Chapter 22
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
My phone rings, and I wonder if it’s Jake calling to see where I am, so I slip my hand in my purse and search for it. Pushing aside my extra pair of panties and travel toothbrush–because I don’t know what to expect for tonight–I snatch it and bring it to my ear.
“I’m like, three minutes away,” I say as I turn the steering wheel onto his street.
“Riley, it’s Michael.”
My heart drops.
“Who did you think it was? That guy that showed up at your house?” he asks.
I refuse to acknowledge Jake. “I blocked you, how are you calling me?” I question, as irritated tears sting at the back of my eyes. I pull over, Jake’s house visible from my position along the shoulder. I’m excited to see Jake, to feel his hands on my body, to be in the company of someone who really wants to be in my presence too. I don’t want a single moment of my time with Jake to be tainted by fucking Michael.
“This is my work phone number, you know that,” he says, exasperated. “Who did you think it was?”
I lick my lips, anger simmering in my blood.
I shouldn’t. It’s stupid and it’s immature, but I do. I snap back.
“The guy whose house I’m driving to, that’s who.” I finally let out a breath, and decide right then and there that I will not let Michael ‘it was just the booze, I swear that’s not who I am’ Rhodes ruin my night.
No fucking way.
“Stop calling me. I am going to get a restraining order if you call me one more time. Got it? We’re done. You put your fucking hands on me, and we’re done. And you can brainwash my parents all you want. I will never be persuaded, blackmailed or guilted into being with you ever again. This is your last warning.”
He starts to talk but I end the call, block the number, and shove my phone in my bag. I refuse to swipe the angry tears that roll down my cheeks and make my face all red for Jake’s place. No. No. This is not how this night is gonna go.
Back on track, I take a few deep breaths as I steer my car up Jake’s long driveway. The other night when I dropped off Jo Jo, it was dusk, about the same time as it is now, but tonight his house seems to be glowing. The lights tracing the pathway to his front door are glowing, illuminating the thatches of carefully planted, colorful flowers beneath them. The grass is lush and green, trimmed and edged, and the trees around the yard are mature, offering beauty and texture to the yard. The craftsman style home is so large, and when I finally make it up to the porch, I start to wonder if Jake built this home himself. I could see it. Those strong hands, solid thighs, his eye for detail evident in his creations.
I’ve seen the work at his booth at the farmers market. Ornate, elaborate, almost exhaustive detail goes into everything he makes with his hands, that much is clear. And all of Bluebell uses Turner saddles, too.
Standing in front of the large walnut door, I lift my hand to make use of the fancy camera doorbell, but I don’t need to. The door swings open, and Jake appears, possessing the entire door frame with his strong, mountainous shoulders exposed from beneath a white tank top. His jeans are clean–and it’s clear to me now, he just got out of the shower, feet bare and drops of water dripping from the ends of his shaggy dark hair.
I think about the way he looked in the open door of his truck, water dripping from his hat and hair, and the memory of us echoes, leaving my body humming, my core alive.
“Hey, perfect timing. I just got out of the shower,” he greets, his smile soft and subtle, offsetting the depth of his voice.
A foot of space between us, impending night licking at the back of my arms, the scent of his cologne and dinner cooking, all of it creates a forcefield that engulfs me, taking my willpower away from me and placing me at his feet.
I’ve never felt this strong of an urge to submit to a man, but it’s not even that I don’t want power, or a voice. I simply want to please him, give to him, make him feel good because I trust that in return, a man like Jake will always take care of me, support me, both my heart and mind. I feel that, and when I look into his eyes, I see it. I don’t know how to describe it, and it’s such a powerful base feeling that heat springs to my eyes.
His hand slips off the door frame, falling to his side as he takes a small step toward me. He reaches for my hip, and the weight of his heavy hand makes my heart flutter so quickly, I can’t breathe for a moment.
“Riley, what’s wrong?”
I lick my lips and speak past the sudden dryness in my throat, finding words that rattle my heart and make my toes curl in my boots.
