The Training (Book 3: The Submissive Trilogy) (4 page)

“Mmmmmmm,” I hummed, enjoying the sight of her spread and waiting for me. Spread and ready. I gave her ass a light slap. By this time, pain from her spanking would have subsided slightly. The slap I gave served only to excite her further.

I placed my hands on either side of her hips and slowly eased my way inside.

Fuck.

I’d taken her in the shower that morning. Had taken her twice the night before. Why did it always feel so fucking good, every single time? My head fell back as I pushed deeper.

So good. So right.

Fuck.

Focus.

I pulled out slightly and teased her clit with my fingertips. “You’ve done so well tonight, I might let you come.” I pulled out farther. “Or I might make you wait until tomorrow.”

And with that, I started a slow, teasing rhythm. Pulling almost all the way out. Waiting for what seemed an inordinate amount of time. Easing my way back inside.

I slowed even further. Enjoying the sensation of being within her. Making sure she felt every inch of me. Feeling her stretch as I filled her once again.

Then, finally, I started moving faster. But only slightly. With each push, I swirled my finger around her clit, purposely avoiding any direct contact.

“Move with me,” I commanded. On my next thrust, she pushed back, drawing me deeper.

Yes.

I kept our pace steady. Her breasts fit easily in my hands as I moved within her. I pinched a nipple, imagining the clamps I would put on her the next day—her head thrown back in ecstasy as I brought her to the edge of pleasure again.

I flicked one and rolled the hard tip between my fingers. She pushed back in to me harder, showing me without words or sounds how she felt. My hands ran down her sides, and under my fingertips, her breathing became ragged. Shorter. Neither one of us could hold out much longer.

I increased my rhythm, pounding strong and steady as she breathed even harder.

“I love being inside you,” I said, digging my fingers into her hips in a vain effort to get closer. Deeper. Anything. “The way your body stretches.” My words came in pants as I moved faster. “How it accepts me.” My hips rocked and I shifted deeper. “Fuck.”

My words dissolved into grunts, and I wasn’t sure what I said. The world disappeared. Time slowed. Only we existed.

Her body trembled under me.

“Should I let you come?” I teased. Her only answer was another thrust back into me. “Or should I be really cruel?” I stopped talking for a second as she took me deeper. “Make you wait until tomorrow? Keep you aching all night?”

I moved faster, my thrusts long and hard. She stilled; her body was taut and tense from the strain of withholding her climax. My balls ached with the need to release.

I leaned over her back and whispered, “Come hard for me, baby.” My finger swirled around her clit and my voice dropped even lower. “Let me hear you.” I grazed her clit with the tip of my finger.

Her scream echoed in the quiet room.

Fuck.

I thrust into her again.

“Holy. Fucking. Hell,” she yelled as her body clamped around me. Her orgasm triggered my own, and I came just as hard as she did.

Completely spent, her body dropped to the table, limp. I leaned forward and rested on my elbows, placing soft kisses along the small of her back as I struggled to bring my breathing back to normal. She didn’t move.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Y-yes.” She took a deep breath. “Master.”

I moved up her body, caressing and kissing as I went, climbing up the table to get closer before finally moving off of her. “Sit up when you’re ready,” I said. “Feel free to talk.”

She lay still for a few minutes more, so I took my time—rubbing her muscles, nibbling and brushing her skin lightly with my lips. “You did so well,” I said into the nape of her neck. “I’m so very pleased.”

She rolled over, a faint smile of pride on her lips, and I couldn’t help but kiss her softly.
Why did I ever think not kissing was a good rule?
“Take some time,” I said. “Take a shower, get some water—whatever you feel like—and meet me in the library in thirty minutes.”

It was, hands down, without question, no need to even think about it, the most amazing orgasm of my life. Somehow, not being able to speak, or even moan,
and
having to wait for permission, made everything so much more intense. Then, as I walked out of the playroom, I remembered his husky whisper.
Come hard for me, baby. Let me hear you.
I almost came again.

