Dominion Trust Series - Vol.1 (79 page)

As his heavy thrusts continued to shake her body under their unstoppable power, she thought she probably wouldn’t have to worry about that. Even if she did become Mama Bear, she still needed him. Still needed his touch, his maleness, his power over her. It was as vital to her as food or water, as the air she breathed. This need to be subject to him, owned by him. Even though she hadn’t yet had the courage to tell him exactly how deep her needs went, she knew she had to have it. In her heart she knew there was no substitute for the forbidden dance of a Dominant and a submissive, a Master and a slave.

“You think you’ll be safe from this, when you’re pregnant?” His voice was a rough staccato growl in time with his thrusting.

“No, I don’t want to be. I want this. Oh God, I want this!”

“You’ll have it,” he said, pulling her to her feet by the roots of her hair, his cock still deep within her. The change in position made the fit tighter, and his heavy thrusts continued, bouncing her up and down upon him.

She cried out, her hips twisting as his hand lowered to her sex, fingers unerringly finding the hard clit. “I want you to come for me, Kirsten. Do it now.”

His fingers worked her as he rammed into her with rapid, punishing strokes. She could almost feel her feet lift from the ground on the power of his movements. It hurt her, but that pain, in concert with the devilishly clever fingers lifted her to the heavens.

She screamed as her orgasm took her, her vision blacking out as the searing pleasure tore through her core, radiating out like a supernova from her sex. He yanked her head to the side by her hair, and nipped into the crook of her neck, the hurt of his bite adding a tantalizing counterpoint to the drowning pleasure of her orgasm.

“You… are… mine,” he ground out, each word punctuated by a bruising lunge into her soaked, sore cunt. Then he groaned, the sound emanating from deep within him, the cords of his muscles tightening to vibrating steel. He pushed himself into her as far as he could go, truly taking her from her feet for a moment. Her cunt flooded with his seed, a mix of their fluids washing down her thighs. Her body rocked back and forth on the bellows of his broad chest, his breaths ragged. By inches, the tension in his body unwound, first lowering her to the ground, then with the loosening of his grip in her long hair, back onto the table.

She laid there limp, floating, as he bent over her, trying to get his breath under control. She could feel the shaking in his hand as he caressed her back, his sudden gentleness a pleasing counterpoint to the animalistic violence of their lovemaking.

“Good girl,” he murmured, squeezing her wrist.

Kirsten smiled when she realized it.

She’d never let go of her poor, crumpled robe.

Chapter Twelve

“D
o you think she’ll agree to it?”

“I think so. Things have been… really good.” Keihl twirled his racket on a finger, eliciting raised eyebrows from his soon to be opponent.

Tom opened the gate to the tennis courts. Though Keihl’s comment earlier that month about meeting at a neutral place was in jest, it was apparent his friend had taken him literally indeed.

The courts, a group of four of them, were situated in the middle of what appeared to be a massive business park. Nondescript office buildings, none of which were more than two stories tall, surrounded a central, park-like open space. Within this park, nestled in a stand of Douglas fir and red cedar was the tennis court Keihl found himself standing on.

Tennis courts were never as immaculate as these were, the lines so bright and stark, Keihl wondered if they were ever even used. This, combined with their location, seemed a little, well, odd.

The day’s oddness would prove to be just getting started.

“Is Sharon coming?”

“She’ll be along,” Tom said, seating himself on one of two wooden benches that hugged both sidelines of each court. The benches looked positively pristine. No public court this.

He would actually be okay if Sharon wasn’t coming after all. Some pure unadulterated competition would make for a nice change of pace. Keihl was fairly certain he was about to lay down an ass whooping on the old man.

There wasn’t a single cloud in the clear, azure sky. The morning was warm, and with the sun high and strong, the day looked set to get a lot warmer, and fast. A light breeze whispered through the courts, the surrounding trees of the park sounding a muted hissing as the wind passed through their branches.