“Please,” I start, so many pleas preloaded on my tongue that I almost don’t know where to start. “I need you.” His hand moves from my hip to my ribcage, and my eyes snap shut in reaction. I take a breath, and open them again, his smoldering gaze lingering on me. “Please, sir, I need you.”
His other hand slides around my ribs, and in one short tug I’m in his arms, pressed to his chest, his soft lips grazing my ear. “I got you, I got you, Riley.”
The door closes behind us, and before I can drop my purse, I’m over his shoulder, watching the shapely globes of his ass work as he navigates the halls of his home. In a matter of steps, another door opens and closes. He lowers me to the ground, the temperature slightly cooler, the faint smell of motor oil and leather hanging in the air. We’re in his garage, with his large truck shiny and clean in the center, standing tall on a lifted chassis, the upgraded wheels telling a story of dominance and exploration. Looking around, like the yard and the truck, everything else from floors to corners to the shelving units are neat and clean. It’s sexy that he takes care of his things; then again, with the way my heart is beating and my pussy is pulsing, I don’t know if there’s anything about Jake Turner that I don’t or won’t like.
He is what I want. He is what I need. I’m very quickly falling for a man I hardly know, but my instincts are drowning all doubt, nudging me on, telling me that I belong to him. That I am his.
He waffles his fingers through mine, sending a burst of desire down my spine, pooling in my core. A hand hold is so intimate and he does it so easily, seemingly without thought, and I wonder, does Jake feel drawn to me, too?
He brings me to his work bench, various leather working tools suspended and organized in a custom racking system. I point to it.
“I like how you have your tools stored along the wall that way, not in a tool box,” I comment, reaching out to trace the curve of his glass burnisher. I saw him using it at a farmers market once, explaining to a group of kids what it does.
He nods. “Some tools get hot when I’m working, since a lot of finish work requires or makes heat, so I don’t like to put them in a box together. I did that when I started, and some of my spare leather and other stuff got slightly discolored as the tools cooled.” Reaching out, I lose focus of the tools when his arm flexes, picking one off the rack. He takes my wrist, outstretching my arm as he presses the wheeled end to my flesh, slowly working it upward, following a light blue vein. Along my skin he leaves a temporary ornate pattern that disappears in a matter of seconds. “I use this on heated leather. It’s my wheel beveler. I swap the wheel depending on what look I’m going for. It’s the only tool I use that creates a pattern. The rest of the details I do by hand.”
Replacing the tool, he lifts a key off the single shelf, which had been nestled perfectly behind the bottles of leather cleaner. No peppering me with questions after my emotional moment on the porch–I give out a little whoosh of relief at that, and some of the tightness in my belly eases. He gave me just what I needed–a happy distraction.
“Hidden key,” I smirk, explicit images fill my mind, and my pulse spikes. There is fuzzy warmth blooming in my cunt. “I’m excited.”
The edge of his mouth curves into a slight smile, then he turns to the metal cabinet on the wall, unlocking it with his secret key. Sliding the door to the left, he exposes a pegboard full of custom whips and crops, and I even see a handful of modified quirts and… “Is that a gag?” I ask, nodding toward the black leather strap, on it a black hexagonal piece of leather, the edges burned and trimmed, stitched neatly. It looks like the perfect size to cover a mouth.
“You made all of these,” I note aloud, awkwardly, because obviously he did . But I’m in awe of how beautiful each of these pieces are, and find myself pressed against the cabinet, running my fingers down a particularly gorgeous flogger. I trail my fingertips over the downy leather, my skin igniting beneath my clothes as I envision the harsh snap of tails against my bare flesh. My cheeks heat.
Jake places his hand on my lower back from behind me, turning me to face him. “I’ve never played with these.” His eyes, chestnut and onyx in this light, move over me. “I’ve never played at all.”
“No?” I ask, practically breathless from how fast my heart is beating. My nipples are so hard, if they brushed against his chest at this exact moment, I might combust.
He moves his head to tell me no. “But something tells me that you want to play with me.”
