Afterlife (21 page)

your eyes, I see a young soul, one

who had her wings

clipped too soon. She doesn’t realize

they’ve grown back,

that she can spread them out and fly,

final y realize the

potential that’s been there al along.”

“Jon—”

Shifting, he closed his hand over one

of hers at his waist.

When he detached her fingers, he

gave them a quick

squeeze and then turned, taking her

across the room to the

drafting table, the stool there. He slid

a hip onto it, then

perused her with that lingering,

appraising look. “Take off

the shoes.”

He’d tolerate no disobedience, no

discussion. She didn’t

know what that would mean if she

resisted, but her pulse

thudded hard against her throat. Her

shoes. If that was al

he was asking, she could do that,

right? And truth, they

were pinching her feet. As she slid

out of them, giving up

the two-inch height they’d offered,

she immediately realized

why slaves were made to go

barefoot. There was a distinct

difference in status, looking down at

her feet clad only in

thin stockings, positioned between

his polished dress

shoes. Her toes curled into the deep

carpet.

“Now the hair. Take it down and

hand me the pins.”

He’d told her to leave her hair down

in the note. He’d told

her a lot of other things in that note as

wel . Would she strip

down here if he ordered her to do so,

no matter who might

come in? She realized then that Lucas

hadn’t closed the

door ful y. It was pul ed to the

doorjamb, a smal sliver of

hal way visible. She needed to—

“Do as I tel you, Rachel. Trust your

Master to take care of

you.”

It made her stomach jump.

Coincidence, or had he read

her thoughts that clearly? No matter

what it was, she’d

already raised her arms, and was pul

ing out the pins,

letting down the uneven wisps in

front that fel like feathers

against her face, caressing her cheeks

and lips. Then,

final y, the clip and ribbon that held

the bun, the twisted tail

fal ing against her neck in a

serpentine curve that teased

the modest open neckline of the

blouse.

“Don’t straighten it. Hand me

everything.”

She extended her hand, but he didn’t

take them, not right

away. He gripped her wrist, drew

her between his spread

thighs. Then he plucked the hair

fasteners from her, set

them aside.

“Put your hands on my knees and

leave them there.”

That at least was easy enough. She

relished even that

limited touch, though she knew she

shouldn’t. She shouldn’t

be doing any of this. She felt the

muscle layers that ran from

his thigh into the kneecap area, a hint

of the bone beneath.

She remembered his execution of

Sleeping Thunderbolt

once again, the strain of those thigh

muscles, the flex of the

calves. The arch of his beautiful

body. Her gaze drifted. The

way his thin cotton trousers had

molded his groin area,

drawing her eyes there…

Slacks of course were cut loosely,

but with his thighs

spread, she could discern the curve

of testicles and more

than a hint of what else was there,

giving her the gratifying

torment of knowing he was also

aroused.

“Rachel, did I give you permission to

look at my cock?”

“No.” She dropped her gaze to her

feet quickly.

“Good girl.”

When he cupped both strong palms

around her throat, a

moan caught there, beneath his touch.

She’d never had

such a startlingly intense reaction to

such a simple contact,

but he’d recognized it for what it was

last night.
You’ve

wanted a collar for a long time…

Untwisting the tail of her

hair, he spread it over her shoulders.

Then he moved up to

her face, burying his fingers into the

thick strands there,

combing it al out with his fingers in

slow, firm strokes that

had her eyes closing, her body

swaying toward him.

His touch dropped to her jaw next,

cradling it, his thumbs

sweeping along her throat again to

send those ripples of

reaction across her body, like a

sudden breeze flitting over

stil water. When he pushed the jacket

off her shoulders,

she didn’t resist, might have even

shrugged to help. It

dropped to the floor behind her. Her

heart thudded harder

when he flicked open two additional

buttons of her blouse,

revealing her bra. It wasn’t overly

sexy, a serviceable

undergarment with a touch of pretty

lace at the cups and

enough padding that her nipples

wouldn’t disrupt the way

the shirt smoothed over her bosom.

His arm slid around her

waist, his fingers plucking the shirt

free of her belted slacks.

The pressure of his hold brought her

in another step, her

hips pressed against the inside of his

thighs. She wasn’t

breathing. He’d touched her last

night, but denied her the

ability to touch him al that much,

except for lying on his

chest at the end. Now her body

burned with the need to

touch and taste, but he hadn’t given

her permission. She

embraced this state of longing,

satisfaction held out of

reach by his wil . It was painful,

pleasurable—a rhythmic

seesaw between both, almost like the

slow drag of a

tongue along the clitoris, from the

base to the ultrasensitive

top, intensity building and receding,

building and receding.

That was entirely the wrong kind of

thought to be having

right now, because her breath had

caught in her throat,

fingers twitching, thighs tensing.

Everywhere he was

touching her was coming alive, taking

away her ability to

think.

Reaching up under the shirt, he slid

along her spine,

making her arch into him. When he

breathed against her

jaw, it was flavored with a satisfied,

very male half-chuckle.