Baby.

I shivered just thinking about it.

The first thing I noticed when I entered my room was the bucket of ice on the dresser. Funny, it wasn’t until I saw the bottle of water in the bucket that I realized how thirsty I was. Of course, Nathaniel would have thought of it, though. He thought of everything.

I swallowed half the bottle before noticing the unassuming nightgown waiting for me at the foot of the bed. I smiled. Nathaniel had been quite busy setting up before entering the playroom. I put my water down and picked up the gown. It was a
delicate green and not overly sexy or revealing; I’d feel like a queen wearing it.

Since I had plenty of time before I needed to be in the library, I took a quick shower, allowing the warm water to run over my still sensitive skin. After slipping the gown on, I discovered even more of a surprise: the cool satin swept against the warmth of my skin. It gently brushed the slight sting left by our evening, so that even from the opposite side of the house, I felt my master’s touch.

I stopped just outside the door of my room.

My master.

It was the first time I thought of him as
my master
instead of
Nathaniel.
I didn’t dwell on it for too long, but hurried down the stairs, anxious to be near him again.

He waited for me in the library, standing near the table of decanters. His eyes traveled over me as I entered.

“The gown looks beautiful on you, Abigail,” he said.

Abigail.
A reminder that, even though this was my library, it was still a weekend, I still wore his collar, and I was to behave as such.

He wore his tan cotton drawstring pants and didn’t look half bad himself. I dropped my gaze to the tops of my toes. Watched them wiggle. “Thank you, sir.”

“Look at me when we’re in the library,” he said.

I looked up and met his eyes. They shone darkly with emotion.

“Remember,” he said softly. “This is your space.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. Last week, he told me I could use
sir
in the library or at the kitchen table. Any other place during our weekends, he expected me to call him
master.

“How does it feel?” he asked, and then quickly added, “The gown, I mean.”

“Delightful.” I swung my hips, and the satin brushed once again across the dull ache of my backside.

He smiled as if he knew exactly what I felt. Who knew? He probably did. Everything he did was calculated.

“Come on in,” he said, waving me farther into the library. He held up a wineglass. “Red?”

“Yes, please.”

He motioned to the floor in front of the empty fireplace. Piles of pillows lay scattered about with fluffy blankets among them, forming an inviting place to sit down. I took a tentative seat on a large pillow.

He joined me seconds later and passed me a glass of red wine. I noticed he didn’t have one. Not too much of a shock, considering what he’ d told me days earlier.

“You probably thought I was being melodramatic the night of Jackson and Felicia’s party,” he said, as we sat on his leather couch on Tuesday night after dinner. “When I told you that your leaving almost killed me.”

“I did,” I admitted. “I never thought of you as being one for dramatics.”

“I was bad after you left,” he said. “It started as soon as I returned from following you home.”

I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. Talking about that time in our lives wasn’t something I enjoyed. Certainly, he felt the same.

He frowned. “I’m not sure how much I drank that day, but when Jackson found me, I was trying to burn down the library.”

“You what?” I asked.

His eyes closed. “I don’t remember it very well. Don’t remember parts of it at all. I just . . .” He trailed off momentarily. “I just needed to tell you. It felt important, somehow.”

“You could have died,” I said, shocked at the nonchalant way he talked about burning his house down.

“Probably not,” he said. “I was too drunk to do much of anything. At least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s not like I had a death wish. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted . . .”

“To burn your house down?” I volunteered.

“No.” He shook his head. “Just the library.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” I argued. “You can’t burn just the library. The entire house would go up.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m sure it made sense to me at the time. All I really remember is pain, emptiness, and despair.”

I took his hand and stroked it. “No wonder.”

He kissed my knuckles. “No wonder what?”

“No wonder Jackson felt the way he did.”

His lips stopped their kissing. “Did he say something to you? I swear, if he did, I’ll kick his ass.”

