk of what is troubling you later.”

The gentleness and yet the determination in his voice made her eyes burn again. Why did he have to be so…so perfect? Damn him. He'd already sucked her into wanting him, despite her vow to find other men first. She'd never felt like this before. I belong here . The thought sparked her to moving—she'd been comfortable with her husband too, and look how that had turned out.

So maybe she hadn't found Mark as totally hot or been taken so thoroughly or come so hard—twice—or… Crom, can I get more illogical ? She pushed herself up and off the bed. “Well, um, thank you for a great time.”

Still sprawled on the bed, Simon put his arms behind his head and watched her with a quiet, steady gaze. “You are quite welcome.”

“I'm going back downstairs now.” She needed to find someone to help her get her mind off this…overwhelming man. She pulled on the Santa coat, wishing for the damned belt to hold it shut. Hopefully her bra and thong were still in the living room.

“For speaking and trying to leave without permission, you are fined your underwear,” Simon said, his voice level, without a hint of humor. “You may continue to wear the coat.”

“But—”

“Do you desire to forfeit the coat also?”

She shook her head. But no underwear? She looked down. Oh heavens. Her nipples remained a vivid red, and almost fluorescent in color, her clit still poked out from between her labia. She yanked the coat shut.

Simon rose to his feet. Without speaking, he peeled her coat open and cupped her breasts in his hands. She grabbed his wrists, then dropped her arms when his jaw turned stern. Mercilessly, he teased her nipples into rigid points, continuing until her toes curled into the rug.

“Now you may return downstairs. And, Rona?” He tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “I enjoy seeing your breasts and pussy, and for tonight, I will permit my guests to also share in the sight. So if I see you holding the coat closed, I'll take it from you.”

Her throat shut at the look in his eyes. Dark, possessive…heady.

“What do you say to me, sub?”

“Yes, Mas—” No no no. He isn't . “Yes, Sir.”

His mouth compressed, and she saw the muscle in his jaw flex. “That isn't correct, but I'll let it pass for now. I think you will change your mind, Rona,” he said softly, running his finger over her lips.

“No. I won't.” She backed away from him and out of the bedroom. I mustn't .

She remembered the long, boring years of inane conversation, of lying beside her husband, wondering where even the tiny passion they'd shared had gone; the times when they did make love in the missionary position, and if Mark felt greatly daring—or had had a few drinks—from behind.

Yet she couldn't erase the memory of the last hour, Simon's ruthless grip, his fingers teasing her swollen clit. Would sex with him ever be boring?

Maybe, maybe not. She couldn't—wouldn't—take the chance. She owed it to herself to sample everything a single life had to offer.

The noise of the party burst over her as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

Hauling in a breath, she let her coat flap open— damn the man —and went to have some more fun.

An hour later she couldn't figure out what had happened with her. The men were wonderful and nice, and she kept saying no to them. Because of Simon . She needed to leave. Being near him affected her judgment, no doubt about it.

On the way to the changing room, she walked past a scene in a nook under the stairs. She glanced in and stopped.

Chained to a post, a ball-gagged woman sobbed violently, tears streaming down her face, as a big dom struck her over and over with a thick cane. Angry crimson welts covered the sub's body.

The woman saw Rona, and despite the gag, the word she spoke—“red”—came through clearly enough. The safe word.

The dom ignored her. Rona didn't, and she raised her voice so everyone in the area could hear. “Red! She's saying 'red.' Stop right now.”

The dom glared over his shoulder. “Get the hell out of my scene, slut.” And he turned back, prepared to strike his sub.

Rona took a step forward—damned if she'd stand by—when a steely arm around her waist swung her to one side.

“My job, lass. Thank you for the alert.” Master Simon caught the cane on the downswing and wrenched it from the dom. Rona flinched as she realized that the dom was younger, taller than Simon, and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds.

He swung. Simon slapped the beefy arm to one side, stepped in, and buried his fist in the man's gut. The man made a horrible sound and folded forward, clenching his abdomen. Turning slightly, Simon slammed the guy's face into his raised knee.