I nod. The intense set of his eyes wears hot against my skin, making me achy and emotional as he reaches for, then holds, the hem of my blouses. Bobbing my head helplessly, I wonder if I’ll ever say no to this man for anything. The cavity in my soul seems to disappear when I’m at his feet, dedicating myself to him. He’s so worth it, and I love earning him this way. In our special way, a way that we know spans beyond sex, digging far into our psyches, tapping into our trust. I would give myself to him and receive his dominance, trusting him to know my limits, and keep me safe.
Jake lifts my shirt over my head, placing it on his work bench. He bends at the waist, bringing his face near my bare belly, his eyes following his hand as he smooths it across the terrain of my core.
“Perfect canvas,” he rasps, his touch and his words bringing an eruption of goosebumps to the surface of my skin.
I nod, ignoring the burning sensation behind my eyes.
My belly buzzes in electrifying waves of pleasure, just from the weight of his hand on me. Jake hooks his other hand on my pants and rises, dragging me into his chest. “I can’t wait, but first, we are going to eat.”
“I love brisket,” I admit, lying down against his chest, in his arms. “But I don’t feel like eating. Not right now.”
His eyes sweep me, taking a layer of my shield with them as he inspects me. After a moment, his gaze idles on mine, and I let him look at me in that soul exposing way he’s doing. I feel naked, I feel seen, I feel like he knows that I want to serve him, that I’m nothing but his pliable, willing slut.
I can’t believe I’m admitting it, but that’s exactly how I feel. My heart races. He brings a hand to my face, and softly tucks hair behind my ear, his fingers chasing the strands to the end. He gives them a tug before letting go, his gaze drifting to my mouth for a boiling, scorching moment in time. My skin is slick from the heat of it all. He is unwavering, and gorgeous, and more muscle than I can comprehend.
“We’re going to eat, and you’ll be patient.”
His domineering words feather over me, a command and a warning, tickling my skin. His voice rumbles so quietly that I nearly combust. “Do you like wine?” He brings his other hand to my face, tucking my hair back there, too.
I nod. I don’t even know if I’m breathing. My panties are sticky against my skin. “Yes.”
“Okay,” he says, snagging my shirt on his work bench. I expose my palm, waiting for my shirt to be returned, but he tucks it into his back pocket, letting it hang. “I think I’ll hang onto it.” He sizes up my almost nude torso, and I really wish I wasn’t wearing my ugly, granny strapless bra. Jake groans, tracing the sweetheart neckline of the satin undergarment with his eyes, as if the bra is the sexiest thing he’s seen.
“Our first date, topless dinner,” I smile. His fingertips dust mine, then our knuckles slide past and our palms are kissing and – “ oh, ” I say softly, temporarily warped by the fiery explosion of sensations between my legs, tearing through my sternum, flooding my chest. He squeezes our joined hand, and warmth blooms in my limbs, exploding in wild curls in my belly. Everything between my hip bones aches endlessly, and when I spread my thighs, I actively ache for him.
The edges of his lips quirk before he guides us out of the meticulous garage back into the house.
“I didn’t plan that, but you look so good with your shirt off,” he says, holding the door for me to step past him. His garage is just off his kitchen, and with a flip of a switch, lighting lining the underside of the cabinets turns on, illuminating the space.
The counters are made of white marble, broad fissures of gold and black running haphazardly throughout. His cupboards are trimmed in thick slats of crown molding along all sides, painted a matte, rich black, with a large range hood and pot filler adding luxury to the already luxurious design. Jake moves, standing in front of the large, white porcelain apron sink, turning on the water.
“Thank you,” I flush, graciously accepting his compliment, but I can’t stop looking around the place, and it also serves to cool me down. I was losing my mind for him out there a little. Ready to pour myself at his feet. “Jake, your house is beautiful.” I take in the way the fridge is covered in a mock cabinet, and the custom shelves housing cookbooks and a small flower pot in the island centering the space.
He doesn’t reply, so I glance up at him, watching me. My cheeks flare with heat from knowing this. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, drying his hands on a dish rag before pulling two large, white plates from the cabinet. He plates food for us as I tiptoe through the adjoining living space, complete with a stone hearth, fur rugs over hardwood floors, overstuffed leather couches and gobs of pillows and blankets, gold accents contrasting the dark finished wood entertainment center. The house is just gorgeous.
