Dana put her arms around Peter’s neck and he lifted her off the table, swinging her effortlessly into a similar cradling hold as he sat back down in his chair. Dana curled up in his lap like a kitten. But Peter had more on his mind than nurturing. Putting his hand between her thighs, he stroked, causing her to grip his biceps and make a breathy little moan.
“That’s my hot slave,” he said in his husky voice. “You want to come too, but you’re going to have to wait until I say, aren’t you?”
She nodded, her face tightening with the effort. When he cupped her jaw, she turned her head and nipped his fingers, nuzzling and licking them, taking one finger in her mouth to suck and play as he watched, feral heat in his eyes.
Despite the mesmerizing power of that display, it only took one decisive movement from Jon to bring Rachel’s attention fully back to him. He settled his hand on her throat, fingers spreading out to collar her below the hold of the silver one. She stilled under that commanding touch, but it was his gaze that captured her.
Everything he’d shared with her tonight, especially that interlude with Matt, was there in his expression, and more. As she met his gaze, she saw an even more volatile power than she’d felt when he’d first taken her on the table, earlier in the night.
Everything about him, not just his hands, held her, as he mouthed the word Rachel knew well.
Mine.
There was a dangerous layer beneath the Zen crunchy granola stuff, as Ben put it. And while she loved his gentle side, this side did something to her she could never deny. Not on any level. She swallowed, because she saw in his gaze what he wanted, and not much was holding it in check. He wanted to take her on this table again, hard thrusts that would be about him asserting his dominance over her, and he wouldn’t stop after she climaxed. He’d continue until she was so weak, he would have to scoop her up and carry her home.
“Matt,” Jon said, not taking his gaze away, that look holding her in place. “You have the winning hand. What’s your pleasure?”
“I’m fond of frottage. When Rachel is recovered enough, I want to see some of that.”
“That’d be a nice way to see my girl come,” Peter mused. He stroked the back of Dana’s neck, his hand dwarfing the slender column. “Would you like that, baby?”
“Look at her,” Jon said quietly, a command. Rachel reluctantly pulled her gaze away. Dana was nodding against Peter’s chest. Her hand rested on it, nails biting into his shirt, revealing the struggle she was having, with his other hand continuing to play between her legs, squeezing and tapping the clit shield, and stroking her labia beneath it. Her lips were working, and occasionally Rachel could hear a little whimper escape her.
“Rachel is recovered enough,” Jon said. “Aren’t you, sweet girl?”
There was a rough rumble beneath his deep voice, and when she turned her attention back to him, she was ready to do as he wanted. But what he needed concerned her more.
“I’m yours, in whatever way you need me,” she said softly, for his hearing alone. “Even if it takes my last breath. Master.”
His gaze sparked, and his hands tightened on her. His mouth was on hers in the next breath, and she moaned at the strength of it, the way he invaded with tongue and lips and teeth, his hands sliding around so one was tight around her shoulders, the other gripping her ass, fingers almost bruising.
When he eased her back, he seemed a little more settled, though she expected that fire was merely banked. She wouldn’t mind letting the flames rise up and immolate her, sooner rather than later.
“Ready to take care of Dana?” he asked again, clearing his throat.
She was, but she had a question, one she was a little self-conscious about asking. She whispered it in his ear, her lips teased by the soft strands of his black hair.
Even before she and Jon had come together, she’d surfed the BDSM sites online, lurking and looking at the things she yearned to do and feel. She’d done it so much that, in the months before they met, she’d stopped, because it hurt too much to see what she wanted and had to accept she’d never have. But for all her personal understanding of what being a submissive was, she really wasn’t all that sophisticated when it came to terminology.
Jon lifted his head, brushing his nose against hers with tender affection before glancing across the table. “Matt, can you tell Rachel what frottage is? I think she’d also like the story of why you particularly like watching it, if you care to share.”
She’d whispered it for a reason, but from the sensual warmth in his eyes, she expected he had a good reason for making her question public.
“Frottage is two women rubbing against one another,” Matt said, in a matter-of-fact way that didn’t make her feel like he found her lack of knowledge anything unusual. He shifted back in his chair, resting his ankle over his opposite knee and placing a hand there. His dark brown eyes were as direct and piercing as always, but she also sensed he was looking at a picture in the past as he continued.
“Years ago, in Amsterdam, I’d had a meeting with a man I didn’t particularly like, but we did a good deal of mutually beneficial business with one another. Later that night, I decided to take a walk. In Amsterdam, there are windows where women and men display themselves in a sexual manner to coax visitors inside for paying services. Some of the situations are reputable and consensual, while others don’t feel that way.
“But one particular window caught my attention, and not just because it was at an upscale club I knew to be run the proper way. Two dark-haired beauties were in the window, lying naked upon a mattress draped in dark green shimmering fabric, framed with gold posts as if it were a bed.”
As he continued, offering more description than Rachel would have expected from the laconic Matt, the picture unfolded in her mind. She was aware of Jon’s hands upon her, stroking her skin, her hair. His lips brushing her temple.
“A flowing gauze gold canopy hung from it, partially screening them, but not so much you couldn’t see the golden tones of their flesh, the movement of their bodies as one lay upon the other. They moved like a man and woman, only smaller movements, more circular, as the woman on top rubbed her clit over the one on the bottom. All while she played with the bottom woman’s breasts, with her large, pink, pierced nipples.”
He paused, a light smile touching his lips, but she noticed there was no humor to it. “Now, what drew my eyes to this window, even more than the lovely women in it, was who stood before it.”
His lips tightened. “The man I had met in Amsterdam was Geoffrey Tennyson. Savannah was his CFO at that time. She’d capably pulled more than her share of weight at our meeting.” He paused. “She was the person in front of those two women.”
Rachel blinked. Matt’s dark eyes sparked with the light she most often saw when he looked at or, in this case, thought of, his wife. Whereas he’d said Savannah’s name with undeniable devotion, it was obvious he didn’t care to even speak the name of her father.