Sierra Cartwright - Doms of Dark Haven

“Mas…Master… May I come?”

“No chance.” He pulled out.

She groaned in protest.

“Being an impatient sub will prolong the amount of time until you are allowed an orgasm. If you want to come, play it a little more obediently, Mira.”

“Yes…Master.”

After wiping his hands on a moist towelette, he returned to her. “Arms spread, Mira.”

He saw her shoulders rise and fall. Although she hadn't made anything ordinary off-limits, he knew he was pushing a boundary now. They'd never played together before, and all she had to operate on were her instincts. He was pissed, as he'd told her. She was wise to be wary. “I'm waiting,” he said softly against her ear.

Slowly, as if it were mind over matter, she moved her wrists toward the shackles attached to the walls.

Beating her was going to be a pleasure.

And the scent of her arousal only made him that much more anxious to get on with it.

Mira forced a breath deep into her lungs. The breath didn't help calm her nerves. So she did it again.

She'd studied yoga for most of her life. Five years ago, she'd learned to meditate. Every day, even in inclement or blazing weather, she trained physically hard, keeping her body and its responses at their peak. She knew how to manage her stress, her emotions, and her energy. And right now she couldn't remember how to do anything other than gulp oxygen. Her brain felt like scrambled eggs.

She'd wanted this. She'd wanted to play with Torin Carter.

When she'd learned from Hawkeye himself that she and Torin would be partners, she'd almost swooned. She might actually have done just that had she been the type of woman who would ever swoon. As it was, she'd locked her knees momentarily, nodded politely, and pretended to be a professional.

She'd had a crush on the big, bad, mighty Torin Carter for several years, since he'd taught a training course she'd been forced to attend. She'd been young, green, not as physically strong as she'd thought. They'd participated in hand-to-hand combat, and he'd instantly and completely subdued her. Her ego had been as bruised as her body. She had used that experience to fuel her determination to be tougher, to be better. And while she knew he didn't remember her from back then—

she'd been just another recruit—she'd never forgotten him.

After the meeting with Hawkeye, she'd been anxious to get back to her Denver apartment. Later that night, alone in her bed, she'd take her bullet vibrator from her nightstand drawer. With the toy set to low, she'd allowed her fantasies about her new partner to run wild. When she'd orgasmed, she'd screamed out his name.

Until him, she'd never fantasized about an Irishman. She preferred men who were a contrast to her—blond to her black hair. Fair skin to her darker tone. And she definitely liked men who were more even-tempered than she was. She needed a man who was malleable, someone she could take off a shelf and play with when she wanted.

Torin Carter was the antithesis of what she thought she wanted in a man, what she always went for. Instead of the light green eyes she preferred, this man had searing blue eyes, along with a gaze that seemed to look through her, not at her. He spooked her a bit with the way he seemed to read exactly what she wanted.

Despite her protests, he'd been correct in saying she wanted him. She wanted to be beaten by him, not Master Blake. She wanted to feel the power of Torin's lash.

She wanted to know if he was as focused on playing BDSM games with her as he was on his job.

More than anything, she wanted to know if he was man enough to give her everything she wanted and needed when it came to sex.

So far she'd never found anyone who would or could.

Some were good for a spanking, but not for dominating her. One was great at telling her what to do, but when it came to wielding a flogger, he was apologetic and limp wristed. Master Blake hadn't been bad at inflicting the right amount of pain, and he'd been steadily increasing the intensity of his strokes, but she'd heard that outside of the club he was a bit of a wuss. Politeness was one thing; she needed a man who could be in control, always.

“Right wrist first,” Torin said, breaking into her thoughts.

His touch was uncompromising but surprisingly gentle as he secured her right wrist in place. Instinctively she pulled back on the tether, testing it. Like Torin, it was unyielding. A ripple of anticipation jolted through her body.

The wall was uncomfortably cold. She was hyperaware of the room's chill, of the door with its window, of Torin's spicy, masculine scent.

He secured her left wrist in place, leaving her splayed and helpless.

Her mother had always warned her to be careful what she wished for. With her temper, Mira always wanted to push the outer limits of everything she tried. In Torin, she might have met her match. His tone when he'd found her had shocked her. She was accustomed to a much more restrained Torin. Even when she'd crawled into his bedroom, he'd calmly wrapped her in one of his robes and escorted her out the door before locking it behind her.

He'd never raised his voice, never betrayed that he cared one way or the other that he'd seen her naked body.

But now she knew. His erection was turgid, and she prayed she'd have it inside her soon. Hopefully he wouldn't be shy about using her anally either. He could be the type of man she'd fantasized about.

Her pussy was still dripping; her clit throbbed.

“How many strokes with my belt?” he asked.

Uh. He wanted her to decide? A chill—part delight, part fear—chased up her spine. Torin wouldn't let her abdicate her role in their play.

“Mira?”

“Eight, Sir?”

“Good place to start. Eight will be sufficient to satisfy the club's demands for punishment, but not mine.”

She shuddered.

“How many strokes for allowing Blake to touch you, to see you?”

“When I invited Master Blake to play, I didn't realize I wasn't allowed to do that,” she said.

“That wasn't the question.”

