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She caressed his knuckles before she withdrew, her gaze noting his reactions. She rose, moved to his feet. Another chain was brought into play, this one attached to the wall, the links long enough to reach his ankles. She wrapped them loosely, using a carabiner clip to hold the chain in place. Before she did that, she had him extend his legs as far as he could, to increase the staked-out feeling. He could free himself if needed, but the restraints reinforced a command—you’ll stay like this until I say otherwise.
She knelt next to him. He sucked in a breath as she opened his jeans and released his dick. Reaching under the gauzy fabric of her blouse, into the cup of her lacy bra, she withdrew a condom, opened and rolled it over him, giving his thick base a hard squeeze. Her seemingly playful slap made him jump, sensation rocketing right to his balls.
His hands flexed on the chain, making it rattle. Her gaze went to it, slid back over him, a heavy-lidded look that offeredhim everything and nothing, because she was in control of all of it. She parted her lips, then shifted her attention back to his groin.
Fucking hell. It startled him, her leaning over and covering him completely with her mouth, sliding down. She’d teased him with oral before, but not after this much of the session had already happened. She went after him in full Mistress mode, working him, pulling on his cock like she owned it.
In this room, she did.
A Mistress could use oral as a torture. She was good at it, bringing him up and up and up. Her head never stopped moving even as she lifted a hand imperiously, one finger raised to show him he had to wait until she was ready.
When she finally turned that finger and gave him a come- hither gesture, like a martial artist inviting an opponent to unleash their best defense, his cock spurted into the latex. He gripped the chain so hard it dug into his palms, his hips bucking up, feet yanking against their binding.
She’d sat back when she gave him the permission to come, watching him hump air, her satisfied mouth still wet from sliding along his length. Seeing that was enough to keep him going, even without her touch. Yet when she added her hand on him at the end to milk out a few more intense convulsions, demanding more, he gave it to her.
After he finished, chest expanding and contracting in shuddering breaths, she released his ankles from the chain. After she gently pried open his fingers and unwrapped the chain from his wrists, she put her back to that pole and arranged them so his head was in her lap. She lifted his hand in hers, massaging the indentations in the palm. As she moved from that to a more thorough massage of his shoulders, neck and biceps, she alternated that care with occasional drifting touches over his hair and face.
He noted she seemed pensive. He wanted to make sure she was okay, but he was still too out of it. She’d worn him out. It had been a hard day at the garage, and he did something he rarely did. He fell asleep.
When he woke, he’d felt like an asshole. “I’m sorry, Mistress…”
She shook her head, faint smile telling him it was okay. After he sat up, got his bearings, and took the water she offered, she patted his shoulder and pressed a kiss to her fingers, bestowing that kiss on his forehead. A Mistress’s blessing and approval.
She retrieved a black silk shawl from a hook. After wrapping it loosely over her shoulders, she tapped his clothes, folded by the door. When she left him, her lingering fragrance, like a cool vanilla ice cream, remained.
Remarkably, he hadn’t craved another Mistress. Usually he’d have two or three full sessions in the same evening, with different Mistresses. Nuclear reactors could be fueled by his energy reserves. She’d proven her energy had matched his, at least for that memorable session.
Might be it was just a fluke, but things felt…different today.
Enough of that. Time to get back to work. Or to less pleasant things, because the purr of a familiar engine had intruded into his consciousness.Shit.
His shoulders tightened, his gut speared with the usual conflicting feelings. As Tiger crushed the cigarette out against the pole and put it in the ash container, Chuck tossed him a critical glance. “Keep smoking those, the vultures will be here for you.”
“I’ve had my head under a car hood since I could walk,” Tiger answered. “The oil and gas fumes will get me long before the nicotine.”
“Or something that’ll put you in a grave long before my burgers or your cigarettes. The wrong woman.” Chuck sent a meaningful glance toward the parking lot.
Chuck didn’t know all of his business, but he knew enough to know trouble had just pulled in.
As Tiger circled around to the front parking area, Nicole was getting out of her 1989 Jaguar XJ6 sedan. She was wearing those needle heels she liked, and looked as damn good as she always did. Her thick brown hair formed silken waves around her face, framing vivid golden-brown eyes as inviting as honey straight from the hive. Her full lips had that perpetual pouty look that made a man think of them wrapped around his cock.
Those looks and curvy body came with charisma and intelligence, and she’d put it all to good use, scoring a successful career in the porn industry. First as an actress, and then as part-owner of one of the production companies.
The wet dream body made a lot of men overlook important details, like her smarts, her drive. But Tiger wasn’t most men when it came to what he noticed. Thanks to a host of memorable Mistresses, he’d received extensive reward training on why noticing less obvious details about a woman mattered.
His dick was triggered by qualities that Nicole didn’t have, but beyond that, she was his brother’s wife. She could do a pole dance using his cock, and he wouldn’t touch her. If he needed further justification than that—and he didn’t—she’d brought along the reason that put it in stone for Tiger, like the Ten Commandments.
Nicole held the back passenger door open for a six-year-old girl whose short hair had her mother’s gleaming brown color. She had Tiger’s dark blue eyes, a color he and his brother shared.
When the girl sighted him striding across the parking lot, she ran toward him. “Uncle Tiger!”
He dropped to a squat as she reached him. In this heat, he’d unzipped and pulled the coveralls down, tying the sleeves around his waist. Even so, he would have given her an arms’ length squeeze, not wanting to transfer grease onto her, but Aubrey didn’t have patience for half measures. She wrapped her arms over Tiger’s shoulders, her sturdy body plastered against his chest. Then, with that rapid shift in attention that kids did, she pulled back to pet the elephant in his tattoo.
The gray tank he wore under the coveralls exposed the ink, a map of images from his right shoulder down to his elbow. A jungle populated with animals, exotic flowers, and foliage. The elephant, with its curling trunk and butterfly-like ears, was the central image.
He’d chosen a creature with a long memory, to keep fresh in his own why he’d covered the ink beneath the jungle. However, he always felt it there, branded soul deep. Just like the pain that family could inflict.
“Hello, how are you? Has Uncle Tiger fed you today?” As Aubrey addressed the image, she sent him a severe look. “Hermione likes ice cream the best, you know.” No cliché name like Peanut or Dumbo for his precocious niece.
