Sierra Cartwright - Doms of Dark Haven

She dragged her breathing back under control.

“Ready?”

She knew she could refuse. He was totally controlled, despite his obvious arousal; she had a safe word. But she did want this— him—despite the small panic caused by his continued dominance. “Yes,” she said.

He inserted a second finger, followed by a third. He stretched her, holding his fingers apart. It hurt, not badly, but enough that she wanted him to back off. She was going to ask him to stop, but he leaned over and kissed her exposed nape, distracting her.

“You're doing well, mo shearc.”

A hundred pleasurable sensations danced down her spine.

He was attuned to her reactions. The moment she relaxed and surrendered, he began to move in and out, patiently simulating sex.

“Yes,” she finally said. “I want your cock.”

“Where?”

This man was relentless. He was going to drive her loco. “Up my ass,” she said.

He moved slowly. He touched her, soothed her.

She'd never been taken like this, while she was tied down, helpless.

She was aware of him on his knees between her legs. He withdrew his fingers.

Then she felt the unyielding firmness of his cockhead against her opening.

“Doing okay?”

“Just take me!”

He laughed and possessed her by slow measures, firm and steady, starting shallow and reaching greater depths with each stroke.

She liked anal sex, but she'd never had it like this before.

It wasn't all about him; he made the act about her pleasure, kissing her, reaching beneath her to caress her clit. “Torin—”

“Master,” he corrected.

“Master! I want—need…”

“Come,” he told her, pulling all the way out and then surging forward, taking her in a powerful motion.

She screamed as an orgasm crashed over her.

“God, woman, you're sexy as hell.” He placed one arm beneath her hips, lifting her off the pillow slightly, holding her prisoner as he continued to ride her.

She felt sore and used, but she wouldn't be satisfied until he came.

She heard his breathing change, felt his cock swell slightly. She bore down hard, and he climaxed with a pure male grunt of satisfaction.

He continued to hold on to her long past the time her breathing returned to normal.

“I didn't sleep last night,” he said, “thinking about doing that with you.”

“Master fucked his sub hard.”

He laughed. “More where that came from, Mira.” He pulled out, and he disappeared into the bathroom for a few moments.

She heard the water running, and she closed her eyes, her thoughts in a whirl.

Now what?

Did they train together? Did he expect that these scenes had changed their partnership? Had they?

Torin returned to the bedroom with a warm, damp cloth. He pressed it against her anus, soothing her.

That had been missing in all the other scenes she'd participated in—the aftercare from her dom. Generally she hit the bathroom on her way out of a man's house, then called out a cheery good-bye over her shoulder.

Torin, it seemed, was having none of that. She was surprised how much she liked and appreciated the tender gesture.

Once she was cleaned up, he sat on the edge of the bed and released her right wrist from its restraint. “You're a lovely sub,” he said, massaging her skin until circulation returned.

“You don't suck as a dom.”

He swatted her rear, and she yelped. She was definitely sore from last night's beating.

He unfastened the rest of her bonds and then helped her to stand. He pulled her against him, her breasts pressing against his muscled chest.

It felt nice. Right.

He caught a hand in her hair and pulled her head back.

He claimed her mouth, kissing her deeply. He tasted of coffee tempered by a hint of sugar, then drizzled with sin.

She responded and rose onto her tiptoes, leaning wantonly against him. He pressed his free hand against the small of her back, holding her tight. She wiggled about a bit, feeling herself growing more and more aroused beneath his sensual assault. Torin Carter made her want to be a very naughty girl.

He slowly ended the kiss. Her mouth felt raw and ravaged. Hungry, she wanted more.

Torin looked at her intently. The color of his eyes never failed to startle her, but what she hadn't noticed before yesterday was that they revealed his thoughts and emotions, whether they were angry ice or aroused smoky blue.

“We need to talk,” he said. “I'll brew a fresh pot of coffee while you get cleaned up and put on some clothes.”

“Talk?”

“About what's next.”

She steeled herself.

If he said that their having had a BDSM scene was a mistake, she'd have to agree with him. Reluctantly. The scenes had been hot. The man knew how to give it to her.

But the emotional cost was high. He'd taken everything she'd offered and then some.

And if he said he thought they should end their partnership, what then? She wanted to work with him. Lord knew there was a lot she could learn from him that would make her better at her job, a more valuable asset to Hawkeye, Inc.

“Mira?”

She nodded. “I'll meet you in the kitchen.”

He kissed her forehead before releasing his hold on her hair.

His idea, apparently, of putting on clothes was to pull on a fresh pair of jeans, leaving them unfastened at the waist.

How could she think, let alone talk, with him looking so devilishly sexy?

“Ten minutes, Mira, or I'll come looking for you.”

She hurried to the shower in her own bedroom, the promise of fresh coffee more appealing, for the moment, than misbehaving and provoking him into another spanking.

When she exited the shower, she saw he'd left a cup of hot, steaming coffee on the granite vanity. He'd added the exact right amount of creamer, and steam rose from the surface. His powers of observation made him good at his job. No way would it still have been steaming if it hadn't been nuked in the microwave for thirty or forty seconds after adding the cream—the same way she did.

