Every Part of You: Takes Me (#5) Page 2

Simone’s nipples tightened in sympathy, and there was an answering tug of arousal between her legs. Vera looked at her. She stroked Nick’s cock lightly, then cupped his balls. He didn’t quite flinch—obviously he’d been trained better than that, but his muscles tensed and he bit his bottom lip in anticipation of the pain his mistress was at the moment withholding.

  “Nick can make you forget your hurt, if only for a little while. He has a very clever tongue and a very pretty cock. And you can hurt him,” Vera added in a whisper, stroking, stroking, stroking until Nick shuddered and lifted slightly onto his toes. Then she squeezed him just behind the head of his prick and he went still. “You can hurt him as much as you have to.”

  “I don’t want to hurt him,” Simone whispered, tasting the lie like acid.

  Vera laughed under her breath. “Oh, honey. I think you do. Kiss her, Nick.”

  Nick paused, waiting respectfully for permission. This time, Simone gave it. The feeling of his lips on hers was at first so shockingly unfamiliar, so different than Elliott’s kisses had been, that she wanted to recoil. In the next moment, Nick’s hand cupped the base of her skull, fingers curling against her skin, and rising pleasure washed away the memory of that other man’s mouth.

  She would forget him.

  Erase him.

  Simone opened her mouth, giving Nick her tongue. He took it, sucking gently. She could feel his hard prick between them, but he didn’t grind her against him. Waiting for her permission again? Simone slid her hands down to cup Nick’s ass, feeling the muscles bunch and flex under her touch.

  “Very nice.” Vera had settled herself onto the couch, one long leg crossed over the other, her hands linked on a knee. She leaned forward to watch. “Nick. Take off her shirt now, and get your mouth on her lovely tits.”

  And oh, how he did. He licked and sucked and nibbled, always repeating what made Simone sigh and moan, changing what she didn’t respond to. He backed her carefully to the couch and eased her down so he could kneel between her legs, his focus still on her breasts and nipples until Simone arched and shuddered beneath him.

  “Eat my pussy,” she ordered, breathless, voice cracking. She lifted her hips, already undoing the button and zipper to help him peel the jeans off.

  In moments, she was bare, her ass sticking to the leather couch and one leg propped on Nick’s shoulder while he bent to feast on her. Simone was vaguely aware of Vera murmuring commands to him from her place on the other side of the sofa, but Simone ignored her.

  This felt too fucking good.

  Sex had always been her escape. When she’d first discovered the joys of what her hands could do late at night in the quiet of her room, she’d spent hours learning what made her body sing. Later, when boys had started trying to do the same things, she’d already known what got her off and had been able to show them. But she’d learned, too, how amazing it could be when another person was touching her. Stroking, licking, sucking, biting.

  “Oh, fuck,” she muttered as Nick flickered his tongue, fast as a hummingbird’s wings, against her clit. “Bite me.”

  He took instruction well and immediately, moving his mouth to the soft, sensitive inner flesh of her thigh and pressing his teeth there. The pain was brief but exquisite. Her hands found his hair, the full thickness of it, and this, too, was different from Elliott. She reveled in it, digging her nails into his scalp to urge him back to her pussy.

  If Vera was still telling Nick what to do, Simone didn’t hear her. All she could hear was the pound of her own heart and the rasp of her breathing, along with his soft, panting moans. His hands moved up her thighs, pressing the spots he’d bitten. He pinched her there, hard, and Simone surged against him. She was lost, lost, everything was lost in the feeling of his mouth and hands on her, his fingers sliding deep inside her. His tongue stroked her clit in a steady, perfect rhythm.

  “Get on your back. On the floor,” she ordered, and he did at once. She fit her cunt to his mouth, her knees on either side of his head, pressing the soft carpet. Simone rocked against his lips and tongue. His hands came up to grip her ass.

  She was going to come, yes. Absolutely. The release teased her. Taunting, until at last her orgasm ripped through her and left her shaking and panting. She came back to herself slowly, easing off Nick’s face to straddle his belly. His cock nudged between them, pressing her clit. Simone blinked and breathed, licking her mouth to taste sweat. He smiled at her, making no move to urge her onto his dick or in any other way satisfy himself.

