Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Joey
How the hell am I supposed to concentrate now?
I’ve been thinking that since Cormac gave me another searing kiss and a slap on the ass, before holding my car door open for me to get back in. I thought it the entire way back to the office. I thought it the entire time I sat in a staff meeting. I’m still thinking it as I take a cab to Obsidian.
He offered to pick me up, but I don’t want another uncomfortable situation like last night in case things go to shit again. I don’t relish being stuck in a car with him if I don’t want to see or hear him. I hedge my bets with the cab. I don my mask before I get out of the vehicle and look around. The moment I shut the door, Cormac steps out of a shadow with his mask on. There’s no way I could confuse him, even with his entire face and hair covered. I’ve been with him once, but I already know his body. It’s his bearing—his stance and walk. It’s captivating and hypnotic in its pure masculinity.
If I had panties on, they’d be soaked. Instead, it’s the inside of my thighs. I glance down to ensure my coat covers the parts of me the real world doesn’t need to see. He meets me more than halfway while allowing him to remain mostly out of sight of anyone walking down the street. He slides his arm around my waist and fists my hair. Even in the near darkness, his emerald eyes stand out. With holes only for his eyes and mouth, he should be unrecognizable. There’s no doubting who he is when he kisses me.
“ Cailín —”
“Please, sir, can we just go inside?”
He sweeps his gaze over the surrounding area before looking down at me.
“Sir, I’m too impatient. That’s why I want to go in.”
“And if I want to make you wait until I’m ready?”
I look below his belt and grin beneath my lacey mask that covers me from mid-forehead to the end of my nose and over my cheeks. I cross my wrists behind my back and lean to whisper to him.
“You might want to make me wait, but I don’t think you want to wait.”
“Mmm. You might be right.”
He cups my jaw, and I wonder what suggestion he read into that somewhat bungled and ambiguous comment. He kisses me again before we turn toward the door. His hand rests at the small of my back like yesterday. There’s a coat check near the door, so we stop. He helps me off with my trench coat. His eyes sparkle with approval at my wetlook style dress. The way it hangs on me—gathered in some parts and clingy in others—gives the appearance of the dress being wet and sticking to me.
I’ve had it for a while, but only pulled the tags off today. It’s sheer, so he can see my demi bra, garter belt, and fishnet thigh highs beneath it. The one part that isn’t transparent is over my pussy and ass. It leaves something to the imagination, so he can’t see that I’m not wearing panties. The way he watches me makes me feel like a million bucks. It’s as though no one else exists. Like I’m the only person in the world right now. Even though I’m certain his situational awareness is so keen, he could describe everyone on the first floor.
“Little one, you’re stunning. You must have been one of the great Renaissance artists’ muses in a past life.”
“Sir, you exaggerate. I know the Irish are renowned storytellers, but that’s a ‘I caught a fish this big.’”
His gaze hardens as he pauses halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. He leans so close his lips brush my hair when he whispers.
“Are you telling your Dom he’s wrong? Are you arguing with me, little girl?”
“No, sir. I appreciate the compliment. It’s just over the top.”
“I know you think you do, but I will punish you.”
“What? Why?”
I jerk away, but a swat to my ass makes me freeze.
“If you don’t believe the compliment, then you don’t believe me. If you don’t believe me, you must be calling me a liar. That’s part one. Part two is not being gracious when given something. Downplaying the value of what I say means you can’t accept it in the nature I gave it. Next time I give you a compliment, say ‘thank you, sir’ and leave it at that. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
Goosebumps rise on my arms as I fear I’ve ruined the night by earning a punishment before he’s even gotten his shirt off. He slides it off, his pecs and shoulder muscles rippling as he moves. I want to lick him like a lollipop should be licked. His black tank top stretches across his chest. I know the thick straps over his shoulders hide tattoos. I know a large shamrock with an O in the center sits on his left pec. There are likely other women here—like Deirdre—who know the secrets his shirt hides, but I feel like I’m part of an exclusive club. I want to remain a part of that, but I pissed him off.
He hands the shirt over to the attendant, who puts it on the same hanger as my coat. He pockets the slip before his hand slides around my waist and down to my ass. He squeezes it so hard I squeal.
“You apologized, Esme. You’re forgiven. That’s unconditional. I’m going to punish you, so you know I’m displeased, and hopefully, it deters you from making the same mistake twice. But I won’t hold this against you, and it doesn’t change how much I want to be with you.”
