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She resisted each inch. Not a fight, but enough so that he had to exert pressure.
Their eyes remained locked together until she reached the point where she would need to slide her hips, and then suddenly she gave way, gracefully easing back from his touch. Settling into the chair as if he had simply held it out for her as was her due. It was impressive, but he was logging other signals. The pounding pulse in her throat, the intensity of her gaze. The fact that she, who had so many carefully cherished items in her shop, had so brutally and quickly destroyed the top of a valuable antique table.
"Marguerite. " He rose, removing the knife. Holding her gaze, he lifted one of her hands and laid the handle of the knife in her palm, closing her fingers over it. "I'll take you through the sub requirement if you choose to accept me. But I won't lie for you.
You decide what's more important. Your veneer, or what The Zone provides for you.
You're not a coward. Don't act like one. "
She didn't look at him. Merely sat motionless and focused on the scene outside the picture window. The gathering night, a bird taking her last sip of water from the lap of a stone Indian goddess. The light flutter of the leaves of a silver green eucalyptus tree from an unseen breeze.
Marguerite didn't have
to look at Tyler to feel his movements, the impact of his expression. She'd faced dangerous situations before but suddenly antagonizing him seemed one of her more foolish calculated risks. Perhaps because she'd not calculated at all, simply reacted. Compelled past control, which had never before been a problem for her.
He released her, moved past her chair. Leaving. She watched the bird move to the ground to scavenge what could be found there. She tried hard to concentrate on that, the mental reminder to replenish the feeder, instead of trying to see Tyler's reflection in the glass, ashamedly hungry to see his form.
She was successful enough that she jumped, unprepared when his hands came down on her shoulders. The fingers of his right hand curled in her braid, digging in so the tension tilted her head to the right and exposed her neck to the heat of his mouth closing over her jugular.
The power of the sensation exploded in her body with the violence of a grenade. It was something she'd never felt before. A man's touch, uninvited and overpowering, had never felt like this. Never something she thought she'd welcome.
He'd chosen a method of retaliation to her mad act which simply swept the floor and the walls away, leaving just the magic of his lips on her skin.
Suckling her, he scored her with his teeth. Muscles were drawing taut low in her belly, and she felt the amazing sensation of wetness on her thighs. Cupping the silk-clad curves of her shoulders in his large hands, he tightened his grip as his fervor increased, his lips moving up her throat to her jawline. She found herself leaning to the right and back, almost cradled in the curve of his right arm. Overwhelmed by this unexpected turn of events, she couldn't grasp why she was allowing this or what was happening to her. Only when he moved from the line of her jaw to the corner of her mouth did fear and sanity return.
"No. . . no. " She struggled to get the words past her lips. Turning to press her head against her shoulder, it put her forehead against the heat of his hand, his hard knuckles.
He stopped, his lips at her ear, his breath caressing her. His left hand dropped down to where she clasped the knife in two tight fists. She hadn't realized she'd brought her hands together in such a manner. When he closed his palm over the pointed end and bore down, she jerked as the blade punctured his flesh. He turned his palm up so she could see the blood well up from the Venus mound. It trickled along the life line as he tilted his palm and guided the slow, thin flow of blood down to his index finger. She inhaled sharply as he traced the line of her neck with the warm wetness.
"I'm not afraid to bleed for you, Marguerite. " His voice was a rough whisper against her ear. "I'll tell The Zone you're thinking it over. Don't disappoint me. Or yourself. "
Chapter Three
His visit to the tearoom on Thursday had been an enlightening trip. Tyler had never been in Marguerite's place. He supposed he'd been honoring an unspoken code not to come without invitation into the territory of a Zone Domme. He'd expected it to be a well-run establishment. He hadn't expected the experience to include art, culture, spiritualism. A return to a time romanticized in memory that she'd made fact with the environment she provided, the knowledge she demonstrated, the offerings she had collected and shared. A complex and very intelligent woman.
He smiled at himself, at his infatuation with Marguerite Perruquet which had only increased the more aloof she made herself toward him. At times he thought she was doing it deliberately to goad his interest and perhaps she was, even if unconsciously.
For he knew without a doubt he had an effect on Marguerite, no matter her usual coolness toward him. He wouldn't classify yesterday's attempt to spear him to her table as dispassionate. Or her body's reaction to his lips on her soft throat.
As he drove into The Zone parking lot on Tuesday, Tyler didn't have to see her black BMW to know she was here. When he got inside, he didn't even have to see the crowd of club attendees clustered around one portion of the glass floor. He felt her.
Marguerite had become his obsession. She couldn't draw breath without him feeling the loss of oxygen in his own lungs.
He didn't know how or when it had happened. He'd known her for some time, admired her techniques at The Zone. What had intrigued him first was the way she never met anyone's eyes. Not as though she was avoiding confrontation. It was as if she perceived people with a sense other than sight, so sight was unnecessary to her to establish a connection, communication or acknowledgement.
Certainly the man in the room with her tonight, restrained in such a complex layer of straps that Tyler doubted there was any muscle capable of free movement, was not feeling neglected. Brendan had waited months for the pleasure of serving the Ice Queen for the second time, because she almost never took a sub to a private room twice.
Tyler fully expected she would break Brendan down until each cell of his body was attuned to her every movement, every blink or shift of her weight, every aspect of her existence. She was right, what she had said at her tearoom. In two hours she achieved more than most people might in a relationship in which they'd invested two years. For her subjects, he suspected she was the trip of a lifetime. They planned, hoped and dreamed for this short moment.
She would take them to a point where they would die for her, for the simple touch of her hand. When she was done with them, she would walk away without even a glance over her shoulder. He could count on one hand the number of times she'd allowed her subjects to believe they'd brought her to climax, one of the many reasons she'd earned her title. Never with their hands, definitely never with their cocks. Fully underscoring the slave's status. Only with his mouth could a sub serve her. As he took a seat, Tyler recalled one of those rare times, when he'd considered himself fortunate to be present.
It had been about six months ago. She'd been straddling the chosen man's face while he was restrained on a bench that had been tilted at a forty-five degree angle, his head toward the floor, his feet in the air to increase the sense of helplessness. She hadn't removed her clothes; she rarely ever did. However the tight lace bodysuit in a shimmering black had allowed the sub ample ability to feel the soft lips of her pussy rubbing in slow circles against his mouth.
When she'd lifted her head, apparently in the throes of the climax, her gaze had locked with Tyler's through the glass ceiling, where he sat in the upper mezzanine watching. She'd shuddered, fighting something, her head bowing back down so her face was in shadow. He'd watched a flush spread across her neck, the line of her cheek.
Something shattered, so distinctly he was surprised to still find his drink dangling loose in his fingers. The shattering was within himself. He couldn't describe what he felt. He just knew something had happened between them in that brief eye contact. As surely as he knew that she'd been faking that orgasm until she looked up at him. Somehow that had pushed her into a place she hadn't intended to go.
Look at me.