With no hesitation, he unclipped the

bra so it loosened

beneath the blouse.

“Unbutton your cuffs and take it off

through the sleeves.

Leave the shirt on.”

He left his hands resting low on her

hips as she did it, but

leaned against the stool’s backrest,

watching the arch and

stretch of her body as she complied.

Opening the cuffs, she

slid one strap down over her wrist,

then the other, then

pul ed the whole thing through. He

took it from her hand,

lifted it to inhale the inside of one

soft cup. Watching him do

it made her breasts ache for the mere

stroke of his breath.

His gaze dropped to them and another

of those tiny moans

caught in her throat at the flare of

desire in his eyes. He

didn’t seem to mind her watching him

now, but when his

gaze shifted back to her face, she

lowered her lashes on

instinct.

“I like seeing a woman’s nipples

through a thin blouse.

Particularly yours. Kneel for me,

Rachel.”

She remembered what he’d said

about the lipstick,

about how he wanted it marking his

cock when she sucked

him off. Her pussy was already wet,

she could feel it, but

now those internal muscles clenched,

wanting him, wanting

to service him that way.

She should have learned from last

night he wasn’t

predictable. Instead, once she was on

her knees, he began

to stroke her hair again, applying

pressure so that she slid

to one hip on the Berber carpet. Now

leaning against the

outside of his left leg, she dropped

her head to his thigh as

he petted her, slid his knuckles along

her cheek, played his

fingers through her hair, fondled and

massaged.

“The drawing I’m working on has to

be done in the next

hour. You’l stay right where you are

until I’m done. No

matter who comes in, or what occurs,

you stay where you

are. Tel me you understand.”

“I understand.” Her voice was barely

a whisper, but she

got it out, and thankful y, he didn’t

ask her to repeat herself.

“If the position gets uncomfortable,

you tel me, and I’l

give you permission to shift. Until

then, al you have to do is

kneel at your Master’s feet, Rachel.

That’s the only

responsibility you have.”

She couldn’t bring herself to cal him

that, but every time

he did, her reaction to it was

obvious, in the way her pussy

clenched on too much empty space

and her skin tingled,

from the tips of her breasts to the

sensitive pulse points of

her wrists. It was like the mere word

cast a net over her, the

rope of it caressing her everywhere,

holding her to him.

The surface part of her mind was

resisting, screaming

that she couldn’t possibly do this, that

she knew this wasn’t

going to work, that she’d come here

to bring an end to it

and she was impossibly weak. But

there was another part

of her, quieter yet somehow stronger,

that made her close

her eyes and press her cheek into his

thigh, enough that her

lips could graze the stretch of his

slacks over it. His hand

continued to stroke her neck, his

fingers tangling in her hair.

When she did that, the grip tightened

briefly, but he didn’t

stop her from doing it.

She heard the scratch of his pencil,

felt the minute shifts

of his body and knew he’d begun to

work on the drawing.

She couldn’t help stealing glances at

him, at once amazed

and incredibly aroused by how

focused he was on what he

was doing, the set of his mouth, the

quick shifts of his eyes

over the drawing elements.

Occasional y, he rumbled

something, a calculation or other

thought he was voicing

aloud to himself, and he might erase

or move to another

part of the paper.

She made a discovery of her own,

that her body could be

in an astounding state of lassitude and

intense awareness

simultaneously. Her body literal y

throbbed, blood pounding

against pulse points, everything in her

so physical y needy

that it was like running out of oxygen.

But she was also so

incredibly stil under his touch,

content to stay this way until

the end of time if needed. Because it

pleased him.

Kneel at your Master’s feet. The

only responsibility you

have.

She knew humans had an incredible

ability to rationalize

bad decisions. If it had been an

athletic event, she would

have won a medal for sheer quantity

long ago. However, so

what if she chose to savor this one

moment of her life? If

she had to turn her back on it in the

next few moments—

No, not
if. S
he knew it was a

foregone conclusion that

she ultimately had to reject al this.

But then, that was a few

minutes from now, wasn’t it?

Even knowing how pathetic and

flimsy that was, she

couldn’t resist the chance to be here,

quiet under his wil , so

aroused at how he was doing his

work while at the same

time exerting his Mastery over her…

She wanted him to

take her here, on his office carpet.

She wanted him to open

his slacks and let her suck him to

climax. She wanted to fal

asleep this way, tied up in al these

delicious unrealized

imaginings.

Though the way his hand was

stroking through her hair

suggested an absent-minded gesture,

she could sense

how attentive he was to her presence,

to everything she

was feeling. Those who thought men

couldn’t multitask had

never met Jon Forte. She had no

doubt he could design the

answer to free energy for the world

while making her so

aroused she might die from the

feeling.

“Jon.”

At the familiar male voice, she came

out of her reverie,

her pulse jumping at the quick rap of

knuckles on the door.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw

it push open.

It was Peter.

Chapter Eight

Jon flexed his hand on her nape, a