Her instinct was to protest. How could he arbitrarily enforce rules that she didn't know existed? “Two.”

“Three it is.”

She opened her mouth but clamped it shut again. He'd simply add more strokes the more she protested. And since she didn't know how hard he would hit her, she figured she'd better err on the side of safety.

“How many total?”

“Eleven.”

“How many for coming to the club tonight without my permission?”

She bit into her lower lip. That one she couldn't protest. She had sneaked away from the house. They were partners, and even if an argument had ensued, she should have told him she was leaving. “Three more,” she said reluctantly. Fourteen was a lot of strokes from someone you'd never played with.

“Is your pussy still wet?”

“It was. Now I'm suddenly a little nervous,” she admitted, “so I'm not as turned on as I was earlier.”

He moved in behind her. Using his body, he pushed her hard against the cold, unyielding wall. She felt the scratch of denim and the hardness of his cock against her naked backside. Her breasts were flattened against the stone. Her nipples hardened from the cold and from her overwhelming arousal.

“I'm tempted to just fuck you hard, here, with you so totally helpless.”

“Now I'm wet,” she whispered. He didn't even need to touch her. He could turn her on just with words. He thrust repeatedly against her rear, simulating intercourse. She wanted his penetration, his possession. “Please,” she begged.

“Please fuck me.”

“The beating first,” he told her, his breath warm on her ear.

“Master!”

“You'll count them for me, mo shearc.” He moved away.

“Damn it,” she said. “Damn you.”

The bastard actually laughed.

He left her weak and needy, on the razor's edge of fulfillment.

He caught her completely off guard, unprepared.

Torin landed the first blow, right under her buttocks, with a vicious upward stroke. She gasped from shock, from sudden pain.

His punishment had been much, much harder than she'd anticipated.

“Count,” he reminded her.

“One,” she bit out. There'd been nothing erotic about his first smack. Maybe he wasn't as fabulous as she'd thought.

He caught her again, in the exact same spot, with the exact same pressure.

“Mira?”

“Two.” She braced herself as much as she could with nothing to hold on to.

The third followed suit, and it was then that she realized his skill. His aim was exact, his timing impeccable. He was a master of beatings.

“This is meant as a punishment,” he said, “not as a pleasure beating. Xavier wouldn't approve if I didn't punish you. And neither would you.”

“Three,” she said rather belatedly.

He added a little more force to the fourth, and she cried out.

“Four!”

“That's my girl.”

She bit back her reactive fuck you. Letting that out of her mouth, she knew, definitely wouldn't bode well for her.

For the next few seconds nothing happened. He allowed the time and silence to stretch. The only thing she was aware of was her own breath.

“Let me know when you're ready to proceed.”

He thought she was struggling to take it? That annoyed the hell out of her.

“Bring it on.” She waited a couple of seconds before adding, “Master.”

“You haven't learned about goading me?”

Instead of hitting her, he tormented her, moving in closer, reaching between her legs, trailing his fingertips up her thigh. He was going to drive her mad. Stark, raving mad.

He pinched her clit. She cried out. It hurt, but deliciously so. She ground her hips forward, all but trying to get off against the wall.

“Stop that. Naughty hussy.”

She would have stamped her foot if it hadn't been shackled.

“Where were we?”

“Four,” she said.

“Are you ready to resume?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“More respectful. Better.” This time he caught her across the fleshy part of her butt cheeks.

“Five.” Damn it! It stung so bad. Hurt so good.

God, she'd wanted this. She'd wanted a man who could give her this, with unyielding force. She liked the pain he inflicted, loved the fact he gave her a few seconds to absorb the sensation before moving on to the next one.

“We have an audience,” he told her. “Xavier has been watching for the last few minutes.”

That thought turned her on. She did have a little exhibitionist in her, but she respected that he might want to keep her punishment private in future. “I hope he's satisfied. Because you're definitely making me feel punished.”

“You don't sound repentant.”

She'd have to lie to say she felt repentant.

“Mira?”

Mira had wanted to feel his lash; she knew she would misbehave again to get it.

Before she was fully ready, the beast landed the next one across the uppermost part of her left thigh. The tip of the belt bit into her pussy. She moaned. She groaned. She wiggled, trying to escape. But he'd confined her perfectly, exquisitely.

“So I assume you're not repentant?”

“No,” she confessed.

He laughed. “Well then. You've had six strokes,” he said. “You've almost satisfied Xavier's club's demands. But you're not even close to satisfying mine.”

As he'd talked, the searing pain receded.

He moved to her other side to catch her right thigh; again, the end of the leather monster sliced against her exposed pussy.

“I can smell you,” he said.

“Seven…and it freaking hurt,” she protested.

“Bad?”

“Bad,” she said.

“Poor thing. And that's why your pussy is wet?”

He added the eighth on top of the last two, as if tying them together.

“Those satisfy the club,” he said. “And Xavier is gone. The next three are for you allowing Blake to touch you.”

The next three were perfectly timed and impeccably landed. Each stripe was on top of the previous one, across her butt cheeks instead of the upper part of her thighs. They hurt like hell, and he wielded the leather aggressively. He gave no quarter, and she asked for none, wanting to feel the full power of his lash.

Each of the three blows dragged a scream from her.