How to Punish Your Playboy (DommeNation #3) (13 page)

I beat against his back and collapsed with a sob, a primal sound from the back of my throat made up of fear, anger, and release. This was catharsis in its purest form—Aston was purging me of the gunk that had been building up since we left home.

He spun, cradling me against his chest, and I clung to him for a moment to catch my breath. “On the ground,” I said, and he found a spot between the stalks where he had enough space to sit with his knees up and legs somewhat extended.

I peeled off my shirt, joining him in his natural state. Nothing seemed more right—we were here, out in nature. We should be naked. I unhooked my bra and loosed my breasts. Aston’s eyes grew hazy with lust. I pulled my shorts and panties off in one swipe and soon I was nude and looming over him. He scooted his back against one of the stalks and winced. I walked over him and straddled his body, standing straight and looking down on him.

“Hands behind your back,” I said. “Now.”

He moved his hands behind him and puffed out his chest. He was very erect, and I was wet and waiting for him. Without another word, I squatted and slid down the length of him.

Aston moaned and I began to slam myself down on him, writhing and grinding and gritting my teeth.

“Take what you need, Mistress,” he moaned.

I wound my hands in my messy hair and continued to ride Aston’s cock. I felt wave upon wave of euphoria take over me. It was so wild, so reckless. We were fucking in the middle of a field, naked, sweating. I reached down with my right hand and worked my own clit, since I’d told Aston to keep his hands behind his back. This was about relief, and I wasn’t shy to give myself what I needed on the outside as Aston’s long length gave me what I needed on the inside. His face was the picture of rapture, the way his warm, wet lips parted and panted for me. His eyes, lids heavy from ogling my bouncing breasts, beckoned to me, silently begging me to take what I wanted from his body. I used his dick, wiggling my body up and down on it until soon I felt like a coil ready to spring. My finger worked faster, swirling in my wet flesh, and when Aston threw his head back and growled in pleasure, I knew I’d taken what I needed. I let my body unravel in the orgasm, legs thrashing, hair wild and wanton, hands gripped on his hips.

“Come for me, baby,” I nearly screamed, desperate for Aston to fill me. My muscles clenched around him as he pumped himself out inside me. His face was red with effort, and beads of sweat had formed on his forehead and neck as he came, spasming inside me. I collapsed on him and we both fell back.

Giggles gripped me as I wrapped myself around Aston, planting a wet kiss on his mouth. He sighed and gave in, laughing with me and squeezing me hard. We lay like that for a moment, bodies tangled together, half-supported by the stalks of corn, acting like a couple of naked idiots. After the swell of amusement had subsided, Aston and I helped each other stand and we dressed.

Hand in hand, we walked out of the corn field. I felt refreshed and much less worried about what Derek was going to do. I wasn’t an expert in the law, but that car flat out wasn’t his. I was a strong woman, a Mistress, and nobody was going to take anything that was mine. Not my car, not my man.

Aston and I got back in the car after shaking some of the field debris from our clothes and hair. We were still chuckling. I took the driver’s seat this time. I was in complete control of my life. We headed toward Lincoln with a fresh outlook—Aston was going places with our new idea, and I felt confident that whatever was going to happen with Derek and the lawyer was going to work out in my favor.

I’d make it work that way. I was in charge.

“Wakey wakey, Mistress! Are you putting more wear and tear on the car’s treads or Aston’s behind at this point? Slow down today and do something sensual with your man. Delight in all the senses, or perhaps enhance a few and deprive others. Test his responses. The ability of the body to compensate when one sense is dulled can really amaze both you and Mr. Hottypants! After your Domme work is done, try this: Place your back against a doorframe, put your feet out at a thirty-degree angle, and scoot yourself down. See how long you can hold it! Your thighs will thank me.”

As always, Sarah’s morning message added just a little more sunshine to the day. We got in late last night and saw nothing of the city until now. Lincoln had the cleanest-tasting air of any city I’d been to. The endless fields of corn and crops that were the prelude to Lincoln gave me the notion that the city would be equally wholesome, and I was right. It had a small feel for a city, almost homey, and when Aston read a sign for a local farmers’ market, he jumped.

“That corn was giving me ideas,” he said, lost in thought.

“It gave me ideas, too,” I joked, as we pulled into a parking lot near the marketplace.

He grinned. “The produce here must be so fresh,” he commented. “I mean, we’re in the Heartland. This is where so much of our food comes from. I’m dying to get my hands on some nice grass-fed beef, some corn and potatoes, make something rustic and homestyle.”

I shook my head. “This trip is humbling you,” I said. “Homestyle? Not fancy beer-fed beef that’s been massaged its whole life, poached in wine that costs more than my first car?”

Aston rolled his calico eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if you think I’m a complete asshole.”