“Well, this won’t really be a fair fight, will it Tom?”

“What’s that?”

Keihl pointed at him with his racket. “Kinda hard to play tennis without one of these isn’t it?”

Tom jerked his head toward the gate. “Told you she’d be along.”

Sharon pushed her way through the opening, a positively massive black racket bag slung across her shoulders. The strap from the bag dove between her high breasts, the dark nipples prominent under what looked to be a paper thin white cotton blouse. She looked up at the two men as she pulled the gate closed behind her, the bag clanging against the chain-links of the fencing. She hurried over to the benches, her face flushed a fetching pink.

“Just lay them down over here,” Tom said, pointing at the bench next to him. “You’re late.”

“Sorry, Sir.” She winced slightly as she looked at the impassive face of her husband. “I got stuck on the Av.”

“Yes, well we’ll deal with that later,” Tom said, glancing at Keihl. “First, Keihl gets his teeth kicked in.”

Sharon set the bag down on the bench, and stood in front of her husband, expectantly. She clasped her hands behind her back, her chin raised, standing at what Keihl swore looked like a military parade rest. Her blonde plaits, tied into two loose braids, moved with the breeze.

Keihl cleared his throat. “Warm-up?”

“Sure.” Tom reached into the mammoth bag and retrieving two bright yellow balls. He laid them on Keihl’s outstretched racket, then stood, addressing his wife.

“You need to warm up too, girl. Get to it.”

“Yes, Sir.” She grabbed the waistband of the black striped white warm-ups that hugged her hips. Before Keihl could say anything, she’d skinned the pants down to her ankles, using her husband’s shoulder to balance herself as she extricated her tennis shoes from the twist of fabric.

Keihl was amused to see that, rather than something scandalous, she wore a brief, but tasteful white skirt. The color set off the smooth, tanned legs, and not for the first time, Keihl smiled at the clean, lithe beauty of the woman. How she’d had three kids, and still looked as great as she did, he’d never know.

“Off you go,” Tom said, smacking Sharon on the ass.

She jumped, then took off on a jog, her blonde plaits bouncing in time with her skirt. Keihl and Tom watched her a moment as she circled the perimeter of the court, running along the inside of the fence. Her stride was that of a natural athlete, graceful and confident.

“She’s gonna boil in those long sleeves, Tom.”

Keihl didn’t really know if her wardrobe was dictated to her by her husband, but Tom certainly didn’t offer any denials.

Tom opened the huge black bag that contained his numerous rackets, fishing one out and zipping the bag up.

“She won’t be wearing it long.” He winked as he stretched his shoulders with the racket across his back. Keihl limbered up too, stretching his thighs as Tom’s beautiful wife jogged laps around the court.

“Faster,” Tom urged as the men walked to their respective baselines. Sharon picked up the pace, speeding to a full run around the court. Her cheeks were becoming rosy as her exertions increased. Tom appeared wholly unconcerned with it, however.

“Let’s hit a few,” Tom said. His gaze followed the bouncing rump of his wife. “You can stop now. You know the drill.”

“Yes, Sir,” she said, breathlessly. She dropped to a knee at one end of the net, crouched over with her hands flat on the court surface.

Keihl’s eyebrow quirked. “A ball girl?”

“Better her than me, don’t ya think?”

“Faster than you, that’s for sure.”

“Better scenery, too. Fringe benefits of owning a slave.” Tom’s grin was as bright as the late morning sun.

* * *

T
om cracked a topspin forehand along the line, making Keihl scramble to run it down.

Keihl returned the ball with a backhand, the impact of the shot too close to the base of the racket’s handle, sending a harsh vibration through his hands.

“Got it,” Tom grunted, dropping another forehand right on the baseline. Keihl gave chase, but couldn’t put his racket on it.

The two men waited; Tom at the baseline, his expectant, appreciative gaze on the nubile form of his wife running across the court. Keihl wanted not to look, but he was after all, a man.

