Mastered By The Mavericks(55)

       
           



       

"Do it, man," he emphasized to Rhett. "More. Make her ass hotter. Eleven  more swats." He grinned a little at Brynn's taut little moan. "We can  do a lot with that, can't we?"

To his pleasure-more than he could admit-one side of the guy's mouth  kicked up in a devil's smirk. But to his surprise, Rhett didn't lift his  hand again. He kept taunting the two fleshy hills, squeezing more color  into them by the second.

Finally, Rhett murmured, "How much hotter?"

Rebel grinned. "You have something special in mind?"

"The bag we brought from Dax's … the special one on the nightstand. Open it up."

The moment Rebel complied, his smile widened-before he pulled out the  compact leather spanker atop of the other accessories they'd "borrowed"  from what Rhett referred to as "Dax's drawer of wonders."

"Well, well, well," he crooned, twirling the base of the toy in the palm  of his hand. "My friend Dax has some mighty interesting 'splaining to  do, the next time we go bourbon tasting in the Quarter."

"No shit." The light played off the red tints in Rhett's wagging  eyebrows. "Found that one in a cabinet near the futon. Quality  craftsmanship. Leather's formed over the wood real well." He issued the  praise while accepting the paddle from Reb. At once he rubbed it over  their subbie's ass in rhythmic little circles.

As he lengthened the caresses, Brynna shifted restlessly. Rebel had  anticipated as much. He gazed carefully at her once more, then checked  her pulse through her wrist. He also surveyed the color across the rest  of her body. They didn't have her bound, but her unusual position made  him extra diligent, especially because the woman looked well and truly  on her way to the happy land of subspace. If that happened-and that was a  big if, considering the level they were about to take her to-then  diligence would have to be his middle name. Her complete welfare would  be in his care. He was used to the responsibility, of course; every Dom  had to be ready for it in any scene …

But never, in his journey into the world of kink, had he been honored by it.

Before now.

"Minette?" He brushed fingertips over her cheek. "Are you still able to understand me?"

Her eyes were open but thickly glazed. She blinked at him with  surprising focus, though her lips pressed as if she struggled for words.  "Y-yes … Sir."

Rebel pushed his fingertips in, silently praising, though kept his voice  timbered with authority. She needed his strength more than ever. "Same  rules apply now," he stated. "No speaking unless spoken to, unless it's  to call for a stop or a slowdown." He contemplated giving her a tiered  safe word system, even if it was just the basic green light/yellow  light/red light, but even tap-dancing at the subject sparked new  trepidation into her eyes. "No means no," he told her instead, framing  fingers to the back of her jaw for emphasis. "Is that completely  understood?"

"Yes, Sir." This time, she gave it without hesitation.

"Good girl." He continued his grip back against her scalp, then tilted  her head all the way back. Her upturned profile almost stole his breath  again. He couldn't resist dropping his mouth and pressing it to hers,  though didn't delve past her parted lips. With their breaths still  mingled, he directed Rhett, "Start again, Double-Oh. Make her really red  for me."

Without a word of comeback, Rhett drew back-and whapped her ass with the full force of the paddle.

Rebel sucked every note of her scream into his mouth.

The next one, too.

And the one after that.

By the time Rhett delivered smack twelve, the outcries stopped-and her  quivers began. Only tiny tremors at first, starting as soon as he pulled  the paddle from her flesh, but grew to full shivers by the time he  reached the top of his sweep, ready to crack the leather back upon her  naked flesh. Once the blow connected, her tension was detonated, broken  into splinters of energy through her body, only to be pull back to her  core, repeating the intense sensual cycle.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Rhett's spanks intensified.

Brynna's ass bloomed brighter red.

Rebel's cock pushed harder at his fly.

Still, he didn't let her go. Couldn't. Not when every blow shot that  heat harder through her, flowing out until it seemed to burst through  her pores, making him hurt and writhe and shiver with her-

Then melt. And float. And fly.