“I love your house. I think it’s the prettiest house I’ve ever seen,” I tell him, eyeing an adorable photo of him and Jo Jo on a horse together. She looks young, maybe five, and I find myself smiling at the photo. “That’s a good photo of you guys,” I say, pointing to it when he glances up at me over a pan of roasted potatoes.
“She always loved riding,” he comments, a trace of sadness in his tone. “And thank you. I built it.”
Back at the table, he pulls my chair out and places a plate of food in front of me. “You built it?” I gawk, holding up the empty wine glass he set out as he lowers the bottle, filling it. He fills his glass next, and I like that he does a small amount in each, like he isn’t dependent upon the booze to loosen up. Michael needed booze, and blamed it.
He brings his plate back to the table, and sits down, draping a napkin over his lap. “I did. I bought the land and knew I wanted to build it myself. At that time, it was about keeping costs low. Turner Saddlery still hadn’t gotten its legs fully, and I was trying to establish trust and build rapport with Bluebell. Building it myself meant a lot of work, but getting what I couldn’t afford to get had I hired a crew.”
I nod, stabbing the tines of my fork into a tender piece of meat, the crisp bark exterior burned to perfection. It melts in my mouth, and he watches me, from my lips to my jaw, to the slide of food going down my throat. “How is it?”
I bring the wine glass to my lips. “Delicious.”
He takes a bite too, nodding in approval.
“So you’re from Bluebell, but it took time for people to trust your saddlery. That’s interesting to me,” I admit, because small towns' loyalty always works so strangely.
“Well, riding and barrel racing are big here, and you can’t do either of those things without the right gear. Small towns aren’t big on going to shows and buying from large vendors. I knew I had an in by only selling local, and being from Bluebell. But that wasn’t enough. I had to prove to them I could do anything they wanted, all while remembering why they wanted it and why it was important.” He stabs another bite of meat, this time adding potato, and green beans, too. “You have to be able to tell David Morgan that the saddle for his granddaughter, Morgan May, who likes riding her Appaloosa, Rocky Road, is better suited to her Tenneesee Walking Horse, Shamrock.” He chews, and I take another bite. The way our eyes come together in silence without tension or feeling like the room is bloated with unspoken things feels so good. It feels like I could exist with this man in the quiet hours of morning, before the sun is all the way up and the coffee is still dripping slowly into the pot. I could exist with him in the bleachers, my arm linked with his as we cheer on Jo Jo, strutting across the stage with her diploma in hand.
It rattles me a little how easily I see myself fitting into his life, their lives. “Geeze,” I breathe, my palms clammy. Heat curls in my chest, spreading to my arms, burning the tips of my fingers—knowing that Jake is reliable for everyone in his life–he earned them. “They made you earn them.”
He nods. “They did, but that’s how it should be.” He sips his wine, which urges me to do the same. “Things worth having should be earned.” His eyes slowly traverse the terrain of my almost nude body, and it makes my lips lift on the ends. “Take off your bra.” Jake’s voice rumbles and I swear the floor rocks beneath me.
I’m a little shocked, only because I wasn’t expecting that. But I reach behind and unclasp myself, setting the strapless bra on the table.
“Yes, sir.” My nipples hard as his eyes sink to my chest, studying every inch of my bare breasts.
He drops his head to the side with a contemplative hum, his swollen shoulders lifting as he steeples his hands beneath his chin. Heat spreads over the surface of my skin, and I can’t escape the burning feeling I get when he looks at me that way. “Why were you upset on the porch?”
I forget I’m topless as embarrassment blooms in my cheeks. “I’m pretty embarrassed that I showed up begging for you like that.” I stare at my plate, avoiding his eyes.
“What happened?” he asks softly before he drops his voice to nothing more than a husky whisper, adding, “Don’t be embarrassed. You begging for me makes me feel… needed. Desired.” His sigh is so weighty as he rakes a hand up the ba ck of his head, ruffling his fingers through his shiny, wild hair. “Jesus. I can’t believe I admitted that.”