She wondered if he'd stood there for a few seconds and watched her shower through the glazed shower doors. The idea turned her on; it implied an intimacy she liked.

After a long sip of hot coffee that drained a third of the cup, she dressed in faded-to-white denim jeans, a soft sweater, thick socks, and her favorite running shoes. He was braver than she was when it came to facing the Bay Area's morning chill.

She finished the coffee, hoping the caffeine would clear the cobwebs from her head. She needed to be at her peak to face Torin. Cup in hand, she pulled back her shoulders, exhaled from her diaphragm, then joined him in the kitchen. “This seems to be empty,” she said, more to break the tension than anything else.

“I can handle that.” Along with brewing strong-enough-to-stand-a-spoon-in-upright coffee, he'd cooked a pile of bacon and a panful of eggs, and he'd kept a plate warm for her in the oven.

“You've been busy,” she said. “Thanks.”

He slid the plate onto the same table where she'd masturbated herself to orgasm last night, and told her, “You need to keep your strength up. Sit.”

Still bossy. She picked up a piece of bacon and chewed off a bite as she slid into the chair.

He poured her a fresh cup of coffee. She could get used to being spoiled like this.

After she'd cleaned off half her plate and drained another cup of coffee, he leaned back against the counter and regarded her with his arms folded across his chest.

“While we're partners,” he said, “you will not engage in BDSM scenes with anyone else but me.”

She put down her fork. “I'm not sure what you mean by that.”

“If you need to be beaten, I'll make sure you're satisfied.”

“Working together doesn't mean you have any exclusive hold on me sexually.”

“Yes,” he said. “It does.”

He might have been halfway across the room but she knew not to underestimate him or the Irish temper he was restraining. Her own temper started to flare. “You could try asking.”

“I could. But I won't. This is nonnegotiable. My rules, or tell Hawkeye you want to be reassigned.”

“He'll want to know why.”

“So tell him. Tell him you're a pain slut, Mira, who needs to have her ass reddened regularly, and it compromises our mission.”

“You never said that. You just went all mondo caveman and started issuing orders.” She clenched her jaw and shoved back from the table. He had her backed into a corner, trying to take away her choices, and he was offering no way out. “Is this your idea of us talking? You stand there and issue orders, and I'm supposed to smile like an empty-headed idiot and agree with you? You're an ass, Torin Carter.”

He grinned.

Damn him. Fuck him.

“You have no right to dictate who I play with, who I sleep with.”

“Mira, mo shearc, you started it when you crawled into my bedroom with a belt between your teeth. Until that moment, you were free to do whatever you wanted, with whomever you wanted.” He pushed his hips away from the counter. “But you offered your sweet ass to me, and I decided to accept. So deal with it.” In a few fluid movements—the kind that served him well in crisis situations—he was across the room. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her up from her chair.

She was breathless, angry, and aroused. For the first time in her life she had no idea what to do with the snarly knot of emotion. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to run the hell away from him, forget anything had happened between them, and take back control. Most of all, she wanted him to fuck her.

This kiss was unlike his earlier one.

He dragged her onto her toes, dug a hand into her hair, and pulled her head back, keeping her painfully imprisoned.

“Mine,” he said. He took her mouth, staking his claim.

His kiss was hot, searing, punishing. She fought her response for as long as she possibly could, keeping her body rigid and her responses under tight control.

She felt his hard cock against her pelvis, demanding her capitulation. She couldn't. She wouldn't.

Living her life on her terms was more important than his demands.

He was relentless. His tongue sought hers. His hand in her hair kept her from running away.

He dominated her ruthlessly.

After a few seconds he softened the kiss and her resistance.

He probed, sought, asked.

That kind of power—his power—subdued her.

Against her own instinct for preservation, she began to respond to his kiss. She willingly offered her mouth as well as her surrender.

Within moments she found herself falling into the natural order— his order—of things.

It infuriated her. She was a woman in control of her own destiny. Or she had been until she met Torin.

By coming on to him, what the hell had she started?

Fuck and a half.

Torin didn't let women get to him. He avoided emotional entanglements, and he preferred the anonymity and lack of commitment that went whip in hand with one-night stands.

Now he knew why.

This spitfire had gotten under his skin. He liked, wanted, needed a woman who was as resourceful as she was strong, who was as giving and submissive as she was carnal and honest in her sexuality.

Mira Araceli was all those things in one exotic, sexy package.

He admired that she knew what she wanted, that she went after it.

His balls tightened as the need to possess her intensified. He put a hand on her rear and moved her impossibly closer to him.

He'd clearly pissed her off with his heavy-handed proclamation that he was in charge, that he would be the only one beating her sweetheart of an ass, but damn it to Dublin and back, he was furious too.

He told himself he had no claim on her, save their being work partners. He shouldn't care who the hell beat her, who fucked her. If she wanted half of Hawkeye's team to tie her up, it was none of his business.

But the idea of anyone but him making her scream as she came made his Irish blood seethe.

He'd meant it when he said she was his to use. As long as they were assigned together, he'd be the only one seeing her naked body. He'd made that clear. She might fight it, but she would ultimately capitulate.