"Damn."

It was barely a whisper but resonated with his shock. Holy shit, what was this?                       
       
           



       

As the sixteenth blow reverberated through her, he couldn't even manage a  voice. She panted against his mouth, silent but desperate. Her eyes  were closed, seeping once more with magnificent tears.

He needed more.

He rose up, pressing her face against his chest, twining her hair around  his fist. As his heart thundered harder, he looked down over the  luscious curve of her body, her naked ass and thighs still fitted so  beautifully against Rhett's lap.

This couldn't be real.

It was so good. Too good.

It was no exaggeration. He wondered if he was simply living a dream, a  "conscious unconsciousness" of some kind. He was only a few feet off the  floor but his senses soared as if he were a mile high again, viewing  the world from a strange advantage. From that view, he didn't see three  separate bodies in a motel room. They were one being, bound by desire  and elevated by passion, then ensconced in a whole new level of  existence. There wasn't any past that haunted or future that loomed. No  baggage to drag or labels to apply. No limits to watch or lines to color  in …

There was only need and its fulfillment. Energy and its response. Power and its return.

Dominance … and deliverance.

Only why was he the one who felt transformed? Why did the dip of her  head against his chest make his mind blast to the moon? Why did her  hand, now lifting to his waist, make his dick lurch anew, the tip  moistened with pre-come? Why did his blood sing and his nerves throb,  thudding in anticipation of the last three spanks still left … but  completely dreading them, too?

He wasn't the one who was supposed to feel this … any of it. He wasn't the  one here to learn a lesson. He knew all the lessons, damn it. Once upon  a time, he'd possessed hope that BDSM could mean more for him than a  hot fuck and a raging orgasm-but "once upon a time" was for things like  fairy tales, not a real-life guy who'd worked his way out of the swamp,  only to travel across the world and slog through more swamps. These  days, D/s was a formatted way for him to keep all the demons happy … the  "fun" little memories that crawled into his head, fed with something as  wild and ravenous as they were. But it would never kill them completely.  Nothing ever would.

Or so he'd believed-

Until now.

Brynna's quivers started again. She panted harder into his chest. Her  hand tightened on him. But her eyes flared with pure erotic light,  betraying her own love/hate conflict about the paddle Rhett hoisted up.

He smiled down at her.

She smiled back up.

And might as well have lobbed a brick along with it.

There wasn't just light in her eyes anymore. There was understanding.  Connection. Commiseration. She gets it. Somehow … she just does.

"Fucking perfect." Rhett's murmur couldn't have been better timed-or  worded. With the paddle still aloft in one hand, he swirled over her ass  with the other, tracing the dark pink and red patterns forming one hell  of a sensual masterpiece. "Moon is right. I've rarely seen an ass more  ideal for this. Look at these colors … all this beauty." He rubbed a  little harder, making Brynn moan into Reb's chest. "And just listen to  that."

Rebel dipped his lips to her hairline. "You please us so much. Je t'adore. Tu est mon petit éclair crémeuse."

He almost expected her to giggle at the endearment-and wouldn't have  minded if she did-but she embodied it instead, sliding closer, silken  and soft as cream, her hair flowing across his nipples. Rebel bit back a  hiss. Holy shit, that felt good. But right now, he was sure the woman  could rise up, bite off his nose, and he'd thank her for the pleasure.

"Fuck."

No other exclamation seemed to fit, not alongside the epiphany that slammed behind that vision.

This … craving … to make her happy, fulfilled …

Was this what submission felt like?

Or was it real Domination?

He twisted her hair tighter, pressing her in closer. All of it felt like a Band-Aid on a chest wound. His.

"What the hell?" he grated. "What the hell are you doing to me, Brynna?"

But while he pleaded it into her hair … he angled his gaze directly at the  man still poised with the paddle. Who suddenly let the thing fall  backward, onto the bed. Who then curled forward, also wrapping himself  around her, before rasping, "And me. Fuck. And me, too."