Enamored Page 3

  Marc kissed her forehead, a warm, protective gesture that seemed so much more intimate than the friendly pecks on the cheek they usually gave each other. “Are you scared?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. I am scared.”

  He smiled. “You called me sir. Thank you.”

  Did she? “I suppose it just slipped out,” she laughed. “But you’re welcome. Might not happen again.”

  Marc pulled her tightly against him, and through the thin vinyl costume she wore, she could feel every rippling muscle in his torso as he wrapped his hands around her waist, gently tugging her hair until she looked up at him.

  “I’m serious,” he said. “Thank you for the gift of your submission, even if it will only be for one week.”

  Kiss me, she thought. But if a sub gave her a direct order, she’d scoff. So she tried to be the ideal submissive and let Marc take control.

  He leaned his shaved head down, nuzzling her neck, bringing goose bumps up all along her arms. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he said.

  And then his mouth was on hers, kissing her, and she fought the urge to pull him tighter, closer, so they could kiss even more deeply.

  Let him run the show, she reminded herself. The kiss seemed to drown out the music, to make the club around them disappear. They could have been kissing for a minute or for an hour, she had no idea.

  All Lauren knew was Marc was an amazing kisser. His hands stayed tangled in her hair, his strong arms imprisoning her against his body. She could stay like this forever, in this moment.

  Kissing Marc was better than she’d ever imagined.

  He whispered in her ear, biting the lobe gently. “You’re coming home with me tonight. I’m going to put you in bondage. I’m going to whip you. And then I’m going to fuck you. Do you consent?”

  Oh my God. This was happening.

  “I consent. I’ll try. But I feel weird calling you ‘sir’ if we’re not scening. And when we’re scening, I can’t promise I won’t be a really crappy sub,” she said, laughing a little as if it were a joke, even though it was completely true. “A tiger can’t change its stripes so easily.”

  “I don’t want to change you. No matter what happens, you’ll always be one of my best friends.”

  “So, after this week . . . things just go back to normal?”

  “It all depends on whether we make better friends than lovers, I suppose,” he said.

  Marc paused, as if pondering the possibility. “Let’s go say good-bye to Roman.” He took her hand and she followed him, weaving their way through the throng of kinksters.

  It seemed everyone stared at them, or maybe it was just her imagination. But she was well known at WhipperSnapper, and the Mistress Lauren that everyone knew had never been seen being led by anyone.

  Roman wasn’t at their booth. Instead, he was sitting on a chair near the bar, with a woman bent over his knee. He was paddling her with one of the WhipperSnapper custom paddles.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered the woman as he stopped paddling long enough to look up at them. To Marc, he said, “What? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Who’s that?” Marc asked, pointing to the woman over his knee. She looked older than Roman’s usual type, perhaps in her midforties, with a very round, beautifully red ass.

  “She’s the first woman who volunteered to let me take out my frustrations on her ass. There is a line. I might be here awhile.”

  Lauren laughed when she looked over and saw that there was indeed a line of woman of all ages, shapes, and sizes lined up to get paddled by one the infamous BAD Boys.

  “Just wanted to give you this,” Marc said, and handed Roman what looked like a folded check. “Ten grand.”

  “You guys had a bet too?” she asked Roman.

  Roman shrugged and picked up the paddle again. “I knew you’d take a bet where the end result would be you two fucking. I’ve been telling Marc for years that you guys needed to just do it and get it over with.” To punctuate his words, he slammed the paddle down on the woman’s ass one last time and then helped her up, looking over at the next woman with a hint of a smile.

  Lauren’s cheeks were hot with embarrassment. Really? She supposed it made sense, her own mother had asked her when she and Marc were going to start dating, since Lauren often talked about him. Not the kinky stuff, of course, but if they did something cool together, like last month when he gave her a flying lesson, she mentioned it.

  She’d always replied with, “Marc and I are just friends. We’re simply not attracted to each other that way.”

  What a lie. Lauren had always been attracted to Marc. And now, they were going to his penthouse to spend the night together.

  And suddenly, Big Bad Mistress Lauren felt like a virgin all over again.

  The long ride up in the elevator that led directly to his penthouse suite had never been this quiet. Marc looked over at Lauren and smiled, hoping to reassure her, but she only nodded.

  “Come on, Lauren. We’ve taken this ride so many times. You know my place as well as your own. Why be shy now?”

  “I don’t know the rules,” she said.

  He’d never seen her like this . . . quiet, demure. Where was his boisterous friend? Maybe this had been a mistake after all.

  “You can speak freely, baby.”

  “You’ve never called me baby before.”

  “I’ve never thought it was appropriate before,” he shrugged. “Does it turn you off?”

  “No.” Finally, a smile.

  The elevator doors dinged and opened into the expansive living room of his apartment. The room was lined with glass floor-to-ceiling windows that gave them a clear view of the city below, but that were reflective on the outside so no one could see in. It was one of the reasons he bought the building.

  “So, what did you write on the memo line of Roman’s check?” she asked, sounding more like her normal self.

  Marc laughed. “Why do you always assume I write terrible things on the memo line of checks?”

