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I sent that too. Oh, for fuck’s sake!
FP: Just forget the whole thing. Delete these texts, and while you’re at it, my number too. While you’re at it, delete this whole day, especially the ball in my face and the angel talk. Terrible, terrible day to have to think of. I—
PP: I’ll be there.
I stared at the three-word response like it was a new species of dinosaur that I had just discovered. He’d be there. He was accepting the invite. He was coming.
FP: Okay.
Tucking my cell under my pillow, I stared at my old One Direction poster on the wall, left over from when I was a teenager. “It’s your fault, fuckers,” I said maliciously to their smiling faces. “You and those accents that I had my first lady wank to.” I leaned up and smacked Harry Styles on his perfect hair. “You ruined me. Broke me! I’m Pavlov’s dog with all the English shit.” My head throbbed at my rather psychotic outburst. Lying back in my bed, I closed my eyes.
Blue eyes.
Heart-stopping smile.
Exceptionally.
Chapter Twelve
I tried to catch my breath, Maître’s fingers skirting up and down my spine as I lay across his chest. Every time I came here, he showed me more and more pleasure. The ropes that tied my wrists and ankles to the bed were still intact after tonight’s debauched offerings.
“I can’t move,” I whispered, each fiber of my tender muscles torn, just like the white lace panties hanging from a post on the bed. They oddly looked like a flag of surrender.
“That is the point, mon petit chaton.” I looked up at Maître and saw the mask move upwards, and I knew he was smiling underneath. He rolled me over onto my back, my arms and legs stretched at the head and foot of the bed. Maître turned me over and kneeled between my open legs. His hand rubbed over my behind. He moved it away before swatting my ass with one firm, hard slap.
“Mm…” I moaned at the delicious sting. I pressed my head into the mattress, smiling as he rained four more highly addictive spanks onto me. When I could barely take any more, he flipped me to my back, once again laying my head on his chest. I cherished these moments. And over the past few visits, he had begun to talk to me. Not only orders and commands, but actual conversation. It only made me crave him more, if that was even possible.
Maître ran his hand down my body and cupped my still-tender pussy. He would always touch me, caress me, keeping me eternally on the edge of pleasure. He removed his hand from between my legs, and I breathed in his mahogany and tobacco scent. His hands ran through my hair, and I was content to just lie there on his chest with him stroking me.
“Why the club?” I asked sleepily.
“Are you feeling curious tonight, ma chérie? I could put that curiosity to good use.”
“Always. But I was just wondering how one goes about starting a sex club.” I stared at the expertly tied ropes on my wrists.
“You’re thinking of starting one?” The quarter of his lips that was exposed under the mask pursed. I liked him this way. After sex, when he began to talk to me. It was just as exciting to me as the pleasure. Some nights I craved it more. As the weeks had rolled on, I had relaxed around him. I spoke more. He got to see my personality more. And best yet, I saw flickers of his.
I rolled my eyes. “No. Just saying that I found it almost impossible to start a book club at my school, never mind an entire promiscuous empire for the sexually curious.”
“A book club?”
“Not just any book club, Maître Auguste. A banned book club.” I smirked at the sound of Maître laughing under this breath.
“Of course, mon petit chaton could not just do something normal, she must take it to higher heights.”
“And higher heights it was. Want to hear what book I was planning on starting with?”
“I’m all ears.”
“Lady Chatterley’s Lover.”
“How erotically apt,” Maître said.
“I see your point there.” I shrugged. “Maybe I’ve always had a propensity for the racier side of life and just didn’t realize it.”
“And how old were you when you started this banned club? Sixteen, seventeen?”
“Twelve.” The deep, throaty laugh that spilled from Maître’s throat made me a puddle on the bed. “Have you read that book? It’s hot! A sex-starved upper-class woman having an affair with a lower-class gamekeeper.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“It is.” Maître leaned down and kissed the side of my neck. My eyes rolled at the feel. “We were talking about the club,” I said breathlessly, wanting to know about him.
“You were talking about the club, ma chérie,” Maître Auguste said, his lips leaving my neck.
