Servicing the Target Page 4

  Forget that halt shit. “I suppose it’s green for all systems go?”

  “That’s right. I should ask if you have a problem with my hands—or anything else—on your cock and balls.”

  I’d have a problem if you didn’t touch me. A sense of caution amended the words to a polite, “No problem at all, Mistress.”

  “Excellent. Now do as I said.”

  A stint in the military pretty much wiped out modesty and his sojourn in a hospital had eliminated the rest. In front of the St. Andrew’s cross, Ben stripped down. He had a massive erection, but he figured the good Mistress might’ve been annoyed if he hadn’t been aroused.

  A black suede overnight-sized bag sat nearby. She’d have her so-called toys in it. His anticipation grew.

  Hips swinging gently, she sauntered over and his mouth watered. She was slender, but her curvy ass would fill his big paws nicely.

  In turn, she was looking at him with…enjoyment. Unlike some Masters he’d seen, she wasn’t impassive, but openly showed that she appreciated what she saw.

  No, idiot, you can’t flex your muscles for her.

  Her hand ran down his chest, ruffled the hair, and traced a puckered scar on his right side. “Bullet?”

  Luckily, the insurgent had only hit him with a high-velocity ball or he’d bear a fist-sized exit wound. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Her fingers pressed deeper. “It fractured your rib, I see.” Without waiting for his reply, she continued. Soft hands over his belly, around his back and shoulders. Down his arms. His legs. She found all his scars and every bone he’d ever busted. Hell, his doctors had never checked him over so thoroughly.

  “Spread your legs.” She tugged on his pubic hair. Cupped his balls and massaged lightly. Her hand closed around his cock—his docs had never done that—and it took every single piece of control not to shoot his wad.

  Her fingers clamped down in warning. “Don’t come without permission, Benjamin.”

  “Understood, Ma’am.” His voice probably sounded like a rooster being strangled. But, oddly enough, her command let him back away from the edge. His hands, which had clenched, eased open.

  And she saw. Her gaze met his, straightforward, no games. “You please me, Ben.”

  You fucking please me too, woman. Wisely, he also kept those words shut down.

  “Face the cross and hold onto those pegs over your head.”

  Each upright bar had an iron peg sticking out. He closed his fingers around them, which put his arms in an upraised V shape. In the pause between one heartbeat and another, he realized the music had changed to the ominous “Let Me Break You” by London after Midnight. The music’s effect in this dark, cold dungeon was far more threatening than in his well-lit entry.

  He could hear a woman sobbing and the snap of something—like a whip. His gut tightened, and he pulled in a slow inhalation.

  “Your orders are to hold onto those pegs and not let go. No matter what I do. Can I trust you to do that for me, Ben?” Anne’s husky voice drew him back, as stabilizing as the wooden frame supporting his body.

  “You can, Mistress.” He gripped harder. He’d die before he let one go.

  “I’m going to hurt you, Ben—because this is what I told you I’d do. And because this is what you obviously want me to do.”

  Actually, he’d have agreed to anything that would gain him her attention and touch. Pain would be nothing new to him.

  “But, because you please me, because this is your first time”—her furry voice touched his ears and stroked over his skin like a many-times-washed fleece—“and because I feel like giving you a lesson, I’m going to give you so much more than mere pain.”

  Talk about making him sit up and take notice. Hell, his body was already well past reveille, as if the cells had downed a gallon of coffee. As her fingertips brushed over his ass—which she hadn’t touched before, he realized—his muscles twitched. She pressed her finger deeper, then gave him sweet, sweet pats, like a splattering of rain.

  He huffed a laugh. That was a beating?

  And he’d been worried?

  “Is that Ben?” The almost inaudible voice came from behind him. Sounded shocked. More whispers drifted over his ears. He disliked having his back to the door, but fuck, this was the Shadowlands. He knew all the people here.

  And, oddly enough, he trusted that the slender bounty hunter could probably take out nine-tenths of the members without breaking a sweat.

