San Francisco: The Complete Trilogy Read online

  Had she broken a rule by getting in the car with him? Worse, had she unknowingly implied she wanted to spend time with him?

  Did she have to submit to him now?

  Christiana stood frozen, unsure what to do. She didn’t want to touch him. Not that he was repulsive—he was quite handsome. And he hadn’t done anything inappropriate or frightening. Yet she shied away from him. She was here for James. She was here to be with James.

  “She’s mine.” James appeared, as if by magic, at Christiana’s elbow. She leaned into him.

  Master Lawrence sighed heavily. “Damn it, Nolen.”

  James laughed. “I doubt you lack willing partners, Lawrence.”

  “Willing? No.”

  “Bored?” James asked.

  The other man raised a brow. “Aren’t we all?” He saluted them with his glass and then walked away.

  “I’m glad I was watching for you,” James whispered in her ear.

  “I’m glad you came when you did,” she replied.

  He frowned. “Were you scared?”

  “No, I just…didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t want him to touch me.”

  He caressed her cheek. “No one but I will touch you tonight.”

  “Thank you.”

  He leaned in, nuzzling her temple before saying, “Are you forgetting something?”

  “Sir,” she gasped. “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Good. Now then, shall we get a drink?”

  When James offered his arm, she accepted it gratefully. He led her to the first-floor bar, motioning to a stool. Bemused, she slid onto it, and out of habit she crossed her legs.

  “Ah, our first lesson.” He tapped her knee. “Do not cross your legs, or close them in any way. Your knees should be shoulder-width apart at all times.”

  Christiana slowly uncrossed her legs, then spread them. James stepped back and examined her critically. “Scoot forward a little.”

  She did, until she was sitting on the edge of the stool, bracing the balls of her feet on the rung.

  “I like what you’re wearing.” He toyed with the dangling hem of the loose crop top. His fingers brushed the underside of one breast, and she sucked in air.

  James grinned. “Ah, Christiana, you are a delight.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  A glass of champagne appeared at her elbow, while a shorter glass full of ice and something clear appeared before James. He passed her the flute and they toasted. “To pleasure,” he said.

  “To pleasure,” she repeated.

  James leaned back and considered Christiana. He was self confident enough that he had no problem admitting when he was wrong.

  Not wrong about Christiana—she was as compelling tonight as she had been last night.

  He’d spent most of the day plotting what he would do with her, to her, tonight. He’d decided that she was most likely one of those subs who responded well to high protocol.

  He’d been wrong.

  After a drink to start the night, he’d brought her upstairs. Christiana was kneeling on a low, wide stool in the center of one of the seating areas on the opposite side from the stage.

  Her arms were laced behind her head, elbows up and back, chin up, gaze down. Her posture was perfect, her body lovely. The miniscule shirt had risen so that he could just see the paler underside of her breasts. Her nipples had stood out as two sweet, firm nubs under the fabric.

  Her nipples were no longer hard, and though she had said nothing, maintaining silence as ordered, James was sure she was bored. For subs who enjoyed high protocol, being made to kneel up and maintain correct posture while their Dom looked on could be incredibly arousing. That was not the case for Christiana, and he had no problem admitting that he was incorrect.

  “Kneel back,” he said quietly.

  She hesitated only a moment before dropping her ass back onto her heels and lowering her arms. She laid her hands palms-up on her thighs.

  “Do you enjoy high protocol?” he asked.

  A pause, and then she shrugged. A noncommittal answer. He would not allow that.

  “Truth,” he demanded. “Yes or no?”

  She shook her head.

  James scooted forward to the edge of the leather armchair he was lounging in. Around them people were engaged in their own scenes. There was much less socializing, and far more play tonight.

  He hoped hearing that play—the thud and smack of spanking, the moans of submissives—but not being able to see it would have added to her arousal.

  “Look at me, Christiana.”

  Her lashes lifted immediately, pretty brown gaze meeting his fearlessly.

  He touched her cheek and she leaned into his hand.

  Ah yes, there was his mistake. She needed touch.

  And he wanted to touch her.

  Not just that, he wanted to hear her. Limited speaking was one of the most easily implemented restrictions. There were lesser forms of that—giving a submissive a list of responses they were allowed to use, thereby restricting their vocabulary. He didn’t want that either. He wanted to know what she thought and felt. He wanted to hear her questions and comments.

  “No more high protocol.” He smiled and raised a brow. “I’ve finished my drink and enjoyed the view. Now on to other things.” She looked at him suspiciously. He chuckled. “I have no need to trick you into disobeying.” He leaned in closer. “If I want to spank you, I will.”

  “Thank you?”

  He laughed.

  “Sir,” she quickly added.

  James fished an ice cube out of his empty glass and reached for her. Christiana’s eyes rounded and then she shivered as he rubbed the ice cube along her lower lip. Her mouth opened, the tip of her tongue emerging from between her teeth.

  “Lick,” he commanded.

  She stroked the ice with her tongue, and his cock, semi-erect from the pleasure of watching her, twitched. Before the sun rose, he would feel that sweet mouth around him.