  “Um . . . because you always do? God, the look that banker gave me when I cashed a check from you last year that said ‘winner of the biggest dick contest’ was hilarious,” she laughed. “And mortifying. He looks at me sideways every time I walk in there now.”

  “All right, all right. I wrote ‘removal of mouse from anus with prongs.’ ”

  She shrieked with laughter and hit his shoulder. “You didn’t! He’s going to be so pissed.”

  “But he’ll cash it,” Marc grinned.

  The laughter quieted and the awkwardness returned, a silence they’d never had between them before.

  “Is anyone else home?” she asked, referring to his housekeeper, a wonderful woman who also cooked. Out of all the BAD Boys, Marc had the least staff, just Dina the housekeeper, his secretary Tiff during business hours, and a chauffeur since he hated to drive through the crowded city streets.

  “Just us. Why, are you hungry?” Fuck, she looked so beautiful, standing there, still in her black vinyl Dominatrix costume. But he wanted to see her bare, naked. When she was dressed as a Domme she’d be more likely to think and act like a Domme. He needed to help her slide into sub mode before he did all those things he’d promised would happen this evening.

  “No appetite. Too many butterflies,” she admitted.

  “Let’s go to the master bathroom. I want you to take off your outfit.”

  Lauren seemed to freeze, as if unsure of herself. “My safeword is fundamental,” she whispered. “Because having a safeword . . . it’s fundamental.”

  “Okay. I’ll always respect your safeword. Mine happens to be carnation, because it’s a cheap flower I’m not a huge fan of, and I’m not a fan of having to safeword. It’s never happened before.”

  “Not for me, either. Dominants aren’t usually the one who need to safewor
d out, I suppose.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Marc nodded toward the master bedroom, through which lay the master bath. “Try to listen, though, when I say something. Consider it an order even if it doesn’t sound like it, because, right now, tonight, I am in charge, and you will obey me, do you understand?” He held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t safeword out right then and there. She certainly looked like she might, with the glint of fear in her eyes.

  “Yes. I’ll go to the bathroom and undress.”

  “I’m going to watch.”

  She paused. “Okay. Yes . . . sir.”

  He followed her into the large bathroom, a room bigger than the studio apartment he lived in before he started the Brooks Wilde Chase Fund with his friends. It was designed to be warm and earthy, with travertine tiles and granite countertops, and a large claw-foot tub in addition to the steam room and shower stall with nozzles on all sides, so when he showered he felt like a fire hose was cleaning him off.

  He turned the water on in the tub, making it comfortably warm. The sound of the rushing water made Lauren raise her eyebrows.

  “Can I use the little girls’ room first?” she asked.

  “Of course.” The toilet was in its own separate room within the bathroom, for privacy.

  She took went in and closed the door, and for a moment Marc imagined she’d lock it and stay in there all night, just to avoid doing this. But no, she came out moments later, holding her stiletto heels in her hand.

  “You’re so short now,” he teased. “Did I know you were this short?”

  Lauren laughed. “Yes. I don’t swim in my heels. Remember that time in Jamaica when we saw that crazy fish and you had to basically carry me out of the water I was so freaked out? It had teeth!”

  Fuck yeah. He remembered that. Holding her in her bathing suit against his bare chest for way too short of a time before he had to set her down on the sand.

  “I suppose you were short then too,” he said, smiling at the memory. The tub was full enough, so he turned off the water. “Do you need help undressing?”

  “Only if you want to help. The corset looks tricky but it’s actually just hooks.”

  “Then take off your clothes, please.” He leaned back against the sink, watching her. God, her curves were insane. Her breasts, so big and soft, matched her lovely rounded hips and ass, and her thighs were pale and proportionate to the rest of her voluptuous body. Thighs meant for pushing apart.

  Quickly, as if undressing without an audience, she removed the corset top, and carefully shimmied out of her skintight miniskirt. Underneath, she wore a black push-up bra and fishnet stockings that covered a red lacy thong.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said, wanting to encourage her, to keep her undressing herself before she could get scared again and call a halt to the evening. The whole experience was so surreal. After five long years of admiring her, Marc finally had his chance to see her naked. Vulnerable. Was it really happening? He didn’t dare take his eyes off her in case it was a dream. If it was, he didn’t want to wake up.

  The bra came off first, and her breasts bounced, her areolas large and pink, the tips beaded even in the warmth of the room. Marc wanted to suck her breasts, to bite her nipples, but he wasn’t going to do anything until he’d bathed her and relaxed her. Right now, she seemed strung as tight as a violin.

  “Thank you. I didn’t think you liked . . . big girls. I mean, I’ve never seen you with anyone who looked like me.”

  “I like what I see, Lauren. We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Now, don’t be shy . . . take off your stockings and thong.”

  “Yeah, okay.” She trembled as she pulled off the last shred of clothing. “You’re still dressed.”

  “I am,” he acknowledged. There was a certain power that came with being clothed in front of a naked submissive, and he wanted her to feel it, to help her feel his dominance over her. “You can get in the tub, but don’t touch yourself. I’m going to bathe you.”