“You’re half-asshole,” I consoled him. “You’re down from three-quarters. Not too shabby.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he mumbled. I grabbed his face between my hands and planted a wet kiss on his mouth. “That’s better. Now let’s go get some grub.”

We walked down the center aisle of the farmers’ market and the smells were intoxicating. Bakers’ muffins and pies fattened the air with their aromas, and rows upon rows of summer fruits blushed as we passed. I wondered at the scope of the place, the enormity. “How do you even pick anything here?”

Aston paused by some ripe peaches, taking one in his hand and smiling at the vendor. “Well, sometimes you come with a rough meal in mind and see what they have that suits your needs. But sometimes, especially at a place like this that’s got such a great variety and incredibly fresh stuff, you just let yourself get inspired. Do a few laps, see what stands out. Picture what would go together. Let the food be your muse and the inspiration will come.” He sniffed the peach. “Right now, I’m pretty damn inspired by this peach. I may create an entire meal from it.”

I raised my eyebrows. “From a peach?”

He nodded. “Yup,” he said, then leaned over, grabbed a bag, and carefully selected a pound or so of luscious peaches. “Let’s let the peach guide us.” Aston held out the bag and pretended it was pulling him in the direction of the butcher’s stall.

We walked over there—the smells weren’t as pleasant, I’ll be completely honest—but there was a huge selection of cuts. I had no idea what animals they were from, mind you, but obviously Aston knew. He quickly began chatting with the butcher, whose name was Al and whose family had been in the business for four generations.

Aston pulled out a peach and showed it to Al, who whistled. “Almost as pretty as your girl,” he said, giving me a friendly wink. “I like your style.”

I gave him an alligator smile, wide and open, and returned his wink. I was in full pinup glory today—hair in two victory rolls high atop my head, a black pencil skirt, espadrilles, and a cherry-dotted tube top. Aston put his arm around me approvingly.

“Thinking of doing a pork loin to go with these peaches,” Aston said, gesturing to a particularly nice cut that the butcher had displayed in his case.

Al nodded knowingly, “This one’s a beaut,” he said, pulling it out. “Real lean, but nicely marbled. Just a quick sear, a little bake time, and a good rest and you’ve got something special.”

Aston pulled me close. “I’ve already got something pretty special, but yeah, the loin looks perfect.” I leaned over and gave Aston a long, public kiss on the lips as the butcher packed up the pork.

Aston beamed as I pulled away.

“Good boy,” I said, glancing at our groceries. “You may do the rest of your shopping now.” I giggled to myself—it was such a hoot to have Aston at my beck and call like this. Granted, half the time it was sarcastic, but I typically responded in kind. We were ordinary people who were suddenly calling love by a thousand different names—mistress, submissive, punish, please, safeword. So of course we tred lightly in this new world. We were exploring, testing boundaries, trying to feel comfortable in these roles that were so new to us and yet felt so right. It was like buying a pair of gorgeous shoes at a consignment store and finding they hug your foot’s every curve. They were broken in, well-loved, but now yours. I’d been a lover before, but being Aston’s Mistress was something that was new. And with the way Aston was sampling one of the peaches we’d picked, my mind was certainly veering toward the pleasures of the evening that didn’t involve dinner.

“Just a couple more things,” he said, bringing me round to a mushroom cart. He gestured at a bunch with long, thin stalks. “Do you know what these are?”

I shook my head. “Low-fat mushrooms?”

He cocked his head, confused.

“They’re skinny.”

Aston laughed. “They’re enoki mushrooms. Really mild, sweet. Great in a stir fry.”

I blinked and touched them. The only mushrooms I’d ever eaten were just button mushrooms that were often in salads. “They look like bean sprouts.”

Aston broke off a small stalk and held it to my mouth. I opened it and let him place it on my tongue. I crushed the thin mushroom in my teeth and felt its earthy but light flavor.

“Here’s another good one—a pink oyster mushroom. They’re also called flamingo oysters because of their color.”

I picked it up, surprised by its appearance. “These must be pretty in dishes.”

Aston wrinkled his nose. “Actually they turn grayish when they’re cooked, but they’re still delicious. Much chewier and softer than enoki mushrooms and seriously all you need is a little olive oil and salt to make these beauties a fantastic side dish. Want to try?”

I nodded, surprised by my sudden interest in mushrooms. Then again, Aston could make anything sound appealing. These mushrooms were actually really beautiful and looked more like pink seashells than a fungus. He put a piece in my mouth and I chewed. Still earthy, more so than the enoki, and the supple texture was much less mushroomy than I’d imagined. It was really good.

Aston picked up another. “The name of this one always cracks me up. It’s chicken of the woods.” This one looked almost like a flower and appeared to be blooming.

“Chicken?” I asked. It certainly wasn’t named for its appearance.

Aston nodded. “Honestly tastes just like chicken. Vegetarians love it. Can’t eat it raw, though, won’t taste as good. Want me to cook us up some with the pork tonight?”

