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He lowered his mouth to her again. She screamed at the sensations that bombarded her, at how much he could give her with the flick of his tongue, the suckling of his lips, the heat of his breath.
Then he was up on his knees, and flipping her over so her hindquarters were in the air, knees spread, her elbows on the ground. He put his hand on the back of her neck to hold her there and then he gave her bare ass a smack, an unexpected, startling blow that made her cry out.
"Too tempting," he muttered. "We're saving pain for later. Everything in its own time."
Obviously an admonition directed at himself, since she thought she was up for anything at the moment. Then she stopped thinking at all when he put his mouth on her rim, parting her buttocks to tease her there with his mouth.
She made odd babylike cries while he was doing that, short bursts of sound, her fingers clawing the carpet. His fingers slid back into the mix to delve deep in her channel, coming back out to smear that thick arousal over her clit, stroke her there, and then she was pushing herself against his face, responding to the pumping of his fingers, the teasing of his mouth.
"Logan . . . Master . . ."
"Go over for me again."
She did, another long-drawn-out orgasm that had her screaming against the carpet, trying to muffle the sound so the neighbors wouldn't think she was being murdered. He worked her through all of it, until she was begging for mercy, until she couldn't do anything more than whimper under his touch. Only then did he draw his fingers from her, ease her to her side, then her back, so he could collect her in his arms, lift her.
He took her back to the couch. She loved all of it, but she especially loved this part, which probably made it the most dangerous, because it wasn't sexual as much as it was intimate, encouraging pointless imaginings. He hadn't yet put his cock inside her, yet she'd had two of the most intense orgasms she'd ever experienced at his hands--and mouth--alone. But Logan involved her mind in it in a way she'd never imagined possible.
As she lay in his arms in that numb haze, the thought took her back to earlier, to when he'd walked her through her auction fantasy. She knew she was going to be having a serious WTF moment tomorrow, thinking about how she'd shared that with him. What kind of woman fantasized about being a slave?
Based on the number of female role-playing costumes of that ilk in her shop, plenty. Logan understood that. It was his world. Her sharing it with him was like a doctor-patient thing, confiding a fantasy to her fantasy. It was all safe, limited and not real.
"What are you thinking about?" he murmured.
"You're out of beer. I should go get you one."
"Not unless you can do it without leaving my lap." He tightened his arms around her. Now that she had some self-awareness returning, she realized how enormous his erection was beneath her buttocks. Again.
"I didn't do anything . . . you said you wanted me to rub--"
"No. Not tonight."
"You said you don't change your mind." She put the smile in her voice, and he chuckled, a grim, strained sound.
"Not about the terms you set up front. But I can change my own game plan as much as I want. I've worked you hard and I want you to rest. But you'll tell me what you were thinking first."
She sighed. "About my stupid fantasy. I was being embarrassed about it, but then I thought about how many of the costumes in the shop seem to focus on . . . servile roles. Maid, belly dancer, palace slave . . . So maybe I'm not as twisted as I thought."
"You're not twisted at all," he reproved her, giving her hip a little pat that was one step below a slap.
"Yeah, but you're this uber-Dom, neck-deep in BDSM. So you can't be objective."
He gave her an amused look. "Are you saying I'm twisted?"
"Maybe. But in a good way. I like it. Which makes me wonder if thinking something's twisted is more about what you like or don't like than what's actually wrong or right." She frowned. "Can't wrap my mind around it. Gets morely confusing. Morally confusing, I mean." He might be right about the tired thing. Her tongue was clumsy, large in her mouth. It was a good thing he hadn't wanted that beer. She had the coordination of a rag doll.
He pressed her head back down to his shoulder, held her there for a while as they watched the music selections on the TV flicker with trivia about the artists. She had her fingers curled into the arm lying over her hip, his large palm on her buttock holding her secure. She was nearly in a doze when she felt the need to speak again, a quiet mumble.
"I don't think you're twisted. I think you're too perfect. It scares me. You scare me, Logan. A lot."
He dropped a kiss on her head, rubbed slow circles down her back until the wave of somnolent anxiety passed.
"I'm going to take care of you, Madison. You just have to trust me. And trust yourself."
Yeah, good trick, that last one. Trust her own judgment, when it had led her down so many disastrous relationship paths she could audition for Hell's GPS. She let out a little sigh, nestling further into the cradle of his lap. He would probably decide to leave at some point, unless his tote had a toothbrush. She was fine with him staying the night. She was ready to sleep here in his lap, let dreams carry her away. After all that had happened this evening, they would be very nice dreams. She hoped.
"By the way . . . I have a dress uniform, Madison. And I think you've given me a reason to use it."
The words were a generous contribution to those very nice dreams. Except they were equally capable of waking her back up. In a lot of exciting--and terrifying--ways.
