“Arrogant stud,” she agreed. She pulled her face from his grasp, put her hand on his chest, applied pressure. “Lean back in your chair. Spread open your legs so I can see that impressive package of yours.”
He grinned, a show of teeth. “Make me, sugar.” 133
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The first night, it had been a challenge, a proving of her worth. It was still that, but tonight there was a playfulness to it that stirred her blood almost as much, mainly because she knew beneath it he was still testing her. She had rattled him, shoved him off his foundation at Tyler’s, and she’d unbalanced him further, by making him as a cop when he hadn’t had a clue that she’d been one. And now, forcing a partial confession of what had held him from opening up for a woman. The alpha in him was still trying to figure out where he could one-up her.
She sat back in the chair and smoothly crossed her legs, raised her fingers to the tiny row of buttons at the top of the modest neckline.
“You know why you didn’t make me as a cop, Mackenzie?” One button flicked open.
“Why?” He had picked up his wine glass again, but she noticed he didn’t drink. She took two more buttons through their eyelets, spread the fabric so the valley between the rise of her breasts was visible. Ran her fingers lightly over the visible curve. He swallowed.
“You’re a male, chauvinist…pig.” Three more buttons and she caressed the full breast, tracing one finger down the milky crescent, playing with the nipple beneath the fabric. He adjusted his seat and she tilted her head, deliberately studying the swelling going on beneath that zipper, the straining inseam where his testicles were fighting for room in diminishing capacity.
“You support women being cops, judges, but when the bullets are flying, you’re wishing like hell there were no women around. It drives you crazy that you can’t order them all back. You want a woman to dominate you in the bedroom, but you feel it’s a man’s responsibility to protect a woman, keep her safe from harm. It’s a paradox only a Mistress could understand. A woman who understands you. You want to see how hard my nipples are now, aching for your touch, your mouth?”
“Yes,” he rasped.
“Then sit back, spread your knees open, and stroke that long hard ridge in your pants for me. Masturbate yourself through your jeans. I want to see your hips move, thrust in your hand, slow, like you want to fuck me.”
“Let me fuck you now.”
“Not the way it works, Mackenzie. Obey me.” She sharpened her tone, and he leaned back, watching the play of her hand over herself the whole time as he opened his knees, stretching the fabric tight over himself so she saw the long length of him testing it further. His hand moved over it, hesitated, then he began to stroke himself as she’d commanded.
“Yes,” she purred. “That’s it.” She opened the dress to her waist, giving her more room, allowing him see the shape of her fingers kneading her breast, tightening on the nipple beneath the thin cloth. She arched, letting out a breath as she kept her gaze on his hand, sliding down over himself and back up, the way a man did, his eyes hot for her.
His long legs were stretched out on either side of hers, one beneath the table, one out by 134
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her chair, and with her other hand, she reached down, slid a hand up his thigh, tightened her grip on it.
“Unzip your pants,” she murmured. “Take them to your knees, so I can see you hold your cock in your hand. Jerk off for me.”
“Let me please you with it, instead.”
“Do what I tell you and it might get to bury itself in my pussy. But I want you close to exploding, Mackenzie. Show me how much you want me.” His hands went to his waist and he slipped the button, slowly took down the zipper. He had to rise out of the chair to obey, for the pants were that tight, and she enjoyed watching the undulation of his hips, the careful maneuverings necessary to wriggle out of them, push them to his knees. He sat back down, his cock ramrod straight between his thighs, and his hand went back to it. She could almost feel the heat emanating off of it, and her pussy wept for it.
You’ll just have to wait, girl. Waiting is part of the fun.
“Good,” she said. “Very good. Keep fucking yourself.” She removed her hand, slowly did the buttons up back to her throat. Her nipples remain high and taut against the shirt of the dress, holding his attention. With deliberate, casual movements, she cut herself a slice of the chocolate torte waiting in the center of the table. Laid down the knife. Licked one finger. Glanced casually over him to make sure he was obeying her.