You can’t very well have a beautiful woman scampering across the court and not expect him to look.

He wondered if Kirsten would offer the same sanguine assessment of his motivations.

Sharon found the ball, scooping it up and trotting back to her waiting husband. He took it, dismissing her with a pat to the briefest of brief white skirts Keihl had ever seen. It covered about as much of her as a small towel wrapped around her hips.

Okay, maybe not even that much.

The crack of Tom’s racket snapped him back to the game. Fortunately for Keihl, the serve was errant, catching the tape at the top of the net. He watched Sharon position herself on one knee, her hands on the ground before her, just as the ball boys and girls did at tennis tournaments on TV.

Though this particular ball girl would have caused quite a stir at the All England Tennis Club or Flushing Meadows!

The sun beat down hotter as the match went on longer. After each point, the bewitching sight of Sharon chasing down yet another yellow ball made Keihl forget why he was out there. She’d flash him a quick smile now and then, the sweat darkening the cotton of her shirt, a tiny bright pool of it gathering above her upper lip.

“Switch over on the next game,” Tom said, cracking yet another serve Keihl couldn’t even get a racket on.

“You’re a fucking ringer, is that it?”

“Oh only if we were betting, my friend.” Tom grinned at him, his teeth bright, eyes sparkling. He wiped sweat from his forehead, bouncing the ball at his feet. “We could change that you know.”

“Oh
now
you float that idea,” Keihl said, snagging Tom’s weaker second serve and blistering a backhand into the opposite corner. For once, the fleet of foot doctor couldn’t return it.

Sharon leaped up, bounding down the sideline, her skirt flying in the breeze, revealing toned, tanned buttocks, bisected by a tiny thong.

Interesting tennis attire.

“I’ll make you a bet then.” Tom bounced the ball on his racket, hand on his hip. “You win, I get you a meeting with Conall.”

“Already met him, asshole.”

Keihl shook his head, trying to suppress the questions already at his lips. Of course he wanted to know what the hell the Dominion Trust was. He always believed knowing was better than not knowing — especially when it came to those with power.

And he suspected the Dominion Trust as well acquainted with power.

“You met him, sure. But this is different, my friend.” Tom bounced the ball again, readying to serve once more. Sharon knelt, as if a setter might, awaiting the crack of the gun, the exhortation of its master to find the prize shot from the sky.

Great, Keihl. Comparing the woman to a fucking dog.

“Conall’s one of the most powerful members of the Trust on the planet. Believe me, you want a meeting with him.”

“And why is that?”

“You’ll just have to trust me on that, Keihl. You want to.”

“And if I lose? What do I give up?”

Tom rocketed a serve into the net, cursing as he dug a second yellow ball from his pocket, his gaze following the bouncing rump of Sharon as she rushed out to grab the errant shot.

“You spend the weekend with Sharon and I — and we show you what I know you’re dying to see.”

Tom’s second serve loped over, and Keihl crushed it, sending it right at Tom’s feet, jamming him, the ball clanging off the neck of his racket. He looked at Keihl, his brow raised.

“Something I said?”

“Just serve the ball, dickhead. Thirty, Love.”

They went back and forth for a few minutes, both of them thinking on it, and what hung in the air between them. Both of them wanted something here, but Keihl couldn’t get a handle on his friend’s motivation, on the whys of things.

You know what to do here, Keihl. Yet you aren’t doing it. Why?

“Let’s take a break, my man.” Tom trotted up to the net, then looked over at his still kneeling wife. He gave her a jerk of his head. “Go get some shade, girl.”

She gave him a small smile, then rose to give him a quick kiss before walking toward the corner on Tom’s side of the net. Dark green fabric was interwoven through the chain link fence at either end of the courts, wrapping partially around each side at the corners. This cast shadows across the court at one corner, and it was here they watched Sharon stop.