The CEO of Kensington gave her an appraising look that lingered on her mouth and flushed cheeks before he ran his knuckles along her arm, an affectionate touch that had that distracting possessiveness all the men exercised toward them.
“Whiskey,” he said.
It was a cue, and one she followed, going to each man rather than calling across the table. She’d correctly realized that each would take the opportunity to touch her in some way. Peter a quick tug on the chain between the nipple clamps, Lucas a brush of her upper thigh, his long fingers caressing her close to her pussy. Ben curving his hand around her ass for a nice fondling squeeze, hard enough to make her flinch, because of the ruler strikes. He watched her reaction with heavy-lidded green eyes as he gave her his drink order.
As for her own man, Jon brought her down for a kiss. “I’m very proud of you,” he said quietly, making her glow. “And I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
Not proud, but definitely…content. In her element. She poured and brought the men their drinks, hoping she hadn’t been so distracted she’d missed anything. She brought Peter a water to give to Dana in small sips as he played with the dildo between her legs, making her writhe with the movement.
“Rachel, I asked for ice in this,” Ben said.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She hurried to him to take the drink. When she came back with the proper preparation, Ben closed his hand over her wrist.
“Need another reminder to help you focus, darlin’,” he said. He tossed a look at Jon. “What’s that yoga pose of hers that gets you so revved up?”
“All of them,” Jon replied. “But I’d advise Down Dog for your purposes.”
“Since we all know doggie style is your favorite,” Lucas put in.
Ben flashed a grin, then he looked at Rachel. “You heard him.” There was a look in his eye, despite the teasing, that suggested she better obey, and quickly.
She did, hands on the floor, thighs stretched to the limit, ass lifted, legs hip-width apart. Ben’s fingers gripped the plug in her backside and manipulated it, making her legs tremble. She was aware of a creak as a chair moved and knew Jon had come closer, likely to ensure she didn’t topple. She wasn’t worried. No one here would let her fall. She was more nervous about…
Whap!
Hellfire, they were right. Ben’s barehanded strike had the impact of a paddle, and it made the ruler strikes burn. From the way he’d looked at her when she’d flinched before, she didn’t wonder that he’d decided on this for her punishment. Ben was the biggest sadist of the group. She sucked in a breath but held still as he struck again, making both buttocks wobble.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” Lucas murmured. “Can she put her ankles behind her head?”
“She can,” Jon said. “She’s very flexible.”
While she should have noticed it earlier, Rachel suddenly realized another key difference in the evening. The men normally didn’t curse in front of the women. It was one of Matt’s pretty unbreakable rules. Apparently, an all-male poker night had a different set of rules, but she suspected it was calculated. The more relaxed use of rough male language emphasized the provocative nature of her and Dana’s role here. Submissives who, for tonight, were sex slaves.
Talk about hot.
Ben’s hand caressed the stinging area, his thumb sliding between her legs to press into her pussy enough to have her gasping again. He had unexpectedly rough, thick fingers.
“Getting nice and wet again,” Ben growled. “We need to be recording this tonight, so Jon could cut out all our bullshit and make one continuous tape of their reactions. A hell of a background soundtrack to fuck any of your ladies against later. Your milky skin makes a pretty flush, Rachel. Brace yourself, because it’s going to get redder.”
He did it five more times, and her fingers were digging into the floor when he was done, her short cries impossible to bite back.
“Good girl.” His strong hands were at her waist as he rose from his chair and guided her back to a standing position. As he did, he held her back against him, dropping an oddly tender kiss on her head before he released her and looked over at Peter. A passing of the baton, she realized a second later.
“I also asked you to refill the peanut bowl,” Peter said casually.
Oh, crap. He had. While logically Rachel knew they were intentionally destroying her concentration, hoping she’d mess up like that, she still felt a service sub’s chagrin that she hadn’t met expectations. She refilled the peanut bowl while the men returned to the discussion of the game. Until she put the bowl near Peter and delivered herself to his side for reproof without being asked.
While they hadn’t said she could, she couldn’t keep herself from laying a hand on Dana’s shoulder, her thumb sweeping her nape. When Peter lifted his brow, Rachel returned her hands to her sides, but he shook his head.
“Laced behind your neck.”
She wasn’t sure if that was in reaction to her touching Dana, but she obeyed. Turning his chair toward her, Peter set his big hands to her waist and drew her in between his knees. He was just above eye level with her breasts and, since Peter was “tit-obsessed,” according to Dana, Rachel realized why he’d wanted her hands out of the way.
“Think these clamps need to be tightened just a bit, to help you pay better attention,” Peter said.
Yeah, like that would really help her focus. But she winced as he tightened the screws. It started to hurt, or maybe she was just imagining how much it could hurt, when her hand pulled free in involuntary defense and landed on his forearm.
Peter stopped, one set of fingers on the screw, the other holding her nipple in a capable grip. When his storm cloud gray gaze lifted to her face, held there, she froze, her heart thumping.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, but she couldn’t seem to make her hand lift and return to its laced position behind her head. Instead it curled into the firm, heated flesh of his forearm.
Peter glanced at that contact, then back to her face. She looked down, feeling a heated flush rising in her cheeks, because the room had fallen completely silent. Not even the clink of ice in a glass. “Are you afraid of it hurting more than you can handle?” Peter asked her.
She nodded, and he overlooked her not responding with words.
“Your Master takes very good care of you, Rachel. That’s his job, isn’t it?”
She blinked at the unexpected question, and hesitated before she spoke. “Jon does take very good care of me.”
“A careful answer. You don’t think that’s his job.”
“It’s not that. It’s that…” She stopped. It was even harder to think about complicated stuff when her body was on a high simmer of arousal.
“You don’t feel it’s your role to set the terms.” Peter nodded, as if her inability to answer had confirmed it. He glanced toward Jon and, whatever he saw there, gave him an answer of some sorts.