Lifting the saucer, she settled back with it and her fork, and took off a small bite, all the while watching him perform for her.
“Tell me what you want, Mackenzie. No posturings. Tell me what’s going through that male chauvinist mind of yours. Keep it going.” His hips pumped forward with his motions, and she could hear the faint slap of his ass against the slick surface of the chair as he thrust up through his fist. She knew her feigned indifference was increasing his desire and his frustration. She was lightly perspiring herself. He slipped his grip down, the loose skin stretching over that long, tall organ. She held the bite of chocolate up to her nose, deeply inhaling the scent of it, and getting that peculiar, heady musk of the male erection with the aroma.
“I want to ram myself into your wet pussy,” he said, low, so she almost couldn’t make out the words, just the guttural threat. “I want to bend you over this table, ruck up your skirt and fuck your ass for making me do this in front of you. I want you under me. I want to feel your body squirming beneath me, your legs locked around my hips. I want you wet and begging me to make you come. I want to own you, body and soul, the way you own me.”
Violet blinked. A slow, controlled opening and closing of her lids. It took her a moment to remember she had cake on her fork. She opened her mouth, took it in, and knew this was the most incredible feast her senses had ever been offered, the light chocolate cream in her mouth, the scent in her nose, and the visual feast he made before her.
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She separated the remaining cake from the cream and used her fingers to collect it.
“Stop,” she ordered. “Put your hands behind you and cup them under. Hold your ass, one hand on each cheek, hard and tight, the way I’d hold it. And don’t let go, no matter what.”
It took him a moment to obey, his expression heavy and dangerous, hungry. Well, she was hungry, too.
When he finally obeyed, she leaned forward and began to smear the gnoche on his cock. The tip, the sides, the area of his clean-shaven balls. He had obeyed her to the letter, his scrotum and pubic area clean except for one neatly trimmed triangle just above his cock.
He groaned as she put methodical care into it, going back to the plate to get more of the gnoche until his cock was slathered in it. Then she rose, took up her cloth napkin, and blindfolded him with it. The muscles in his shoulders twitched, nervous and impatient, but he did not resist her or disobey, keeping his hands cupping his ass.
“A slave should never see his Mistress with her head below his, even when her actions are to serve her own pleasure,” she said. “That’s why I wouldn’t let you look down at me at our picnic, made you close your eyes.” She went to one knee and took his chocolate-coated cock deep into her mouth.
It took all she had not to bite down on it, take in his taste, mix the pleasure and decadence of the dessert with the decadence of enjoying him. She licked, consumed the chocolate cream, tasted his cream in the mix, took him firmly in her hand at the base.
His breath rasped hard as he struggled to obey her mandate and not move as she cleaned every impressive inch of him, her eyes noting every flex of his powerful thighs, the ripple of reaction across his abdomen, the tightening of his balls under the caress of her fingers. Her own reaction was sliding her thighs wetly against one another, and she made noises of enjoyment in the back of her throat, telling him what he could not see, how much she wanted him, was ravenous for him in fact, to the point that she wanted to keep him with her always, never let him further from her than a short cock leash would allow. Now she no longer wondered why some Doms were fond of keeping their subs in The Zone on a collar and leash, to reinforce the servitude and the bond.
“I want you,” she muttered, and he growled in response, a primal response that she saw him struggle to take to civilized English.
“Sugar, I’m more than ready for you.”
She rose, took off his blindfold and found his eyes blazing in response. “I’m protected from pregnancy,” she said, her own voice thick with desire. “Will you…I don’t want anything between us.”
“I trust you. And you can trust me, sugar. With anything.” His voice was ragged with male hunger and something else, something that roused her heart into her throat, and mixed sweet emotion with overpowering lust.
“My Mistress honors me,” he said, low, urgent. “Let me serve you. I need you, Violet.”
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She swallowed, nodded. Undid the buttons again, and slid the dress off her shoulders. His eyes followed its slide to her feet, and she stood before him, clad in nothing but her skin and her equal need for him.