Mirror of My Soul
Page 5

It was a photo of him taken in a park in Tampa where he ran when he was staying at his place in the city. He sat on top of a picnic table, his body sweating from the run.
His hands dangled loosely between his knees. He had a half smile on his face where he’d apparently seen something in his people-watching that amused him. It was a very intimate picture, his knees splayed in the pose, the curve of his groin visible under the fit of his sweats. The long line of his inner thigh was defined as well as the curve of his biceps as he braced his forearms on his legs. His T-shirt was balled up in one hand. The dampness of the hair at his nape and temple from his exertions had been captured in the photo.
Stepping away from him, she turned her body so she blocked it. “It was chance. I was in the park that day, practicing photography. I saw you, decided to try a shot.”
“How long ago?” His voice was soft as he moved toward her, trapping her in that corner unless she made an awkward dodge to avoid it. She stayed still, though her body trembled the closer he got. It heated his blood, made his cock harder, made his heart ache in his chest. “Answer me, Marguerite.”
“About two years ago.”
Soon after the first time he’d seen her at The Zone, felt that odd connection whenever their gazes met.
“You felt it, even then. As I did.”
She tried for a shrug. “Infatuation happens.”
“And yet.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, nudged her to the side. “The picture is still here. And it appears someone’s finger has touched the glass. Often.”
“It’s a good photograph. And the cleaning service I use probably does that when they dust the frames. I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” She shied away, skirted the bed and disappeared into her bathroom, closing the door.
Tyler let her go with an effort, hoping that it being the second floor and her own house, she wouldn’t try to escape again. His gaze returned to the picture. Marguerite had taken care and time with the photograph, capturing the expression she’d wanted, the aspects of his body, his posture. He was aroused and humbled at once by what the picture revealed about the photographer, about the way she might feel for him. He wished he’d been able to handle differently so much of what he’d done with her. No matter that his gut told him he was on the right track, that some fortresses could only be breached by acts of destruction, it hurt him deeply inside to cause her harm or pain in any way.
“I only want to love you, angel,” he murmured. “Just let me in. Let’s stop making every step into a fight.”
His gaze shifted to the shelf of books. Tea, Eastern philosophy. Pain management techniques, mental as well as physical. Interesting choice. His attention slowly covered the simple, sparse elegance of the room. Each item obviously was chosen for its significance to her, which underscored the importance of the photo. At her bedside nightstand there was a book of Haiku, a clock, a lamp. And though he was normally the type of man who accepted the boundaries of common courtesy, when it came to her the boundaries were thin. Especially after tonight. He moved to the nightstand and opened the small drawer, just curious to see if she was as sparse in the contents of what could not be seen as what could.
His gaze narrowed. A black silk scarf. A coiled belt with additional holes punched in its length. Two lengths of nylon rope. He turned, examined the four posts of the bed.
He found what he was looking for at the third one, at the foot of the bed. Reaching out, he ran his hand over one hourglass shape where the veneer was rubbed thin. It was not greatly noticeable, particularly if, as he suspected, the only one who entered the room was the one who slept there.
The anger in him which had settled to a simmer after he had seen her arrive safely, after he felt her body safe and sound in his arms, awakened like a dragon from its lair.
Marguerite stepped out of the bathroom. She froze when she saw the open drawer, his hand on the post.
“Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”
She tightened her jaw, clenched her fists at her side. Anger flooded her, a reaction to her trepidation at his tone. She couldn’t back down from him, wouldn’t act like a person that owed him an explanation. Or her submission.
“It isn’t what you think it is,” she said sarcastically.
She’d not forgotten how fast he could move, just how quickly his temper could motivate him to do so. Abruptly he was in front of her, had her turned and flat on her back on the bed, his body over hers. He yanked open the clasp of her cloak and caught the high neck of the nearly transparent dress beneath, ripped it all the way down, pulling it open so her completely bare body was beneath him. His trousered thigh pressed between her legs.
The moment the hard muscle flexed against her clit, she could not stop the involuntary, almost violent reaction. The arching up of her body as if offering itself to him. She needed so much. She had to have him inside her. He needed to leave, so she could get it under control. She shoved at him and he rolled her over onto her stomach, pinning her wrists behind her back. He used one of the ropes from the drawer, firmly securing them, rendering her helpless.
“Let me go.”
