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She had that, too. With man and machine. She worked his cock, a slow pump, thumb playing over the head, scraping the slit, alternating hard squeezes with lingering strokes. A prostitute or girlfriend might jerk a man off for his pleasure. A Mistress took her time, enjoyed having his cock stiffen and build toward climax at her pace, giving her time to relish the build to savage urgency. Knowing he’d better hold it all back until she said differently.
She pushed his jeans and underwear to his thighs, and then indicated she wanted all of it off, including the shirt. She released his cock to allow him to take off his shoes, a necessary step to comply with her wishes, but then reclaimed its heat in her damp palm as soon as he returned his hands to the bike seat. Now nothing impeded her exploration of his ass with her free hand. Grasping, pinching, running a finger along the crease tomake a shiver run across his broad back. Those capable hands dug into the bike seat for a different reason now.
When he was in a particularly challenging mood, she’d strapped his ass with his own belt. There was something about putting marks on what belonged to you. Marks that hurt, that could be remembered long after the skin healed. It wasn’t in her like it was in Cyn, but Skye could feel the urge in a different way.
“Mistress…” His voice had that hoarseness, a warning, a question with a touch of desperation. She knew what she was doing, where she wanted to take him, and she wasn’t allowing him any room to resist. Having left him aching with a hard-on since last night, she’d put him on the cliff edge fast.
He'd still kill himself waiting for her permission. It was a glorious kind of power, but one that she’d never abuse. She put a hand on the center of his back, one tap.Come.
It took him a second, because his emotions and his head got in the way. Not all of it was about the other things he was dealing with. No matter how much she reinforced it, she knew he’d never become completely comfortable with her simply jerking him off. He thought it took away the service element for him. One of these days, if she worked with him more often, more deeply…more exclusively, she’d prove to him that it didn’t take that away at all. It deepened that element and proved his service reached beyond his own definitions of it to trust hers.
When she dropped her hand again to play against his rim, he lost his hold on that conflict. Thoughts disappeared in the surge of response, the jetting of his cock.
She had a condom in her phone bag, but she’d purposefully not rolled it on him, wanting to see his release spurt from him. Abby had told Skye she’d once threatened to have Tiger do this over the seat of the bike he brought to the club.
Abby had issued the threat. Skye had made it a reality.
But she’d chosen the right bike to use for it. If she’d ordered him to come against his gleaming Harley Dyna Street Bob in its place of pride in the corner of the barn—he even had a special spotlight for it, the crazy man—he’d have safeworded faster than if she’d pulled out a piling-sized phallus.
Or stilettos for him to wear.
Though the thought gave her an inner smile, the rest of her was tight and needy, caught up in watching him finish, the cords standing out in his neck and shoulders, the ripple of muscle along his back, ass and thighs.
Without the type of service element he embraced, with the emotions he’d been struggling with, he was in danger of subdrop, a bleak feeling she didn’t want to touch him. So as the climax finished, she squeezed his side, a nonverbal order to stay where he was.
She retrieved the hose he had attached to the utility sink and turned on the spigot. The sprayer was on a light setting, the water cool but not cold. She ran that light spray over his nape, watching his shoulders tighten and muscles jerk as they adjusted to the temperature. Drops ran over curves and angles, the infinity tattoo on his back, down to the intriguing cleft of his ass and quivering buttocks.
Easy, she crooned through her touch, following the flow of the water. He wasn’t alone on this journey. She was with him in the silence, and she was pleased with him. Her every touch said so.
Slowly, as intended, she saw him level out, not take that darker plunge. He had his head down, sides heaving. She kept her hand moving, stroking his nape, his back, down to his trembling flank and upper thigh.
Her touch also saidit’s okay, butshe mouthed it, too, no matter that he couldn’t see her.
She turned off the hose and set it aside. As she shifted to his right, still behind him, her glance fell onto the seat. She leaned against him, typing a message on her phone. Her free hand rested on the curve of his hip and ass as she brought the phone into his field of vision.
“I expect you to clean that seat and all parts of this bike thoroughly. Its owner takes care of the things he cherishes.”
Tiger lifted his head, turned it to lock gazes with her. Suddenly that post-coital daze, that satisfying exhaustion, was replaced by something else. That famous second wind he could get before being worked over by the next Mistress. Where something just as sharp and needy as when they’d started came back to life. Only this time, instead of being driven by the state she’d put his cock in, the leap in her pulse said this was driven by deeper parts of him. Like his heart.
“Damn right. Let me cherish you first, Mistress. Take care of you.”
Several pleasurable options came to mind to grant him that wish. “How strong are you?”
“Strong as you need.” She expected the cocky male response, but knowing the strength she herself had felt from him, she thought he was telling the truth.
She pointed to the bike. Mouthed,Get on.
His eyes glittered. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he obeyed.
Holy Mother.She’d seen an erect man naked on a motorcycle. Easy enough to find on the Internet. When she’d started doing sessions with Tiger, she’d indulged a little biker porn on occasion, to flavor her dreams or fuel an intense self-pleasuring session in her bedroom.
But to see it right in front of her, within reach… She held his gaze as she slid out of all of her clothes but his shirt. It had the scent of the oil she’d gotten on it, but he was in the threads as well.
He always smelled like what kept an engine running. At the club it was mixed with his soap and that cucumber, bergamot and pomegranate shampoo scent. She liked that combination, any element of those aromas bringing him to mind when she encountered them.
She fished the condom from her phone bag and tucked it into the pocket of the shirt. Then she came to his side. What she wanted was clear. She wouldn’t dwell on how he knew the smoothest way to help her on, facing him, sliding her thighs over his, bringing their bodies in close lock. He was already semi-erect, that stamina and endurance serving her now. He kept his feet braced on the concrete, holding the bike on its stand, his thigh muscles tight.
She gave him the condom to handle. After he did so, she pulled the shirt over her head, arching against the grip of his hands on her waist, watching his gaze follow her breasts as they bobbed free, tipped by taut nipples.