  The rhythm of her patting hands on his ass paused for a second. He could imagine the gossips’ expressions when she turned to look at them and undoubtedly gave them one of her ice-through-the-heart stares. The voices sure stopped, leaving only the music and the sound of someone moaning.

  The Mistress slapped his ass more forcefully, and a pleasant heat grew, like the mildest of sunburns.

  And then she stepped closer and leaned against him, full-body, her breasts providing increased pressure on his upper back. Sweet. He could feel her warmth all up and down with a tight burn where she pressed against his stinging butt.

  And then she reached around and grasped his cock.

  Startled, he jerked, and his hands almost slipped off the pegs. He recovered quickly.

  Her fingers gave him a painful, admonishing squeeze. “Don’t move, Benjamin.”

  “No, Mistress.” He heard the growl in his voice.

  She laughed. Squeezed again. “You move, and I’ll hold your balls instead of your cock next time.”

  Fuck. Those strong little fingers of hers could do some serious damage.

  But right now, she was stroking him, up and down, soft and sweet, and he hadn’t thought it possible, but his dick lengthened even more. If she didn’t let him finish, he’d have to jerk himself off in the bathroom before he could return to work.

  He felt her breath between his shoulder blades. A butterfly kiss to one deltoid and the other. She stepped back and slapped his ass a couple of times firmly. Such little hands.

  A pause.

  And then something smacked him harder than shit.

  Jesus.

  His body went taut.

  Before he could even process the pain, more blows hit his buttocks—and not leaving any mild stinging behind this time. His skin felt like a wildfire was burning it to ash. His hands tightened on the pegs; he bowed his head and took it.

  She stopped and laid a paddle on the floor beside his feet.

  This time when she leaned into him, her breasts still felt sweet as ice cream sundaes. And his ass felt raw as hell. She deliberately rubbed the stinging flesh with hers. “What color are you, Ben?”

  When her hand closed on his cock, her fingers were far cooler than his straining erection—and, rather than deflating with the pain, he was even more achingly hard. She stroked him lightly.

  He swallowed. Sadist. He was playing with a sadist. Remember that, asshole. “Green, Ma’am.”

  “Brave soldier. Now, do you regret challenging me in the entry?”

  His ass sure would tomorrow. “No, Ma’am. I’d take a lot more to have your hands on me.”

  Silence.

  “Did I ask for you to expand on that question?” Her voice had sharpened, and, fuck him, her fingers moved to cup his very, very exposed balls.

  “No, Ma’am. But I heard that honesty was good between a top and bottom.” He wasn’t sure what defined Mistress and sub, but had a feeling that giving himself that designation might not be wise.

  Wasn’t sure if he wanted to call himself submissive or slave anyway.

  “You’re quite daring. So, I’ll give you a choice. Would you like three blows done with all my might—or lighter ones until I tire?” Her thumbs rubbed the front of his cupped balls; her fingertips pressed upward almost to his asshole. Each movement sent such intense electrical arcs to his cock that he could almost hear the sizzle.

  Choices, choices. And then he knew the right answer. “Whatever the Mistress pleases.” Odd, just saying that sounded right. No choices, giving her all
the control.

  Her forehead was against his back. Her sigh made a circle of heat against one scapula. And then she stepped away.

  He tensed. Prepared to take it.

  She reached around him again, and her cold, slick hand circled his dick. Moved up and down. Her fingers, coated in lube, stroked him so fucking knowledgably that she had him at go within a minute.

  His teeth ground together. “Mistress… I need to—”

  “Five more strokes, Benjamin. Hold on until I say.”

  He could only grunt his answer.

  “One. Two.” She gripped him mercilessly, slid from the root to the tip—and her thumb circled the head.

  Jesus. He’d never been so hard. His balls felt as if they’d compressed right into his groin. His entire spinal column was flattening with the pressure.

  “Three. Four.” Slower. Sliding over every fucking inch with a wrench-tight grip.

  “Five.” She drew it out and starbursts were flickering before his eyes.