I eyed the thing with some some skepticism, as I’d never been a huge fan of mushrooms. “I trust you.”

Aston put a bunch of mushrooms into a bag and then looked at me with the oddest expression. He reached over and ran his hand through my hair. “I trust you, too.” A sudden softness had taken hold of his face, and he swallowed hard. “I’m having a good time,” he said, throat tight.

I smiled at him, happy but confused. “Me too. This place is really fun, and I’m learning a lot.”

He shook his head and his eyes looked unfocused and skittish. “I’m . . . not myself with you.”

I staggered back, hurt. “We’ve talked about things we want to change, I swear I’m not trying to control—”

“It’s not that,” he answered, voice softer than it had been a moment ago. “We’re on the road, so there are no familiar places that make me behave as I used to. I’m, I don’t know, rewriting myself. I’m free to talk about the things I love, like food, because you’re not harping on the fact that I’ll never make it into a kitchen. I don’t know, it feels like this isn’t my life.”

I leaned against an apple cart, stunned. “So, in a good way?” I asked. I didn’t know what to make of this confession. On one hand, I was thrilled that Aston was rebooting and rejecting his highfalutin self, but on the other, I didn’t want him to be someone he really wasn’t.

Aston nodded and took my hand. “You’ve given me more than a car and a Mistress,” he confessed. “You’ve given me a chance to take the road I should have taken when I was in college. To discover myself, to travel, and to find out what it is I want to do with my life. If we hadn’t met, I’d be stuck in the family business forever.”

I stood there, in the sunshine and amid the scent of apples, and felt profoundly humbled. My presence was changing someone for the better. The hard layers formed by years of Derek’s dickishness cracked and chipped off me, flaking away in the midwestern sun. “I’m glad we’re on the road together,” I said, taking Aston’s hand. “And I love the new you.”

Aston, with stormy eyes I could swim in and lips like ripe slices of a tangerine I wanted to bite and suck, pulled me into his arms. Once more his fingers were in my curls, and his lips found my ears. “I love you, Veronika Kane.”

THE ANTICIPATION FOR
Aston’s dinner was almost as enticing as the man himself. He had me sit in the hotel suite’s candlelit living room and sip wine while he cooked. The wine was totally necessary since his admission of love—I was a bundle of nerves and the wine certainly took the edge off. I faced him, feet up on a chair, as he slaved over a stove for me.

I could get used to this.

“Take your shirt off,” I ordered, watching him slice peaches and lick the juice off his fingers. He wanted to tempt me? He’d pay the price.

Aston snickered and slid the tight tee over his head. “Yes, Mistress,” he said. “May I wear an apron so as to keep any kind of splattering hot oil off my chest?”

I crossed and uncrossed my legs. “Are you trying to be cute? Now the pants have to go. But yes, an apron is fine.”

Aston smiled at me and unbuttoned his pants. He was standing behind the suite’s island. “Ahem. Where I can see, Dirty Playboy. Let me get a look at those legs.” I loved objectifying him like this, it was such a change from getting whistles while I posed on cars. Aston stepped away from the island and gave a little shimmy as he pushed the dark-wash jeans off his toned thighs. He stood there in his black boxer briefs, looking positively delicious.

“You may proceed,” I said and dismissed him.

He returned to his station, where he took an onion and finely sliced it into paper-thin ribbons. He tossed the onions into a pan with butter and olive oil. He was going to caramelize them, he had said. I could tell Aston enjoyed teaching me these little terms. “At the very end, once the onions turn translucent and then brown, I’m going to toss the peach slices in with them. Then, after the pork I’ve seared is done resting, I’m going to put the peach and onion on top of it and sprinkle it all with a little pink sea salt.”

I licked my lips. “I think you like narrating each step, Aston. I may have you do that later, in the bedroom.”

His eyes flickered, full of fire far hotter than the gas stove he was cooking over. “Yes, indeed, Mistress.”

The rest of his labor was silent as he melted chocolate over a double boiler, did something fancy with eggs that I was clueless about, and cut up some more basil for something or other. A hot, bubbling pot of risotto was sitting on an unlit back burner, and Aston would add a ladle full of hot liquid to it every few minutes and stir like mad. He kept smelling the chicken of the woods mushrooms that were bronzing in a fry pan. It all seemed like a very complicated dance he was doing. I was mesmerized by his skill with a knife, his ability to shift back and forth between dishes, and the way he managed to coordinate all the foods. Granted, I hadn’t tasted them yet, but the smells were absolutely entrancing.

“I’ll be done in five minutes, Mistress,” he called as he began setting up plates, forks, and knives. “Tonight I’m pairing dinner with this Saint Clair Sauvignon Blanc. It’s got melon and tropical fruit notes, which will accent the dish nicely and accompany the flavors fantastically.”