He remembered to use my middle name rather than my real one. The protected anonymity along with the relief that he’s not angry eases my worry about returning to a club I don’t know.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Liam. It’s my middle name. If I use your name, we’re not Dom/sub. If you need a break from that, then use my name. During a scene, when we’re here, or when we’re in this dynamic, I’m sir. Only use Liam here if you need my attention immediately, cailín .”
He pauses for a moment, and the hand on my ass pulls me against him. His free hand cups my jaw. I don’t know what he searches for in my eyes. I don’t know if he found what he wanted when he speaks.
“I don’t want to—I won’t—limit the endearments to scenes. Unless you ask me to, I won’t call you a slut or a whore. Cunt refers to your body part, not who you are to me. That means I need something else to call you when we scene, but the same words come to mind even when we’re not scening. If you’re confused about how things stand, ask. Unless you want continuous roleplay, you speak to me as an equal whenever we’re not in this dynamic. When we are, you speak to me with the respect and deference your Dom deserves. Little subbies who don’t, will get a hot arse to remind them who leads.”
A shiver courses down my spine. I feel no compulsion—or even motivation—to act out to get that kind of reaction from him. No part of me wants to be a brat. But earning a punishment isn’t unappealing.
“Come, little one.”
He leads me to the dance floor where other couples sway to the music. Unlike a nightclub, the music’s quiet. The steady beat is erotic in a way I can’t explain, but when a couple moves to it—their bodies pressed together—I don’t know. If music were an invitation to sex, I’d RSVP yes.
The way Cormac moves proves there’s nothing this man can do to lessen his sex appeal. He could be a stripper between his banging body and how he moves to the rhythm.
“Is there anything you don’t do well?”
“Draw.”
I grin and shake my head. “You’re a superb dancer.”
“Because my mom and aunts insisted my brother, cousins, and I learn ballroom dancing. I guess I’m just comfortable.”
Comfortable.
The man could put Thunder Down Under AND Chippendales out of business.
He leads me off the dance floor to a dimly lit alcove that I didn’t notice until we stepped inside. He takes his hooded mask off, so this must be important.
“ Cailín , I put together a security detail for you. With Pablo taking any interest in you to get to me and after those guys accosted you today, I won’t take chances with your safety. Even if this goes nowhere beyond tonight, I won’t risk it.”
“What does that mean? I can’t have mobsters escorting me into people’s homes or kids’ schools.”
“Unless there’s a credible threat of bodily harm, they’ll be shadows. You won’t know they’re there. They’ll see you and be close enough to get to you, but you won’t notice them.”
“But Cartel guys will. They’ll know exactly what to look for.”
“Exactly. Pablo needs to know you’re under my protection. That fecking with me doesn’t include using you.”
“Fecking?”
He blushes!
“I’m not allowed to use the real F word in front of women and children.”
“Not allowed? Is that like some mobster code?”
Even in the low light, I can see his fair skin is close to tomato.
“Sorta. It’s the rule in my family, and my parents, aunts, and uncles terrify me enough not to break it.”
“That’s sweet! Let me guess. Your mom isn’t much taller than me, but you wouldn’t stand close to her if she had a wooden spoon in her hand.”
“Pretty much. She’s a few inches taller than you, and she doesn’t need the spoon. But she has one. My two aunts do too. By the time my brother, cousins, and I realized they’d never use it on us, they’d scared us into perfect manners. I’ve also never had Irish Spring soap for dinner, but I wouldn’t put it past my mom to give me a full serving if she ever found out I swore in front of a woman or child or at one of my relatives.”
I don’t think he fakes the shiver. I believe he’s truly scared of the women in his family. It’s utterly endearing.
“My abuelita has a pair of chanclas —the wooden soled slippers—she’d wave around. She never spanked me with them or actually threw them at me, but I never pushed her far enough to find out if she would. The woman’s the same height as me, but about thirty pounds lighter. She’s muy peque?a and nearly eighty. Not even a hundred pounds soaking wet, but I’d bet on her in a fight. She’s the Mexican Sophia Petrillo. If there were a modern-day Golden Girls , she’d be the matriarch. Rather than Sophia’s dreaded melon baller, it would be the chancla . When I was twenty, I gave her a t-shirt that says ?Teme a la chancla! She still wears it with pride thirteen years later. She might be buried in it.” Fear the chancla .
He chuckles, and I feel the vibration in his chest since my tits are pressed against him. I’m wearing heels like I do most days. Otherwise, they’d be closer to his ribs. At my whopping five-two-and-three-quarters, I look like a kid next to most adults. Even a two-inch heel makes a difference. The deep rumble fits with how he can be a grizzly bear one moment and a panda the next. Manly while easygoing.
