his eyes, so he lowered them, but knew she’d seen it flare there.
Instead of getting aggressive with him, as he expected, her gentle touch stroked his hair, caressed the nape of his tense and screaming neck, disarming him.
“You deny yourself the pleasure of surrender. I suppose I’m just going to have to force you to see what you’re missing.”
After that cryptic remark, she backed from him two steps. She lifted her foot from the floor and placed the point of her heel against the muscle between his shoulder and pectoral, used him as a stool to bend forward and adjust the garter fastening at the top of her stocking.
Mac lifted his hand without permission, but it was an automatic gesture to curl his arm over her leg just above her knee to steady her so she didn’t fall. She appeared to have perfect balance, but it certainly gave him the excuse to feel the texture of those 39
Joey W. Hill
sheer hose and the hint of smooth skin beneath. The heel dug into his flesh as she shifted her weight forward, but the discomfort only heightened his body’s response in that odd way that certain levels of pain could do.
A small frown line puckered her brow, made him want to kiss it. “This pair of hose has a tendency to roll, but I do like the color of them,” she murmured, then flashed him a small smile. She straightened, lifting her foot clear of him, not dragging it down his skin. The motion gave him a quick glimpse into the shadows beneath the skirt, a fleeting image of the pale petals of her pussy just beyond the silk of the stocking and the garter. She wasn’t wearing any underwear, and the brief exposure brought the scent of her arousal to him. He wanted to seize that leg, bring it back to his shoulder, bring both of them to his shoulders. He’d scoot her forward with both hands gripping her soft cheeks and hold her waist to make her ride his face, work his mouth up between her thighs until he reached the heaven he had just seen.
He knew he could, knew he was ten times stronger than the little pixie, but he also knew what happened in these rooms wasn’t about physical strength, not always.
She did not tell him to lower his gaze again, so he had the full pleasure of watching her walk across the room, the shift of an ass he now knew was buck naked beneath that skirt. It had to be a stretch material, because otherwise she had to be sewn into that dress. But it was classy, the dragon pattern across the blue, the soft flutter of ribbons as she moved. She knew how to tease a man to insanity and yet keep him back at the same time. Like a goddess. A tiny fairy goddess.
She brought a wooden chair over to face him, the kind a stable hand might tip back against the wall to draw on a length of straw and catch a nap, but this one was not old and scratched. Like all the accoutrements of this room, it was a finished expensive dark wood, a valuable antique.
“Not your usual barn chair,” he observed.
“Because this isn’t a barn,” she said. “It’s a suite for thoroughbreds to be petted and pampered by their Mistresses or Masters. Or disciplined as needed.” She sat the chair less than two feet from where she had him kneeling, tethered by his cock.
“Let’s take care of those hands now.” Violet moved around him, touched another control, and he heard the eyebolt in the ceiling engage, lowering itself on a wire. He didn’t look up, he knew better than that. This was the challenge, every time, and he had learned not to show the fear, but it was there, nipping at his vitals. He’d gotten to the point he could be anyone’s sub, allow any woman he chose to play Mistress to him. To him, but not over him. The similarity of the thought to what she had expressed to him last night struck him, raised his trepidation.
“Lift your wrists above your head,” she said. “And put your hands through the cuffs.”
Mac obeyed, his heart thundering in his chest. She pressed another control. The cuffs tightened, a hydraulic
Instead of getting aggressive with him, as he expected, her gentle touch stroked his hair, caressed the nape of his tense and screaming neck, disarming him.
“You deny yourself the pleasure of surrender. I suppose I’m just going to have to force you to see what you’re missing.”
After that cryptic remark, she backed from him two steps. She lifted her foot from the floor and placed the point of her heel against the muscle between his shoulder and pectoral, used him as a stool to bend forward and adjust the garter fastening at the top of her stocking.
Mac lifted his hand without permission, but it was an automatic gesture to curl his arm over her leg just above her knee to steady her so she didn’t fall. She appeared to have perfect balance, but it certainly gave him the excuse to feel the texture of those 39
Joey W. Hill
sheer hose and the hint of smooth skin beneath. The heel dug into his flesh as she shifted her weight forward, but the discomfort only heightened his body’s response in that odd way that certain levels of pain could do.
A small frown line puckered her brow, made him want to kiss it. “This pair of hose has a tendency to roll, but I do like the color of them,” she murmured, then flashed him a small smile. She straightened, lifting her foot clear of him, not dragging it down his skin. The motion gave him a quick glimpse into the shadows beneath the skirt, a fleeting image of the pale petals of her pussy just beyond the silk of the stocking and the garter. She wasn’t wearing any underwear, and the brief exposure brought the scent of her arousal to him. He wanted to seize that leg, bring it back to his shoulder, bring both of them to his shoulders. He’d scoot her forward with both hands gripping her soft cheeks and hold her waist to make her ride his face, work his mouth up between her thighs until he reached the heaven he had just seen.
He knew he could, knew he was ten times stronger than the little pixie, but he also knew what happened in these rooms wasn’t about physical strength, not always.
She did not tell him to lower his gaze again, so he had the full pleasure of watching her walk across the room, the shift of an ass he now knew was buck naked beneath that skirt. It had to be a stretch material, because otherwise she had to be sewn into that dress. But it was classy, the dragon pattern across the blue, the soft flutter of ribbons as she moved. She knew how to tease a man to insanity and yet keep him back at the same time. Like a goddess. A tiny fairy goddess.
She brought a wooden chair over to face him, the kind a stable hand might tip back against the wall to draw on a length of straw and catch a nap, but this one was not old and scratched. Like all the accoutrements of this room, it was a finished expensive dark wood, a valuable antique.
“Not your usual barn chair,” he observed.
“Because this isn’t a barn,” she said. “It’s a suite for thoroughbreds to be petted and pampered by their Mistresses or Masters. Or disciplined as needed.” She sat the chair less than two feet from where she had him kneeling, tethered by his cock.
“Let’s take care of those hands now.” Violet moved around him, touched another control, and he heard the eyebolt in the ceiling engage, lowering itself on a wire. He didn’t look up, he knew better than that. This was the challenge, every time, and he had learned not to show the fear, but it was there, nipping at his vitals. He’d gotten to the point he could be anyone’s sub, allow any woman he chose to play Mistress to him. To him, but not over him. The similarity of the thought to what she had expressed to him last night struck him, raised his trepidation.
“Lift your wrists above your head,” she said. “And put your hands through the cuffs.”
Mac obeyed, his heart thundering in his chest. She pressed another control. The cuffs tightened, a hydraulic
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