“Need and want are two different things.”
“Not if they’re done right,” I assure her, taking her hands in mine and pressing them behind her onto the counter, holding them there as I nip her bottom lip. “You want an orgasm? Then don’t move.”
Her eyes glint with rebellion but she says, “Since you put it that way.”
I tug her dress and bra down, my gaze lowering to her rosy, tight ni**les before I roll them in my fingers and tug roughly. She whimpers and I lean in, sucking one of them into my mouth, and then scraping it with my teeth. A soft yelp escapes her lips and I glance up at her. “Hurt?”
“Good.” I do it again.
“Good?” she demands.
“Pain only makes the pleasure better.” Demonstrating, I lick the wounded nipple, and slide my hand between her legs, finding the silk of her panties and ripping them away. I hold them up. “A reminder to me that you really can do as ordered.” I shove them into my pocket.
“Those were expensive.”
“So is the orgasm I’m going to give you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
I lower myself to my knee, shoving her dress up her legs to expose the neatly trimmed V of her sex. “It means”—I explore the wet, slick heat between her thighs—“that you’re going to find out I take orders, too, when given to me my way.”
“I still don’t know what that means,” she chokes out as I slip a finger inside her.
“It’s quite simple. Tell me what you want, Ms. Smith, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Crystal,” she pants, arching against the two fingers I’ve slipped inside her. “And you don’t seem to need instructions.”
I remove my fingers abruptly. “If you want them back, you have to tell me.”
She sucks in air. “I do. You know I do.”
“Tell me you want my fingers inside you.”
She glares. “That’s unfair play.”
Play. Another BDSM word that I find curious. “Is this unfair?” I ask, lightly touching her clit with my tongue, then pulling back and running my tongue over her knee.
“Very,” she hisses.
“Tell me what you want, Ms. Smith.”
“The orgasm I’m not going to beg for.”
I arch a brow. “An orgasm is a start. How do you want me to give you that orgasm? My mouth? My fingers? Or perhaps my cock?”
“Any of the above work for me.”
“Fine. With your mouth.”
“You want me to lick you?”
Her look is murderous. “Yes. Damn it.”
“Fine. Lick me.”
“Lick me, please,” I command her to say.
I stroke my fingers over her sensitive flesh, dipping one inside her and pulling back. “Lick me, please, Mr. Compton,” I instruct.
“Fuck you, Mr. Compton.”
I laugh, low and soft. “Not this time. This time I’m f**king you.” I stroke her bare knees with my thumbs, drawing circles on sensitive flesh. “I want to lick you, Ms. Smith. I want to taste you. I want to make you come, but I won’t. Not until-”
“You’re such an ass**le,” she blasts. “Lick me, please,” She glares down at me and adds, “Mark.”
I slip two fingers inside her. “You know what you have to say.”
She inhales and lets it out, a mix of embarrassment, anger, and passion washing over her face. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this, or that I’m really doing it. Lick my pu**y, Mark. Please.”
“Lick my pu**y, please, Mr. Compton.”
Satisfaction fills me and I give her the reward she deserves, sucking her nub into my mouth, then licking, teasing, pumping my fingers into her. Her head falls back against the mirror, her hips arching against my fingers and mouth, the salty taste of her pleasure spilling onto my taste buds. And it is only a few more seconds before she gasps and her body clenches, tightening around my fingers. I lead her through the spasms, licking her, my fingers pumping, caressing, easing as her tension eases. And in those moments, I own her pleasure and I own her body. And that means I own the control I feared I’d lost.
When finally she shudders and relaxes, I remove my fingers, give her one last lick, and then stand up. Leaning into her, I slide my fingers into her hair and stare down at her. “That was what we call ‘just an orgasm,’ and yes, it really did happen.”
I push off the sink and leave, paying the bill on my way out. Pushing through the exit door, I get the hell away from Crystal before I forget that control is what I have now and what I need—not her in my hotel room.
“How long did you know Rebecca, Mr. Compton?”
“Asked and answered, Detective Grant,” I reply, leaning back in my steel seat in the tiny room that makes the airplane I’d left an hour before seem downright roomy.
“All right, then,” he replies. “Let’s try something new. Is it true Rebecca called you ‘Master’?”
Tension ripples down my spine. “Yes. She called me Master.”
“Having such a beautiful young girl call you Master must have been a real power rush.”
“What’s the point?”