“Not now, not ever.” His hand was on her bottom now, his fingers clutching her buttocks, squeezing hard, making her want to beg. “Is that what you do? You strangle yourself to make your cunt weep when your subs can’t?”
“I get aroused by my slaves. All of them,” she spat.
“I’m not your slave, angel. Don’t even try to be catty with me. And you do get aroused by what you do to them. But the key’s been staring you in the face all along, hasn’t it? You can’t get off without being restrained. Since it’s hard to tie yourself up in a way that makes you feel helpless, the way you need to feel to let yourself go, you strangle yourself. You told me you aren’t used to touching yourself to bring release, so how do you do it?” His hand tightened on her left buttock, those strong fingers moving more deeply into the crease between. “You’ll answer me.”
“A pillow…and a towel. Between my legs. I use the other rope…to secure it.” She was glad she didn’t have to look at him now. His breath was hot on her neck, his body insistent against hers.
“Tell me.” His rigid cock beneath the trousers rubbed against her ass where his fingers pressed into her, making her whimper and push herself hard against the mattress, spearing herself with the pressure on her clit. “What do you fantasize about?
Who do you imagine is cutting off your air, controlling everything to bring you to climax? Making you come at his command, denying you everything until you give up your cream to his touch, his taste, the pounding of his cock?”
“I hate you.” She sank her teeth into the bed linens as he slapped her ass, setting off a ripple of nerve endings, the sensation shooting straight to her core.
“That’s what I thought.” Leaning over her, he removed the scarf from the drawer.
“There’s not going to be any more lying.”
She opened her mouth to retort and found it filled with the scarf as he gagged her with it like a bit, tied it behind her head. When he shifted, the silken fabric of the tie that had been dangling around his neck slithered against her throat. She closed her eyes as a hard shudder went through her.
“You will never, never engage in autoerotic asphyxiation again. If you want your Master to restrict your air to heighten your pleasure, you’ll ask for it. But tonight you’re asking for nothing. I’m going for what I know you need, what your body is screaming for.”
She wanted his cock. Wanted it deep in her body, filling the emptiness in every part of her. He wouldn’t give her that tonight. Somehow she knew he would make her come in ways she’d never experienced but he’d deny her what she most wanted until she begged for it.
He tied her ankles together with the second rope, then took the slack up to her knees and bound those together, confirming his intentions not to put anything between her thighs as large as his cock. The compression of her thighs made the throbbing almost unbearable. She writhed, letting out a short yelp as his palm struck her again.
“Be still, angel. Let it build until it’s a fire through every part of you.” She thought it already was but his words made her burn even hotter.
His fingers traveled, knowledgeable and so clever, down the small of her back to caress her fingers, her palms. She didn’t try to grip him, far too mesmerized. She’d never been a man’s lover. She’d always been a Mistress, so everything was new. It was amazing to her that he knew how to touch her in ways she didn’t even know herself. He moved over the rise of her buttocks, then slowly pushed between them, the pad of his thumb finding her anus as it usually did, then he stroked her there, firm caresses with just the right pressure to make her pussy clutch like a fist around the void inside it, the void that wanted one thing. Him. She gnawed on the silk as he kept up the torturous rubbing and then he sank his thumb deep into her there without warning, so easily because of her sensuous writhing, her lack of expectation that he’d planned to do that.
She’d noticed how well manicured his fingers were, the absence of rough cuticles, the precise cutting of the nails just below the end of the fingertip. Now as a result she felt no sharp scrapes that could be so magnified in this area, where a tiny cuticle could feel like a sharp stick, a rough-edged nail like a shard of glass.
Her hips jerked as he curved over her body, his thigh pressing against the side of her bound legs. Putting his lips on the back of her neck, he began to nibble, taking his time even as that finger moved incrementally within her, sending sensations through her stomach like snakes gliding sinuously through a lagoon, leaving unpredictable ripples and patterns in her blood, in the liquid heat that felt as if it were pooling in her lower body.
She was gasping around the gag, her eyes closed as she absorbed the feeling. The heat of his body, the weight pressing on her. Those lips caressing her nape, the occasional nip of teeth. His finger, playing deep inside her. He’d chosen the most forbidden area, a deliberate message that he would not be denied anything. If that was the darkest part of her she would have been relieved but somehow he seemed to know that stimulating that area was a key to unlocking the door to the darkest corners of all.