  “Come for me, Ben,” she snapped out. One hand gripped his nuts and squeezed, her body rubbed on his burning ass to light up the skin like wildfire, and her hot fist jackhammered his shaft up and down.

  He came. Jesus fucking Christ, he came, spurting all over her fingers, spasm after spasm, until he could swear he’d exhausted his load and started on blood.

  He sagged against the cross, wishing it was a real cross so he’d have a place to lean his forehead.

  Her hand still slid over his cock, ever so gently, letting him ride out the last clench. “Very nice, Ben. Stay there a minute.”

  To his bottomless regret, she moved away. Cool air wafted over his sweaty back and felt like heaven on his raw ass.

  And then she put an arm around his waist. “Step back. Let’s see how well your legs are working.”

  “As if you could hold me up.”

  The sharp smack on his ass almost made him yelp.

  He snorted and grinned. She reminded him of his favorite drill sergeant. “Sorry, Ma’am.” His legs held just fine as she guided him to the bench where she’d tossed a towel.

  “Sit on that.”

  He sat and gritted his teeth, feeling every abrasive strand in the damn towel. She set a cleansing wipe on his thigh, the coolness startling against his hot skin.

  “You may clean yourself, Benjamin.”

  She’d already wiped off her hands, he noticed as he gave himself a swiping.

  “Very good.” Standing right in front of him, she stroked his hair, and damn, he could smell her—pure sexy woman. Her steel blue gaze studied him for a moment before she handed him a bottle of water, the top already removed. “Drink all of this.”

  He drank some while he considered. How far could he push?

  How far did he want to push?

  “Thank you, Ma’am. I enjoyed this.”

  She sat beside him, her thigh warm against his. Her small hand took his jaw and turned his face to hers. He seized the moment to tip his lips into her palm and kiss lightly. That won him a quirk of her lips in a stifled smile as well as a cautionary flex of her fingers—he had no doubt she’d leave bruises if he didn’t heed her warning.

  “Did you enjoy the pain, Ben?”

  Shit, she would ask about that. Extending his legs, he leaned back against the wall and chugged the water, trying to get his answer in order. “I’m pretty sure I don’t get off on just pain. But when it’s mixed with…”

  “Arousal? In a sexual situation?”

  “That. Yeah.” When her hand rubbed his jaw, he could hear the scritching of the stubble. How would she feel about an abrasively heavy five-o’clock shadow between her silky thighs? “Haven’t come that hard in years.”

  “I see.” A moment of silence. “I suppose that gives you something to think about.”

  Hell, she was withdrawing. The sense of disappointment was keen and a bit ridiculous. Had he expected her to fall all over him, this Domme who could have any man she wanted at her feet?

  Nonetheless, she needed to know he…wanted more. Turning, he faced her, placed his hand over hers to hold it in place. “Mistress Anne, can I perform any service for you in return?”

  Her pupils dilated slightly, and he heard her catch her breath. She knew just what he was offering. Then her lips twisted in a slight smile that showed a single dimple. “I should have you wash my car.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant, Ma’am.” He made the reproach in his voice clear.

  Laughter danced in her eyes. And here he’d always thought she was so serious. “You really are delightful, Ben. But I need nothing.” Her hand moved from his face despite his attempt to keep her there. “You’ve finished the water. How do you feel?”

  “Fine, Ma’am.”

  “Then I want you to get dressed and clean the equipment which you flooded.”

  Her gaze trapped his—to see if he’d react.

  As if anyone who’d put in barracks time would be embarrassed by jism…anywhere? “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Her chuckle was low and pleased. “Not much upsets you, does it?”

  “RPGs and IEDs, those are upsetting. Anything less—not so much.”

  “You’re quite a guy, guard dog.” She ran her hand down his arm, tracing the muscles of his biceps, in that way that women did—much the same way that a man would enjoy a woman’s breasts. She liked his body. Liked him.

  And was still stepping back. Fuck. That.

  He dared much and touched her hair. It felt as smooth as his mother’s prized silk shawl. If Anne were on top, that mass of hair would flow over his shoulders like a cool caress of water.