“Why?” I ask. “Everyone wants to feel needed and desired.”
His eyes lift from his wine glass, settling on mine with a dark intensity that sets my insides on fire. “I bet you feel needed and desired all the time. A million students around you, cheerleaders.” He studies me, drumming lean, strong fingers against the table as I sip my wine, pulse leaping. “Men. You’re so goddamn gorgeous, I bet you have a slew of men begging for you.”
His words nearly steal my breath. I replace the wine glass on the table, empty. The Merlot buzzes in my veins, making me just fuzzy enough to be carelessly bold. “I’ve never felt desired or needed until you followed me down Mills Road in your truck and insisted on giving me a ride.” I leave out the part where we went for each other's bodies like feral teenagers.
“Why were you upset when you got here?” he asks again. He takes another bite and so do I, and it gives me a few seconds to think about my answer. Bringing up your ex on a date is the best way not to get a second date, but because Jake already knows of Michael, it seems pointless and even damaging to avoid the truth.
“Michael called me when I was driving over and it just upset me because I blocked him, and he wormed around the block.” Without additional context, I sound dramatic.
Jake's eyes narrow, and frustration bunches his forehead. “What did he want?”
I take my last bite of food, and realize that this is the first time other than with Leah that I’ve ever felt safe and comfortable talking about Michael. It’s not like I want to talk about Michael, but Jake’s presence diffuses the chaos inside me, making me feel like if I could talk about him, I’d be safe to do so. Maybe even understood. I wonder if this is what healthy relationships are, being with someone who genuinely makes you feel safe.
“Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve made it clear to him and my parents that we’re done.”
Jake collects our plates, and I watch him working in the kitchen, rinsing dishes and loading them. “What makes your parents so tied to this guy?”
I sigh. “Well, my parents and his parents are friends. His parents are kind of, I don’t know, small town somebodies back in Willowdale. The town hall is in their name due to their donation, and everyone knows them.”
Jake blinks.
“My parents really care about what people think about them and they really, really want to stay in the good graces of Michael’s parents.” I cup my hand to my mouth. “I’m sorry I said his name at all, much less more than once. This is a date,” I shake my head, angry with myself for being this girl. The one who talks about her ex on a date. “I’m sorry.”
“I asked,” Jake says, “because I want to know. So please, finish explaining.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, a little surprised to discover that Jake is interested. “Well, Michael and I were friends our entire lives. We started dating in high school and my parents were like, ecstatic. They started planning these family picnics between the Rivers and the Rhodes, and, I don’t know. At the time I thought they were just super supportive of my first relationship. But now I know it’s because they wanted to get close to the Rhodes, for social reasons.”
“For shallow reasons,” Jake amends.
I finger-gun him. “Bingo. Because the Rhodes, the more I got to know them, were actually shitheads of the worst kind. Rude to wait staff, talked over people, always played the devil’s advocate in any meaningful conversations, never picked up the tab at group dinners, and in general, were just complete turds.”
“Turds?”
I shrug. “I’m around high schoolers all day. I cannot bring myself to use slang or curse words if not absolutely necessary.” I wave him off. “Anyway, I broke up with Michael.” As much as I feel comfortable sharing with Jake, there are some memories that can stay folded up and hidden away. Some things that I’d love to never relive, admit or discuss. I don’t want it or him to color the way Jake sees me, and I don’t want it to alter the tone of the night. Dark details can do that, and I just want to get to know Jake a little bit better and maybe (but definitely) put my spare panties to use. “They didn’t like it, even though I had a really good reason.” I ignore the rush of heat in my cheeks at the mention of the reason . “They decided to make me feel like my reason was foolish because their surname means something in Willowdale.”
“They didn’t support you,” he summarizes.
“Correct. They did not.”
He moves, standing over me to extend a hand. He pulls me to my feet, running the calloused, work-worn surface of his palms along my bare stomach. “I’m sorry that happened.”