I hushed him with a finger. “No. He never said anything. Now, Felicia
. . .”
I laughed, remembering her outburst the day she came home with a ring. “Felicia ripped into me something awful. It makes sense now. She’d heard Jackson talk about how my leaving affected you.”

“He came by my house every day for a long time,” he mused. “I worried the entire family sick. I told him, eventually, that your leaving was my fault. That it wasn’t you.”

My hand rested on his knee, and I squeezed him gently. “Must be why he hugged me the night of the party. I noticed a change in him that night.”

“I’m sorry if he ever treated you like our breakup was your fault.” He sighed, a sad, regretful sound. “So much I should have told you.”

“Which is why from now on, we’re going to talk,” I said. “A lot. And about everything.”

Talk a lot about everything. Probably what he had in mind for the library.

He held out a plate. “I know you had an early dinner. Are you hungry?”

My stomach let out a growl in reply, and he smiled. Why hadn’t I realized I was hungry before?

Cheese and crackers, almonds, grapes, and dried cherries covered the plate. He set it down between us, and I took a block of cheddar cheese. When that was gone, I grabbed a handful of almonds and ate those as well. He munched on a few grapes and a cube of Gruyère cheese.

The snack was nice and welcome, but surely he had another reason for asking me to the library. We could have gone on to bed. He could have told me to grab a snack in the kitchen. Why would he want to meet in the library?

You could ask him
, I told myself. Even though I knew this was my library, it still felt odd to just address him like I would during the week.

I was beginning to see what he meant about talking.

We hadn’t done a lot of it the last time I was collared.

But what should I say?
Thank you for the amazing orgasm?

He cleared his throat. “I won’t do this every night, but I thought it would be a good idea to come together and talk about how the evening went.” He smiled at me. “Since it was our first night. And only your second time in the playroom.”

I traced the golden filigree design on the plate.

“I need for this to be a two-way conversation,” he said.

“I know,” I said finally. “It’s just . . . odd.”

“Maybe talking about the oddness will help.”

We both reached for a grape at the same time and our fingers touched. I jerked mine back.

“See?” he asked, voice heavy with emotion. “What was that for?”

I took a deep breath. “Just trying to keep the weekday Nat . . . I mean, man, separate from the weekend one.” I glanced down at the plate. “It’s harder than I thought it would be.”

He lifted my head so our eyes met. “Why?”

“I don’t want to mess up,” I admitted. “I don’t want to overstep.”

“I think it’s highly doubtful you would overstep.” He gave a small laugh. “You may have difficulties in other areas, but I don’t think showing respect in the library or at the kitchen table will ever be a problem for you.”

“You say that because this”—I pointed from him to me and back again—“is easy for you.
This
you’re used to.”

“I would argue that
this
”—he indicated the space between us—“is new to me.” He looked up at the ceiling and frowned. “But, on second thought, perhaps you’re right in other regards.”

I know I am.

“The fact remains,” he continued, “that we can’t talk honestly about the scene if you’re not open and relaxed with me.”

I sighed deeply.

“Now, just what—” He pushed the plate of food out of the way, took my wineglass and set it aside. “Just what are we going to do about that?”

My heart started to thump faster. “Beats me.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Beating you wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

My head shot up. “Sign?” I asked, using my old way to determine if he was joking.

“Yes,” he said. “It was a joke, and not a very good one. I’m just trying to lighten the mood a bit.” His voice dropped to a low whisper and his eyes darkened. “Come here.”

I scooted closer, and he took my face in his hands.

“How am I ever going to get you to relax?” He kissed my cheek. “To talk openly?” He kissed the other. “To tell me how you feel?”

His touch was the connection I craved, what I unknowingly
needed, and I felt myself melt under his hands. His lips traveled from my cheek to my ear. “Yes,” he said, feeling my body react.

I turned my face toward his, and our lips brushed softly. I unconsciously moved closer to him, and his arms came around my shoulders. He held me close to his chest and leaned us back so we reclined against the pillows.