AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She toyed with his fingers, felt his tension vibrating through his touch and made the decision to ease back for the moment, since he'd made the effort. "Okay. Why I'm not married." She lifted a shoulder. "Most guys think you're asking them to turn into, what did you call it? A pony? And I guess some Mistresses are looking for that, a Mother-son fetish thing. But I wanted a man, not a boy. I wanted the hardest bronc to ride." She leaned forward, her eyes covering his gleaming shoulders, the flat nipples, the tight line of hair down his sectioned stomach to the waistband of the jeans. Her hand reached out, traced a scar on his collarbone. "Not because someone had a cruel strap tightened on his balls or was digging into him with spurs to make him buck, torturing him into ferocity. I wanted the horse that was going to make me earn the right to the ride. I wanted to tame my slave, not have him come housebroken."
He met her halfway, captured her face in a hand that was a little too strong, too forceful in its grip. "Well sugar, you don't get much more unhousebroken than the 'pit bull who runs the yard'."
Her blood ran hot at the look in his eyes, the challenge, the invitation to play. With him, she sensed it would always be this way, the periodic reminder that she hadn't taken on a groomed pet, but a volatile, complicated man with alpha stamped all over him. And that was part of the excitement she hadn't known she craved.
"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."
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 wish
ing 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 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.
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."