I shake my head, no longer wanting this discussion to color our small window of time together. “I’m sorry I showed up here like that. That wasn’t fair to you.” I lick my lips, wetting them, inviting him for a kiss. Desire flares between my legs as he takes my bait, leaning down, pressing his mouth to mine. My heart catches fire. A feeling more intense than anything I’ve experienced explodes inside me, sending a surge of heat through my limbs and down my spine. His lips are soft, but his kiss is powerful, his tongue guiding mine .
When our lips manage to part, there are a jumble of things I want him to know, dancing like hot coals on my tongue. “Something about you, Jake. I don’t know. I feel… outside of myself or something when I’m with you, but also, I feel like I’m more of myself than I even recognize.”
His dark eyes search mine. “I know.” He strokes a thumb down my side, electrifying my skin.
“I want to feel your toys,” I whisper, my mind circling on the sinful cabinet in his garage. The cabinet represents everything he’s wanted, his most hidden urges and carnal desires–and he’s only ever shared it with me. And now there’s a growing ache inside me, one that can only be eased by giving myself over to him. “I want to know what it’s like to hurt for someone, in a good way. I want to show you how strong I can be for you, and I want to know that if I end up weaker than I think, that you’ll be there.”
I can’t believe I’m the one speaking these things, begging for him to whip my flesh and mar it until he’s satiated, to bend me to his kinky will and contort me until we’ve reached bliss together, in our own, twisted way.
“What else do you want?” he asks, his voice dark and silky, like solace in the shadows.
I remember the side of the road. What it felt like to be at his feet, on my knees, waiting to have him in any way that he let me. The feeling of surrender, his thing to be used, to be the solution to his problems. “I want to be bound, on my knees, for you. I want you to show me pain and introduce me to your pleasure. I want the memory of you and your toys on my flesh.” He brings our mouths together, and this time, his groin sinks against mine, his cock coaxing me. “I want to be yours to use.”
He smooths his palm down my arm, studying my eyes. His scent overwhelms me, his touch dizzies me, and the understanding that echoes in his gaze has me falling for him. “Why? Why do you want that?”
I shake my head. “I can’t explain it.”
“Neither can I,” he says. “I’ve been making those toys out there for years. Dreamed of using them for years, too. But the dream wasn’t constant, wasn’t something I could really see becoming reality. Not until I found you and your splinter at the Gray barn that day.”
He remembers that day, too. Hair rises up along the back of my neck, and I grip him a little tighter, his biceps hard beneath my palms. “Red if I need you to stop, yellow if I need a break?”
Jake stares at me for a quiet moment, an invisible force between our bodies drawing us nearer. “Okay.”
Heat fills my face as I reach my only point of hesitation. “I’m not sure you’ll… fit.”
The serious edge on his features wanes, leaving a subtle smirk behind. “Miss Riley” he croons unintentionally, making my core pulse, my pussy ache. “I’ll fit, alright. And when you’re so full of my cock that you can hardly breathe and you can feel me in your stomach, that’s when I’ll sink the rest of the way inside. You’ll find out that not only do I fit, but I’m a perfect fit for you.” He licks at my lips before kissing me again, his mouth working along my jaw and down my throat, covering my pulse. “I’ll make you see stars.” He doesn’t say it’s a promise, but still, it sounds like one. “I’ll make it fit.”
I nod. “Please, sir, I want that. I want you . Now,” I murmur, turning my head as he fills his palms with me, making my belly hum. His lips explore the valley between them before tracing the wide curve of my areola with a rough fingertip. He flicks gently at my hardened, hungry nipple. “I loved seeing my come on you. You looked goddamn gorgeous. ”
I reach for my pants but he stops me. “So eager,” he says, ghosting the words over my shoulder as he walks around to stand behind me. “I like it— how much you want me. I can feel it radiating off you,” he says, tugging my hair to the side, exposing the back of my neck. Desire stalks up my arms, centering my chest, making my heartbeat grow tacky. My vision grows dark around the edges as he weaves his hand through my hair, tugging my head back by my scalp. He sinks his teeth into the top of my shoulder, and my pussy aches at the feel of his bite, the first mark he’s leaving on me tonight. “I can smell how much you want me.”