  “Just so you know, Mistress, I’m calling my offer a rain check. You let me know when you want to cash it in. There’s no expiration date.”

  Not only no expiration, but if she didn’t take him up on his proposal, well, there were always numerous approaches available to achieve a target. She was worth taking the time to do it right.

  Chapter Three

  Four days later, Anne picked through the Keurig pods to find a fudge-flavored coffee. It looked to be a long night, and she’d need all the caffeine she could get.

  Hopefully her insides could handle the brew. After being sick since Sunday morning, she’d finally been able to keep food down today. At least she knew the origins of her illness—from babysitting her niece and nephew last week when they’d been home with a stomach bug.

  More like a stomach demon.

  After the machine finished hissing and thrumming, she carried her coffee out to the deck, snuggled into her favorite wicker chair, and checked out the view.

  Apparently the weather report warning of a tropical storm had been accurate for a change. A high wall of black clouds in the west gave her normally white beach a gray cast. The wind whipped at the nearby palms as if trying to bend them in half, and white caps topped the choppy Gulf water. Wonderful. Should she call off the fugitive recovery team for the night?

  No, skips often holed up during a storm, making it an excellent time to rout them out.

  From the mansion beyond Harrison’s house on the left came laughter; her nieces and nephews must be visiting her parents. On the right were the sounds of her brother Travis mowing his lawn.

  She tipped her head back, drawing in the salt air, feeling blessed. Her mother’s grandparents had bought up almost two acres on Clearwater Beach Island back when land was cheap. When her mother inherited, she’d resisted the pressure to sell to condo developers. Instead, her parents had gifted Anne and her two brothers with a half-acre and house.

  Best present ever. She made good money as a fugitive recovery agent, but not enough for a house right on the shore.

  Ben had seen her house. She took a slow sip of her coffee and frowned. Did he think she was rich? Was that why he’d pushed her to top him last weekend? The idea cast an ugly light over what had been a beautiful scene.

  But, no. She was way off base. Maybe they’d never spoken other than a good evening, but she’d “known” Ben
for years. As had Z. The owner of the Shadowlands was not only far too empathic for anyone’s peace of mind, but was also a psychologist. Ben wouldn’t hold that position if he wasn’t trustworthy.

  She wrinkled her nose. So much for that weak excuse to devalue the scene. And all because she was unsettled about what she’d done. About Ben.

  Because she’d felt a real thrill when he’d obeyed her, and another thrill when he’d come. They’d both been caught up in the moment and in each other. She’d sensed his every flinch, every breath, every tensing of his muscles.

  And the man had muscles. Warmth stole into her core as she remembered. When his arms had been raised, his grip on the pegs had made his forearms rigid, the veins noticeable and begging to be traced with her tongue. His trapezius muscles had bunched, his lats had widened, the long muscles beside his spine had been like solid pillars of concrete.

  And he had a simply gorgeous cock, completely proportional to his massive body.

  Sex with him would be comparable to drinking strong coffee with chocolate—a definite kick with a mouthwatering extra.

  Wasn’t it odd how she’d been satisfied with such a lightweight scene? She hadn’t done a session with so little pain provided in…in years. And yet she’d been perfectly content.

  But, even if he were interested in more, she was finished. She didn’t play with newbies to the lifestyle, especially ones like him who had no clue what was involved. The man was vanilla. And he was Z’s employee—not someone to turn into her slave.

  Besides, her emotions around him were uncomfortable. She didn’t do uncomfortable.

  Aside from not having a slave at the moment, her life was exactly the way she wanted it. Her job with its flexible hours was great. Her house, great. And when she found a young man to take as a slave, everything would be good.

  Thinking of work, she needed to get moving.

  She spent most of her daytime work hours doing searches on the computer and phone, knocking on doors, and picking up skips during the day. But often apprehending the more elusive fugitives meant going out at night. Tonight the team’s quarry was a low-life dealer who tended to move between houses up in the Land O’ Lakes district. The team would split up and do some simultaneous visits to his closest buddies who might have offered him shelter.