I don’t know. It’s just nice.
“Are you close to your grandparents?” He wants to get to know me better, and I love it.
“Only my mother’s parents are alive. My dad’s died when he was a kid. He was close to one of his grandfathers. What about you?”
“All of mine have passed away, but I was close to all of them. My grandfathers traveled a lot and worked long hours. But my grandmothers were always soft in the right places and smelled like flowers—you know—the way grandmas are supposed to. It was Nana on my mom’s side and Granny on my dad’s. Nana used to babysit all of us after school every day.”
“All of us?”
“Yeah. My brother, five cousins, and me.”
“Holy smokes! Seven kids?”
His gaze softens as he slips into his memories. It makes him even more handsome because it’s a moment’s reprieve from his usual intensity.
“She owned McGinty’s. We’d go there after school. We had to do our homework then help do dishes and wipe down tables. If there was time, we could play darts or pool or watch games on the TVs. Most of the time, though, we had to read. It made sure we were seen and not heard, and it was good for us.”
“You grew up really close to your cousins.”
“Three sisters married three brothers. We’re close because of work and because we want to be. I enjoy my brother’s and cousins’ company. There’s never been a time when I haven’t been surrounded by a massive family. What about you?”
I shake my head. The question was inevitable since I sent us down this path.
“My mother had a sister and three brothers, but two of the brothers died. I’m close to my brother and cousins, but all of my cousins are still in Mexico. My brother’s here in the city, but we don’t see each other that often. Once every few weeks. We keep different schedules. And there was no one on my dad’s side. He had a sister, but she died too.”
“Did you and your brother get along when you were little?”
“Mostly. We played together when we were little, but by the time he got to middle school, he had his own friends and interests, which was fine by me. What about your brother?”
“He’s my best friend. He’s only seven months younger than me because he was a preemie. We’ve always been together.”
“An infant and a preemie. That must have been really rough on your parents. Two months early usually means some lasting health challenges.”
He chuckles again, and my pussy aches. It’s so hot.
“The only health challenge my brother has is a tendency to eat way more chocolate than is healthy. We’re the same size and are almost identical. You’ve met him. People often confuse us. He has our mom’s eye shape more than I do, and my nose is a bit more like our dad’s. Our freckles are different. But we have the same eye color as our cousins, which comes from our moms. We get our lighter red hair and build from our dad. He’s the biggest of his brothers, and they all have lighter red hair than my mom and aunts.”
“You’re truly as Irish as it comes in America.”
I marvel at that. They’re the poster boys of what people picture when they think of the Irish. Red hair, green eyes, and fair skin—though he clearly tans.
“Everyone speaks fluent Irish, too. So yeah, we’re pretty Irish even though my family’s been here for three and four generations.”
Even though we’re not on the dance floor, we’re in each other’s arms and swaying to the music as we chat, and it’s comfortable. I haven’t talked about my family to previous Doms, even the ones I’d been with for a while. This kind of getting to know you hasn’t been a priority. I’m enjoying this. His hands roam over my body while my left hand rests on his chest, and my right arm’s around his waist.
We decide simultaneously story time is over. He leans forward as I raise my chin for a kiss. He slides his thigh between my legs again, guiding me to grind my pussy on him. I can feel how hard he is. It’s been that way since we came together to dance. But my new position makes it more obvious.
“Sir?”
“Yes, little one. What do you want?”
“Anything you do, just more than this.”
His kiss is short and fierce before he slips his hood back on and leads me past the other dancers and to a spanking bench. It’s the kind that looks like a gymnastics vault, except it has handles built on each side on a lower platform. My feet will go on the end of the platform, putting me at the right height.
“What’s your safe word?”
“Bodega.”
“And if you need it lighter?”
“Deli.”
I can want it lighter all damn day, but I’m agreeing to the pain for pleasure’s sake. Before he tells me to pull my dress up to bare my ass, I push the right strap, then the left, down until I slip out of them. I reveal my demi bra, and I know I have his undivided attention. He steps in front of me and runs the back of his fingers over my tits and down the valley between them.
I push the dress down to my hips, and his hand sweeps over my ribs before resting momentarily on my belly. It’s possessive with its insinuation, but I get the message. He’s laying his claim. I like it. I shimmy my hips enough for the dress to pool on the floor around my feet. His gaze watched the dress fall. Now it snaps back to my face as he cups my pussy.
“You enjoy being watched.”
“I don’t mind it. It can be hot.”
He pulls his hand away, and I nearly grab his wrist to keep it in place. He guides me to the bench, and I step up.
“In what way?”