  “Get up,” Simone said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own.

  She got off him. Nick got to his feet. Simone took his cock in her hand and stroked it once, twice, watching his face. He bit his lower lip, but made no move to touch her.

  “He’s good,” Vera said from behind them. “Isn’t he?”

  Simone’s orgasm had been pleasure; no doubt about that, it had left her spent and sated. But not satisfied. The stillness she needed inside her wasn’t there. Sex had always been a gift, but this time she’d been left as empty as before.

  Vera had moved up behind her while Simone studied Nick—his broad, muscled chest, smooth and warm. His ridged belly. His lovely prick. Now the other woman’s breath caressed the back of Simone’s neck.

  “It’s okay,” she said in a low voice, pressing the crop into Simone’s hand. “He wants it. You understand how that feels. You can give him what he needs and wants, maybe better than anyone, yes? Because you know.”

  Simone did understand. She took the crop from Vera’s hand and tested the weight of it in her own. She might not be entirely clear on the desire to give pain, but she was absolutely crystal on the technique. “Turn around. Hands on the wall.”

  Nick did as she said without hesitation. Without so much as a flinch. He stood with his hands at shoulder height, fingers slightly spread on the cream plaster. His bare toes curled against the hard wood bared by the edge of the rug.

  “Do you want this?”

  “Yes,” Nick said in a voice that reminded Simone so much of her own. “Please.”

  For the first time, Simone understood how it felt to be on the other side of the crop. “Safe word?”

  “Melancholy,” Nick said with a glance over his shoulder.

  “Melancholy,” Simone repeated, tasting each syllable. She closed her eyes briefly, the pain in her heart flaring again. She knew all about melancholy.

  And now she would learn how it felt to lose herself in someone else’s pain instead of her own.

  “Let me show you,” Vera breathed unexpectedly into Simone’s ear. Her breasts pressed Simone’s back. Her hand slid along Simone’s arm to cover her wrist, helping her to swing the crop. “Like this.”

  Nick gave a low cry at the first blow, but didn’t move. Simone watched the red welt rise on his tawny skin and felt the answering pull of arousal inside her. Vera stepped away from her. Simone again hefted the weight of the crop.

  She hit him again.

  This time, Nick jerked. He moaned. His hips thrust forward a little, then stilled.

  “Turn around,” Simone ordered again. “Put your back against the wall.”

  She hadn’t made him bleed; there would be no mess. But there would be pain as he pushed his aching back to the plaster. He obeyed immediately, hands going flat on the wall. His cock rose proudly, tapping his belly as his chest rose and fell with his rapid breathing. Sweat had broken out on his brow.

  Simone spit into her palm to lube him as she stroked. Hard. Nick closed his eyes, hips thrusting.

  “Open your eyes,” she demanded, gripping him just behind the head. To Vera, she said, “Is he allowed to come?”

  Vera laughed, low and husky. “Oh, I think so, if you want him to. Nick’s been a very good boy.”

  Simone drew in a breath. Red haze tickled the edges of her vision, though not as though she were going to pass out. No, this was something different. This was power filling her.

  “Stroke yourself,” she ordered him. “I’m g
oing to beat you while you do it. Do not come until I give you permission. Do you understand?”

  His hand was already on his cock, jerking it slowly. He looked her in the eyes. “Yes.”

  “Let me watch you spurt,” Simone muttered and drew back her arm.

  Nick let out a muffled grunt as the first blow came down across his chest, but his fist never stopped pumping. Again and again Simone struck him, turning his flesh a delicious shade of striped pink, and all the while his hand never ceased moving even when his knees bent. He looked unsteady for a moment, and Simone paused, breathing hard, but Nick didn’t ask her for the safe word.

  His cock had gone purple from his attentions, because each time she sensed him getting close to climax, she struck him on the chest or thighs. Now his entire body was tense and shaking as she tickled his balls with the head of the crop. Her clit throbbed, but she didn’t touch herself. She didn’t have to. All Simone had to do was watch Nick stroke that beautiful cock and stop when she told him to.