  “Oh my God,” she said, stepping into the warm water. “I haven’t been bathed since I was a child.”

  “I’m not trying to play Daddy. I just want to help you relax, and we’re going to let this water help wash away the day, since you were a Domme earlier, and now . . . you’re not.”

  He took a washcloth and poured body wash onto it, dipping it into the water, and gently washed her feet first, rubbing the arches to help soothe the pain she had to be feeling from walking around in four-inch heels all night. “Now, you’re relaxing and becoming more submissive as I bathe you.”

  Lauren laughed. “Are you trying to hypnotize me?”

  “Maybe. Will you let me see if it’ll work?”

  “Okay,” she said, resting her head back against the edge of the tub, her long hair falling over the edge.

  “These feet belong to me,” he whispered, rubbing the washcloth up her thighs, washing her. “These thighs, this ass, this pussy,” he continued, rubbing cleansing strokes over her body, “they’re mine too.”

  “Anything for you,” she said, putting on her ‘Marc voice.’ Even though she was joking, she visibly relaxed and closed her eyes as he washed her breasts and gently cleansed the makeup from her face.

  She always wore quite a bit of black eyeliner, and seeing her with bare eyes was a new experience for him. It made her look softer.

  He washed her hair, using the comb that came with his hair clipper kit to detangle it. When she was finally clean, she was practically asleep.

  “Are you feeling more relaxed now?”

  “Yeah, I think I am.”

  “Good. You can step out of the tub.” He wrapped her in a large, fluffy white bath towel, and she remained motionless as he squeezed the water from her hair and combed it again.

  “Go lie on the bed,” he said. “I’m going to take a quick shower and then I’ll join you.”

  “Marc?” She looked up at him, her blue eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I’ve never been the sub before.”

  “I know. But you have all week to practice.”

  A single tear fell down her cheek and he took her face in his hand, wiping it away with his thumb. “Are you okay? Do you need to safeword? You can still change your mind. I’m not going to—fuck—rape you, or anything. Anything we do, I need to know you’re all right with it.”

  “I’m not changing my mind, Marc,” she said, shaking her head. “I just feel very . . . out of my element.”

  “That you are,” he agreed. “Go lie down, I’ll be there soon.”

  He watched as she hugged the towel around herself like a blanket and walked out of the bathroom, into his bedroom.

  Lauren was going to be in his bed, naked. His to do with as he pleased.

  Hell. In the memo line on that check to Roman, he really should have written the words thank you.

  Lauren could hear the sound of the tub draining and the shower turning on when she left the master bathroom. She’d been in Marc’s bedroom before, usually after a long night of partying. She’d fall asleep on his couch and end up with her shoes off, on top of his covers with a throw blanket on top of her, his version of tucking a friend in, she supposed. He probably had done the same exact thing for Trevor or Roman before. In his own home, he’d go and crash in one of the guest rooms.

  But she’d never been in Marc’s bedroom, under the covers, waiting for him to tie her up, whip her, and fuck her, as he had so eloquently stated earlier. She’d given her consent, and she planned to follow through.

  It’s not like she’d never been whipped before, because any implement she used on a sub she tried out on herself first, either by asking another Dom to give her a lick so she could see how it felt, or striking her own thighs with differing levels of intensity so she could carefully control her submissive’s experience.

  But a couple of practice strokes, with the mind-set of this is what I w
ill do as the Domme was completely different from submitting physically and mentally to her dear friend. This was the same guy who’d held her hair when she’d gotten seasick on the cruise they took to the Bahamas. And now here she was . . . in his bed. Waiting for him.

  Having him bathe her had been an arousing experience. In her mind, she kept drifting into imagining that he was servicing her, that she was still the Domme, but once he started speaking in that low, hypnotic voice of his, naming her body parts, claiming them as his own, something shifted.

  She’d felt his dominance, and it turned her on as much as it frightened her.

  What if there really was a part of her, deep down, that could be happy as a submissive? What did that mean for the rest of her life, for her identity as Mistress Lauren?

  Being in control at all times was the one thing that made her feel comfortable in situations—any situation. Not just at WhipperSnapper. In regular clothes, which for her tended toward denim and tank tops, she’d walk down the streets of New York City and know that she could handle anything if she had to. If someone bumped into her by accident, within seconds they were falling over themselves to apologize.

  No one ever told her to fuck off, ever. The vibe she gave out, a vibe she’d worked hard to cultivate, was “I may be friendly, but don’t mess with me.”

  Leave it to Marc to, well, turn everything upside down. He was messing with her, trying to break down the defenses that had kept her safe from everything her entire life.

  Maybe she should just safeword out and go home. They could laugh it all off tomorrow and go back to normal—to being just friends, good friends. Best friends.

  But the little voice in the back of her head that suggested she might be better off leaving now was silenced when Marc came out of the bathroom . . .

  Naked, and hot as hell.

  Oh, fuck. His full-sleeve tattoos only intensified her body’s immediate reaction to seeing Marc naked. Not only were his arms tattooed, but his entire back, ankles, and calves were like works of art, painted on a perfectly hard, muscled body.