“Knowing people envy me for the pain and for my Dom. Knowing my partner enjoys seeing me like that and that he wants people to watch. Knowing a person my Dom or I know might want what they see enough to ask to touch.”
“That is not happening.” He’s emphatic.
“And I don’t want anyone but you to touch me. I haven’t always felt that way before. It would flatter me if someone asked, but I trust you’ll say no because that’s a hard limit for me.”
“It’s a hard limit because I won’t share you. No one but you touches me.”
He skims his fingertips over my leg to the top of my fishnet thigh high. He pulls and snaps the elastic. He walks to the rack affixed to the nearby wall and considers his options. Much like the examining table was in the private room, it’s strategically placed behind the spanking bench, so a sub can’t see what their Dom chooses. I wiggle my toes in anticipation. I don’t know if he chose immediately and is making me wait or if he’s still considering the options. I jump when his hand runs down my back between my shoulder blades.
He palms, then squeezes each side of my ass before gliding his hand up my ribs and around to my tits. Only one hand explores, making it hard to concentrate when I wonder what he’s holding. His hand trails down my belly again until he gets to my pussy, which he cups. He leaves it there, just a heavy weight pressing against it. I fight not to squirm with impatience. He rewards me by sliding a finger between my pussy lips.
“Is my little girl eager to start?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So creamy and wet.”
I am. More than I usually am with a guy. It’s probably a fucking slip and slide down there. I hope I’m not so wet he gets no friction when he fucks me. He helps me straddle the vault-like bench and lean forward.
“Deep breath.”
I do as he commands, and the moment I do, a crop lands across the top of my left thigh. It’s far lower than I expected. I lurch forward and Cormac tsks.
“Do I need to strap you in place, or can you stay where you’re supposed to?”
“I can stay where I’m supposed to.”
I want the restraints, but I know this is a test. Can I master my instinctive reactions? Can I trust what he’ll do won’t make me fall?
I tighten my hands around the handles and squeeze my thighs like I’m on horseback. I used to ride all the time on my grandparents’ farm. The crop lands in the center of my right ass cheek. He sets a wicked pace, sparing no part of my ass and upper thighs. He nails my horizontal cracks several times. His free hand strokes my back, periodically massaging my shoulders. The contrast between comfort and discomfort is heady. The pain on one end and pleasure on the other.
He pauses for only a moment before I feel the feather swirling over my punished skin. It soothes, but I suspect it’s merely the intermission. He doesn’t wait until the sting entirely ends, but it’s lessened when the next form of torment begins. It’s a single tail whip. It’s the type that resembles a rose stem with thorns. He’s wielding it much, much gentler than he could. His pace is still slower than I expected, but he’s not putting nearly as much force into it as he could.
I shift, trying to find a more comfortable position as my thighs are already tiring from how hard I’m squeezing the bench to control my instinct to run from the pain.
“Deli?”
“No, sir. My legs are sticking to the leather. Just repositioning. Keep going, please.”
“Do not lie to me, little girl. Do not take more than you can because you think you have something to prove or some standard you must meet. If I harm you rather than this just hurts, we’re through. I won’t engage in any BDSM if I can’t trust you to tell me your limits.”
We’re through .
As in, there’s no reason for us to be around each other. Despite the friendly conversation earlier, we aren’t friends. This certainly isn’t a romantic relationship…If only it were.
“Yes, sir. I understand. Thank you for looking out for me.”
“Always, cailín .”
Okay. He was definitely quieter when he said that, but was his tone different? Like—I don’t know—kind—or—like sweet?
I don’t know because my mind blanks with the whip’s next slash. I scream. I’m reaching the tipping point. The crop hurt enough to steal my breath a few times and make my eyes water, but the whip pushes me to where a few tears slide down my cheeks. Cormac knows in an instant.
“Talk to me, little one.” He brushes the tear from my cheek.
“I’m all right, sir. I want to keep going, and I can. But it fu—fecking hurts.”
He laughs and turns my head enough to peck my lips.
“You’re adorable.”
He pecks them again before straightening.
If he’s uncomfortable swearing in front of me—at least not that word—then I can adjust, too. The next three lashes make me shudder and continue to cry. But my mind’s slowing as I focus on what’s happening rather than trying to guess Cormac’s next move. I focus on controlling my breathing. I close my eyes and sigh. I don’t react when he pauses, then a paddle lands across both cheeks. He positions me how he wants by pulling my hips back.
“ Ooooh .”
I moan when two fingers slip inside me as the paddle lands on my right ass cheek.
“ Cailín, I told you I’m going to punish you. Now it begins.”