Mirror of My Soul, Joey Hill [ereader iphone .txt] 📗

shouldn’t push right now but the images were in his head. The fierce light in her eyes, the taunt of her body displayed before him, rubbing up against him.

The break in her eyes when she knew. Even the energy she put into the beating. Every part of him ached but there was a violent need in him.

“I can’t—”

He caught her throat in his hand, kissed her. Not gently this time. Despite her vulnerable condition his intuition told him the moment required hard, brutal demand.

His hands running down her arms, over her back, holding her against his bare chest, his tongue invading her mouth, his teeth tasting her. When she made a soft cry that vibrated against his grip, he tangled his other fist in her hair, held it as her nipples hardened against his chest. Reaching down, he put a hand between her legs and shoved the dress up to find her wet and slick, her thighs trembling.

“Say it, angel. Or I fuck you until you do, until you’re screaming it every time you climax.”

“If I say it, will you let me go home alone?”

“No. I already told you, that’s not an option.” He brought his hold back to her throat, felt her telltale shudder at the contact while he remembered how she’d 8

Mirror of My Soul

constricted his breathing. How he hadn’t cared if she strangled him, if only she’d put her lips on his and give him oxygen from the body he craved. “Marguerite.”

“I’m not… I can’t yet. Please don’t do this to me.”

“We both know you’re mine.” Because every fucking beat of my heart is yours.

Passing his hand over her shoulder blades, he felt her shiver with a combination of desire and terror both. The former heightened his lust for her, the latter roused his urge to protect. The Dom in him responded to both.

When he laid his palm on the back of her neck he felt the wisps of hair brush his knuckles. Leaning in, he kissed the top of her head. “All right, then. I’ll let it go for now.

I need to talk to Perry a moment to make sure we’re all square but then we’ll get you home.”

He surprised her, not just with the sudden withdrawal of demand but by simply

scooping his arms under her and lifting her, not even giving her the option of rising. He set her in an occasional chair that was in the shadows. The chair was intended for a weak-kneed sub or as a comfortable seat from which a Mistress could contemplate the artistry of her bound submissive. Or she could make him bend over it and place his lips on the cushion where she’d just been while she fucked him with an impressively intimidating dildo. Marguerite had used it for all those reasons. Never because she couldn’t stand well enough on her own two feet.

She had to pull herself together. She couldn’t let herself believe even for a moment in the fantasy of someone else doing it for her. He kept his profile to her, glancing at her often as he dressed. Socks, underwear, tucking that appealing cock in the snug boxers, pulling up the slacks, belting them. She knew he had to be hurting like hell but not once under her unwavering gaze did he flinch. She knew part of it was male pride but she also suspected it was that chivalry of his that wouldn’t let her suffer the full guilt of knowing how much she’d hurt him.

At the height of her frenzy it had even crossed her mind to destroy him, obliterate him entirely, as if the emotional pain he’d drawn from her made him as bad as the source of the pain. At that moment she could no longer distinguish friend from foe and all that mattered was the solitude. Destroying everything so it would be quiet in her head. She wouldn’t even care if they took her away and put her in a room by herself forever, her only job to stare at padded walls and wait for the oblivion of the final injection.

Instead, something had changed as those quiet amber eyes had watched her, waited on her. She’d ended up on her knees at his feet, kissing the hurts, a nonverbal plea for forgiveness for drawing him into her nightmare. For not wanting to release him from that nightmare because he made her feel she wasn’t alone with it anymore. While she wanted to cringe at the pathetic picture the words painted, her heart brushed that off and simply focused on him, on each look he sent her way. He shrugged into the shirt, left it open, rolled up the cuffs and draped the tie on either side of the collar. His coat 9

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was still around her shoulders. She didn’t want to take it off, which made her start to do so.

“No.” He came and pulled it close around her, enveloping her in the warmth. “You hang on to it awhile. It’s steadying you. Your color’s getting better. C’mon.”

He half lifted her off the chair, his arm going around her waist. She made herself find the strength not to lean so much but her knees were loose, as if the joints had a questionable ability to lock. With the least amount of encouragement he’d carry her and she’d suffered enough humiliation for one night. She allowed the arm, even used a handhold of his shirt and the firm flesh just above his hipbone to help her get out the door of the room she never wanted to see again.

“My… I didn’t clean up.”

“They’ll get it. I’ll pay them the extra to do the cleanup, sterilize the whip and tawser. Are they yours or The Zone’s?”

“The tawser’s mine.”

“Okay, then. Don’t worry about it.”

“They’ll charge it to my card. This is my night. I’ll pay for it.”

The hallway was quiet and she was thankful that The Zone had a side hallway exit that allowed patrons with