  James slid the ice down the side of her neck. She yelped and shivered, but didn’t move away. “Good,” he praised her. “Keep holding still.”

  He kept the ice moving, skating it along the top of her collarbones, holding it for a long, lingering moment in the hollow of her throat. Her breath was coming fast, hitching a little when the cold met a particularly warm bit of flesh.

  When the first ice cube had melted down to a sliver, he popped it in his mouth, then plucked a second from his glass. The first thing he did was to press it to one of her hard nipples. Christiana yelped again, rounding her back and pulling her shoulders forward.

  “Breasts out,” he commanded.

  She corrected her posture, offering her hard-yet-hidden nipples to him. He wasn’t a true sadist, not when compared to others in the society who considered inflicting pain and blurring the line between pleasure and pain an art form, but he had enough of a sadist in him that he smiled when she whimpered. Her little sounds of distress and arousal, the goose bumps that rose on her skin, and her visible struggle to hold her position when instinct was telling her to protect her sensitive nipples from the ice—these were all delicious to him.

  He moved the ice back and forth between her nipples, until that little scrap of fabric she called a shirt was damp and clinging to the hard, tight peaks of her breasts.

  He considered stopping there, but he wanted to hear more of her sweet sounds of distress and pleasure. He trailed the ice down the midline of her body. When there was only a sliver left, he grasped the waistband of her panties and pulled it out. Her eyes rounded. He was tempted—oh, was he tempted—to look down, to catch his first glimpse of her naked pussy. He’d been staring at her long enough that even with the low light he was sure that she was shaved—any hair would have shown though the lace. He proved himself a masochist too, and didn’t look. Instead he dropped the sliver of ice down into her panties and released the band.

  A full-body shiver shook Christiana. She blinked rapidly, breath coming in short
pants.

  He silently counted to thirty, then cupped her pussy with one hand, rubbing in a small circle. Ice play could be dangerous, and the soft skin of the vulva was vulnerable. He didn’t want the ice to sit in one place too long. His touch served to shift the almost-melted ice, protecting her, but also to stimulate her. Based on her reaction it was successful.

  “Would you like to take off your wet shirt?” He kept rubbing her pussy with a firm, circular motion.

  She nodded, but slowly.

  “Are you used to being naked in front of others?”

  This time she shook her head.

  “You may speak,” he reminded her.

  “No, Sir.”

  That seemed odd for a serious player, but not unheard of. “I’d like for you to be topless. I want to enjoy looking at your breasts.”

  “Yes, Sir.” She licked her lips. “I’m not opposed, I’m just not used to it.”

  If that was the case, nakedness could be a tool, a chance to help her submit to him. It was clear she was naturally sexually submissive and had a lovely demeanor, but hadn’t been well introduced to the mental aspects of the scene.

  He sat back. “Remove your top. Present your breasts to me.”

  Her response was immediate, if slow. She slid the straps from her shoulders, then pulled her arms out. Wet as the fabric was, it clung to her, glued to her skin by the water of the melted ice. She took hold of the top with her forefingers and thumbs, then peeled it down. Inch by delicious inch, flesh that had been hidden was revealed. Her nipples were a dusky dark brown-pink, the areolas ruched in tight. The top dropped to lay across her thighs. She gathered it up in one hand, pulling it up and off. She looked around, then carefully draped it on the empty chair beside him. She reached up and nervously smoothed her hair, then seemed to catch herself. She dropped her hands to her thighs, turning them palm up, and pulled her shoulders back.

  “You have lovely breasts,” he told her.

  “Thank you, Sir. I’m quite fond of them.” Her response was soft and wry—almost self-deprecating. It wasn’t bratty. He liked that about her. In fact, she was the only sub he’d ever met to respond this way, and it felt more natural than the stilted “Yes, Sir” responses he was used to, and more submissive than a bratty top-from-the-bottom response.

  “I think I could learn to be quite fond of them too.”

  Her response was a smile, and James cursed himself. It was cruel to imply further intimacy when in the middle of a scene. He’d learned, as most Doms did, that every word mattered. What he’d just said could be construed as an implicit promise of a commitment. It was especially bad if he did it, given how short most of his relationships were, and how quickly he grew bored and lost interest.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  He laid his forearms on the arms of the chair. “I want to taste your nipples. Come here.”

  Christiana inhaled, those lovely breasts rising, then started to climb off the ottoman. She was a bit awkward about it, having to put her hands down rather than only using her legs as many subs learned to do—after all, bondage meant they didn’t always have use of their hands.

  She stood before his chair and looked down at him. He could have made it easy on her, but he wanted to see what she would do.

  Christiana carefully wedged her knee between the outside of his thigh and the arm of the chair. Putting her weight on that knee, she wedged her other leg into position, same as the first. When she was done she was straddling his thighs, her breasts less six inches from his face. She looked down at him, gaze searching his face.

  “Like this?” she asked.

  “I’m enjoying it so far.”

  She reached for his shoulders, but stopped, hands hovering. “Can I touch you? Sir?”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Um, I just thought it would be easier to lean forward that way.”

  “Let me rephrase. Why touch me? You could hold on to the back of the chair.”