  She was in control. She had the power, and she was intoxicated with it. Drunk and turned on and desperate to see him come at her command.

  She hit him again. “Finish.”

  Again, as Nick stroked and fucked into his fist, struggling to let himself explode into pleasure even as everything she did to him brought him to pain. Again, as he shook. And then once more, hard enough at last to break the skin and force him to bark out, “Melancholy!” even as his cock jerked and jetted, covering his hand and his belly. He came hard, shuddering and gasping.

  Simone let the crop fall. It hit the soft rug with a thump. Simone herself gave a strangled cry and took a stumbling step backward. Vera was there to catch her, hold her up, and the other woman murmured wordless praise into Simone’s ear until she could stand straight. It was only a half a minute or so of vulnerability, but it was enough. Shaking, Simone let out a small sob.

  “Shh,” Vera purred into her ear, leading Simone to the couch and helping her sit. Vera covered her with a soft knit throw. “Shhh, you were lovely, sweetheart. My god, you were gorgeous.”

  Simone closed her eyes, letting the aftershocks fade. She heard Vera murmuring to Nick, then the shuffle of bare feet on the floor and the creak of the door. The click of it behind them. They’d left her alone.

  Simone drifted, coming off the high. When the door opened again, she didn’t have to look to see who it was. She knew who’d come for her. She waited for his touch and wasn’t disappointed.

  “Here.” Aidan pressed a glass of something cool into her hand, curling his fingers over hers to be sure she had a good grip before he let go.

  Simone opened her eyes, barely able to move. “Hi.”

  Aidan smiled and brushed the hair from her forehead. “How you doing, babe?”

  She sat up, sipping. The blanket fell away and her skin stuck to the leather sofa. She looked for her clothes, bending to grab her shirt and panties, at least. “I’m tired.”

  “Simone,” Aidan said and waited until she’d looked at him.

  She handed him the glass and tugged her shirt on over her head. Stood to put on her panties. The insides of her thighs had already gone purple with bruises, and though she usually took a lot of pleasure in looking at the marks her lovers left on her, this time Simone only stared at them dispassionately. She grabbed up her jeans and found her shoes.

  “Simone,” Aidan repeated, harder this time. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her onto his lap, where she sat stiffly, not looking at him.

  “I hurt him,” she said flatly. “And I liked it. Not as much as being on the other side of it. But I liked it.”

  “That’s all right.” Aidan cuddled her closer, even though she resisted. “I wanted you to have that.”

  She looked at him, then. “Why?”

  Aidan shrugged. “I thought you might need it. Or like it.”

  It seemed as though there should be something for her to say to that. Gratitude, perhaps. But all she could manage was to fumble with her jeans and shoes while she tried not to let herself get lost in tears.

  Aidan knew how she was feeling, like he always had. He held her close when she didn’t want him to, and stroked her hair until she stopped resisting. When at last Simone let herself relax against him, her face buried in the curve of his neck, Aidan kissed the top of her head.

  “I’m sorry you hurt,” he said simply. “I wanted to help take that away.”

  Simone drew in a long, shuddering breath. “I know. It was … good. I forgot, for a little while, anyway.”

  He laughed lightly and squeezed her closer. “It gets better, babe. I promise you, it does.”

  “I want to believe you.”

  Aidan was quiet for a few seconds. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  Simone looked at him, wondering when he’d ever felt pain this way. For everything she knew about him, maybe there would still always be secrets they hadn’t shared. “I know you wouldn’t, Aidan. But…”

  “It will get better,” he told her firmly. “Eventually, every pain fades. Even the worst, even the ones that leave scars. And they fade, too.”

  “But they never go away,” Simone said, touching one on the inside of her elbow where once, long ago, Aidan had miscalculated and left her with more than a bruise.

  “No,” he admitted. “They never go away.”