My mouth is dry but I manage to lick my lips, and reach behind me, searching for him. With a fistful of his shirt in my hand, I tug, and his lips land on the back of my ear. “Okay, okay,” he groans, gently but purposefully grazing his cock against my ass. “But not here. I’m not doing this in my kitchen.”
He spins me to face him, traces of a smirk on his lips. “You know where my bedroom is. Go there, get naked, and wait for me.”
I don’t need to hear it twice. I make my way back to the front door, and from there, toe down the hall to the large, closed door at the end. My pulse skips with each step I take, and I know when I take my clothes off, my panties will be a sticky, wet mess. I cannot believe just a few months ago I didn’t even know this man and tonight, I gave myself safe words because I am desperate to be pushed, to be tested, to be his pleasure, his cure.
Maybe Jake is my reward for enduring a man like Michael. Maybe I’m Jake’s reward for raising his daughter alone. Maybe fate is real, and this is what it looks like. I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening between us, and I try my very best not to apply logic or run it through the filter of society’s norms.
I like and want Jake, and those two things are quickly merging to create a feeling far more powerful. Far more permanent.
And he hasn’t even been inside me yet.
In his room, I find the bed made, same as the night I was here before. The closet door is cracked, the light on, letting faint yellow spill across the dark wood floor. It smells like him in here, musky cologne, fresh linens, no frills bar soap, mouthwash, and maybe even a candle. The bathroom door is also cracked, a small light glowing inside. I push into the space, finding a small plug-in light near the sink and a candle on the center of the counter top, unlit. The wick is trimmed neatly, and that comes as no surprise that Jake even takes proper care of his candles. I can’t help myself. I pick it up and bring it to my nose, inhaling the rich amber scent. Knowing he’s going to be in here in a minute, I forgo nosing around and slip out of my jeans and panties, carefully hanging them over a bar in the bathroom, on top of plush bath towels. When I’m completely bare, I slip out into his room, gasping at the sight of him.
He stands with his back to me, broad and muscled, and completely naked. His ass and thighs are a shade lighter than the rest of him, but my attention shifts to the sight between his legs. Swollen, full, his balls hang idly, and with them, his cock, a little hard but a lot huge. My stomach clenches in anticipation, and I continue taking in his physique, his gorgeous body composed of lean, taut muscle. The ends of his hair curl slightly, and when he realizes I’m in the room, Jake turns.
We stand a few feet apart, both of us completely naked.
Hanging from his hand is a leather flogger. He lifts it up, using his other hand to tug at some of the tails. “The first few of these I made, I had to test on myself. I used deerskin, because it’s really soft. And I thought I’d want the tails soft, and that if I struck with power, those tails, as soft as they were, might sting.” He lowers the flogger, his eyes rolling closed as he moves it over his cock. As long as the tails are, his crown hangs past the them, pink and shiny. My insides clench and a tingle spreads through my groin.
“Fuck, it feels so good,” he says, gently moving it over his cock, which grows the more he does it, gaining thickness and lift. “But I found out that deerskin is best served for teasing, and not for impact.” He snaps his wrist, quickly hitting his cock with the flogger’s unforgiving tails. Before my eyes, his abs tighten and he sucks in a breath. “Cowhide provides more snap, more thud, gives a better shock.”
“Is… is that cowhide or deerskin?” I ask of the toy he’s smoothing over his cock.
“Cowhide.”
He lowers his hands, the flogger falling lifeless against his thigh. My eyes veer to his erection, prominent and mouth watering, with grooves giving way to buoyant veins, rippling up his shaft. He just hit himself with the flogger that stings–the stingiest of all. His eyes glitter with mischief and desire, and without his command, I lower to the floor, onto my knees, and bring my wrists together behind my back. He wants this, I know he wants this. There are few things in this life I can be very certain of—cheerleading is way harder than people give us credit for, taxes are cruel and Jake wants this.
“I want to feel it, too,” I moan, inflating my chest with a deep breath. “Please, sir, I want to feel it.”
Because the way his face filled with something serene and euphoric after the sting of that whip wore off.
I want that euphoric feeling. And I want him to deliver it.