  Her lashes swept down. “I…I want to touch you.”

  There was a surge of lust, followed by triumph, then, unexpectedly, some nameless, tender feeling.

  “I like that you want to touch me,” he replied softly.

  Her lashes swept up. She held his gaze as she laid her palms on his shoulders. Her hands were cool, which wasn’t unexpected given how little she was wearing, though he’d glimpsed the large space heaters they had running, heating the building with naked submissives in mind.

  He’d been so focused on her touching him, he’d almost forgotten what he’d asked her to do. Christiana bent her elbows and leaned forward, dangling one luscious nipple in front of his lips.

  How could he refuse such an offer?

  James took the whole tip of her small breast in his mouth, sucking hard. He was rewarded by the sound of a sharp inhale, that same breath released as a moan.

  He laved her skin, then bit gently, holding her in his mouth so he could flick just the tip of her breast with his tongue. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. He pulled his head back, maintaining suction as he did, until finally her nipple popped free of his mouth.

  Christiana’s head was back, her eyes half closed. He wanted to see her looking just like that, but with his cock buried in her as she rode him.

  With a growl, he switched to the other breast, giving it the same delicate treatment, sucking and flicking.

  When he was done with that nipple, he returned to the first, rougher this time, taking the tip between his teeth and pulling. One hand slid into his hair, clenching in a fist. His scalp prickled, and the little stab of pain was not unwelcome—he was a touch masochistic himself. While he welcomed the pain, it stripped away some of his control. He forgot that he was to take it slow with her. He reached up, grabbed her wrists, and forced them behind her back. She lost her balance, breast pressing against his face, so for a glorious moment he was being smothered.

  He held both wrists in one hand, a practiced move, and with the other reached up to grab a handful of the luscious long, dark hair. He pulled and felt her legs flex as she recovered her balance, leaning back to relieve the pressure on her scalp. He bit her nipple, just hard enough to keep it captive in his mouth.

  He felt the moment she realized her predicament, and smiled around her breast. She was balanced between the tension on her scalp and nipple.

  He made sure he wasn’t pulling too hard on either her hair or breast. He didn’t want to give her true pain, not yet. He wanted to hint at it. This was more about domination than physical sensation. She was tense in his arms, and he could tell from the way her wrists felt in his hand that she was making fists. He held her, letting her choose how to react.

  The muscles in her wrists relaxed, the weight of them falling into his hand. Calm, accepting. There was still tension in her legs. She was using those muscles to hold herself steady.

  James waited for a count of thirty, then rewarded her with a gentle lick to her captured nipple. He released her breast and tugged harder on her hair. Her chin tipped up to the ceiling, the line of her neck stretched out, her body bowing back into an elegant arch.

  He indulged himself, burying his face between her breasts and inhaling deeply of the feminine scent he found there. He nipped the inner curve of each breast before sitting back. He moved the hand holding her wrists to her hips. Her arms fell to her sides, wrists turned so her palms faced him. He gave her hair one final tug, then released it.

  Her head tipped forward, her eyes soft and slightly unfocused.

  “How do you feel, Christiana?”

  “Warm,” she whispered.

  “Anything else?”

  “Needy.”

  Now he smiled. “Good.”

  “Will you—” She stopped herself.

  “You can ask for what you want.” He cupped her left breast and thumbed her nipple. “You may not get it. And if you pout because you do not get it, you will be punished.”

  He felt her chest rise, her breast pressing into his hand when she sucked in
air in reaction to the word “punished.”

  “What would you like, Christiana?”

  “Whatever you want, Sir.”

  “A safe answer.”

  Now she frowned. “I’m being honest.”

  “Are you? How could you be? You don’t know what I want.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, but you aren’t really being honest. What do you want?”

  “I want you to touch me.”

  “Any way I please?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He examined her face, letting his gaze linger on each feature. It would be so easy to be gentle with her, to engage in only sweet, soft play that did nothing but pleasure them.

  He could do that, and they would both be satisfied, but not fulfilled. It would be a fleeting pleasure, a shooting star, there and gone. He wanted the long, hot burn of a newly formed celestial body.

  “Stand up,” he ordered.

  Christiana slid off the chair, keeping her legs spread as she stood before him. He too rose, moving to an empty couch. He took a seat in the center, then patted his knee.

  She walked over, eyes never leaving his face, though there was plenty around them to distract her—a man on his knees enthusiastically sucking cock, a sub moaning as magnetic weights were added to clamps on her nipples and labia.

  Christiana stopped in front of him, then perched on his knee, her weight mostly on her legs.

  James raised a brow. Was she being deliberately obtuse?

  “Over my lap,” he barked.

  Christiana froze, then jumped to her feet, eyes widening. He once more patted his thigh.

  “Facedown over my knee,” he commanded.

  “You’re going to spank me, Sir?”

  “You’re trying my patience, Christiana. I expected better of you. You haven’t played games like this before now.”

  “I’m not playing.”

  “You are. Either you submit, or we’re done.”

  “But what did I do wrong?”

  He raised one brow. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

  “Please, won’t you just tell me what I did wrong so I won’t do it again, Sir?”