  And that was okay, she thought as she let him hold her close for a few more minutes. Because although she might not want to feel the pain of losing Elliott any longer, she never wanted to forget him. She never wanted to forget.

  * * *

  Elliott had overslept. He’d been unable to fall into dreams last night, tossing and turning until finally he’d punched his pillow in disgust and got up to stand in a hot shower. He’d let the steam and heat work on his tense muscles until the water turned cold, and still had been unable to relax. In bed, he’d fought the urge to fuck his fist, thinking of Simone. That release might have let him sleep, but though the memories of her scent, her taste, the sound of her voice moaning his name had refused to leave him, he hadn’t made himself come. He’d suffered his rock-hard cock until just before dawn when at last his body gave up and forced him to sleep, and then he’d dreamt of her and woken to the hot pulse of an orgasm that had done nothing to satisfy him. He’d spent himself in his sleep, something he hadn’t done since adolescence, and though now it didn’t shame him, it did send a twist of furious emotion all through his gut.

  Traffic had been terrible. The radio had played every song he hated. And someone had parked in his spot. By the time he got on the elevator, he was in a horrible, terrible and very, very bad mood.

  Some pustulant anal sphincter had pushed the button for every floor, something Elliott hadn’t realized until the other five people got off and left him alone with all the buttons lit. He had several floors to go before he reached his, and even when he pushed the “close door” button, each stop took way too long. He was fuming by the time the doors opened on the eighth floor.

  Simone got on, carrying a paper bag from the cafeteria on eight.

  Elliott had been pushing the button to close the door, and when she entered he looked up. Right into her face. Their eyes held, locked, and then she let her gaze slide away as easily as butter melting in a pan. Ignoring him. She was making him a stranger again, and he fucking hated it worse than he had any other time she’d done it. It made him want to take her by the shoulders and pin her to the wall and kiss her until she couldn’t breathe. He wanted to make her squirm under his touch.

  Instead, he backed against the opposite wall, as far away from her as he could.

  His fists clenched, though. And she saw it, he knew she did, because her gaze went to his hands and briefly to his face, though he could tell she was trying not to let him see it. She went to the other corner of the elevator and leaned against the railing, again looking away from him.

  The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Nobody got on, but the doors didn’t close. Neither of them moved, though
Elliott itched to slam the close-door button again. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.

  Simone shifted as the elevator doors closed. She wore a completely work-appropriate dress of some dark blue material with a scoop neck and three-quarter sleeves. The fit was vintage and hit her just above the knees. She curled her fingers in the material, inching it higher without looking at him, her gaze focused on the floor indicator above the elevator door.

  All at once, Elliott couldn’t breathe.

  Higher, slowly, revealing the first teasing hint of the edge of her stockings. He hadn’t noticed her shoes before but saw them now. Pointed toes. Low heel. She pointed one toe, cocking a hip as she eased the fabric of her dress just high enough now to show him the flash of a garter and the pale flesh of her inner thigh. She kept her body angled so that anyone getting on the elevator wouldn’t see that she was showing him anything at all.

  She shifted once again as the elevator stopped. The door opened to reveal nobody waiting to get on. Simone tugged her dress up enough to show him the dark bruises on the insides of her thighs, just before she let the hem fall back to just above her knees. The doors closed.

  His throat dried. His cock throbbed, thickening. His fists clenched again, but he kept them at his sides. Someone else had left those marks on her, and he wanted to find whoever it was and make them wish they’d never touched her. He wanted to pound his fists into the wall and break it.

  Mostly, Elliott wanted to get on his knees in front of her and beg her to look at him the way she used to.

  The elevator opened on his floor. He got off, meaning to keep going without even looking at her, to make her a stranger the way she’d done to him, but at the last second, he couldn’t stop himself from turning. His hand slammed the door open, startling her. Her eyes went wide and she moved a few steps until she bumped into the back of the elevator, though she wasn’t scared. He knew her better than that. Her breath might’ve caught in her throat, but the pounding of her heart was from arousal, not fear.

  “Simone,” Elliott said in a low, grinding voice. He hated himself for the desperation in it.