Mirror of My Soul (14 page)

He stopped with less than a foot between them. “I want you so much I can’t be

gentle, angel. Not even close.”

Her pulse was high in her throat. At his words, the rate increased. “I didn’t ask you to be.”

One large hand climbed up her bare thigh which was stretched out as a

counterbalance to the position in which she’d been leaning over the pond. The other went to her waist, brought her to her feet, even as the other hand continued its upward advance under the clinging fabric of the skirt to her bare ass beneath. Taking a firm hold, he pressed her hard against him as he brought his lips onto hers. He was making a noise in her mouth, actual growling as he held her tighter, closer, letting her feel every inch of his need for her. She’d never experienced this. Never felt such raw hunger emanating from a man who wanted her, a man with Tyler’s finesse who seemed to

know her deep inside herself, whose touch could demand and reassure at once.

“I’m going to take you to my room and make love to you,” he rasped against her lips, biting them. “The way I’ve imagined doing it for the past couple of weeks. But first I’m going to fuck you, right here, right now.”

He hooked his foot around her ankle, took them both down to the carpet of grass, catching their weight on his forearm. The thud of their impact was jarring, thrilling in its force, but not painful.

“Put your arms over your head.” It wasn’t a request, his tone making it easy for her to simply obey, her body trembling, her thighs opened by the press of his thighs between them. He raised his body only to unfasten his trousers and push them far enough down his hips to accomplish his objective. Thrusting his arm under her waist, his large hand palming her bottom to lift her higher, he drove into her. Her pussy was so wet he sank in deeper, faster and harder than he’d expected, causing her to cry out and arch, pain mixed with unbearable pleasure.

“God, I’ve gone crazy without you,” he muttered. Shoving the dress up to her

waist, over her breasts, he bared them to his avid gaze, holding the crumpled fabric against her throat and keeping her pinned as he loomed above her. His hips thrust, his 70

Mirror of My Soul

cock stroking tissues that were on fire, that were even now rippling with orgasmic response.

“I won’t let you stop coming tonight.” And he made it sound like the threat it was.

“Until I’ve done every single thing I’ve thought about doing to you and with you these two interminable weeks.”

She moved restlessly against him, her eyes so wide and clear, so full of him he thought he might be seeing his own soul. He hoped she was seeing the same in his. But even that was a garbled thought, for what he needed and wanted in this moment had more to do with things that went beyond words. And she understood his need. His beast roared at the recognition that she kept her hands above her head at his command, because that was the way he’d commanded it and because that was what the desire in her eyes said she wanted as well.

Master. She’d called him Master.

He pulled her legs up higher around his hips. She hooked them at the small of his back, that supple, flexible body undulating beneath him, reminding him of beautiful yoga asanas, of Shakti and Shiva coming together to find peace and balance, passion and joy, everything that made life worth living. The sword that could be raised as a defense against every kind of evil. In this terrible world, there was this gift, this sanctuary. This proof of Divinity.

Gripping her buttocks in both hands, he rose to his knees and lifted her so he was still driving in hard and steady, watching her breasts spill onto her sternum, wobbling with the force of gravity. The nipples were dark mauve hard points, her cunt slick where he was plunging in, again and again, moving her on the grass. When he thrust two of his fingers deep into her backside she screamed, a full-throated cry he was sure could be heard by his guests, by the stars. He felt a surge of primal pleasure in it, a conqueror’s fierce satisfaction, a man’s humble gratitude.

“Come, Marguerite.” His voice was hoarse. “Come for me, angel. Let me hear you.

Let them know who you belong to.”

As her body rolled against him like storm waves, she moaned, then cried out again, a long sound of release. He kept thrusting hard, feeling her flesh clamp down on him, unrelenting, telling him she’d missed him as much as he’d missed her. He was inside her, not just her soaked pussy, but in all the complex turbulent and dark mazes that were Marguerite. He wanted to be there forever, wanted to keep her safe and unafraid, give her pleasure and happiness. He could no more consider letting her go now than he would consider severing a vital limb and letting himself bleed out.

She would likely panic and withdraw, run from him again, but he knew the way in now. She’d let him into the deepest room in her heart. He was going to win her as often as he needed to do so, even if it was a quest that took forever, that had to be begun every day. Until death do they part.

Hell. For eternity. No way was she going to get out of this with a flimsy excuse like mortal lifespan.

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Joey W. Hill

When they both came down, he lowered himself onto her, breathing hard. Curling his body over hers, his arms around her head, he laced his fingers in her limp ones, nuzzling her cheeks, feeling her legs slide down to hold him in a lower embrace, though he stayed firmly seated in her. He kissed one perfect ear, the tiny hairs at her temple, blew on her eyelashes until she squeezed her eyes closed like a disgruntled cat and made him smile when she pushed against his grip.

“Now that we’ve taken care of that,” he said. “I’m going to make love to you. Slow, soft, long. All night.”

She looked up at him. “Carry me. I like it when you carry me.” Her body trembled beneath him.

“Ask me.”

“Please.” The words came out without hesitation or thought. “Would you carry

me?”

“Anything you ask for, angel.” Though he wondered if he could get her all the way to the bedroom without laying her down three times in between and taking her all over again. “No. It’s my right to do it.” He stayed her hands, pulled the dress back down over her breasts, down the slope of her abdomen, over her hips, his fingers stroking her damp and still quivering flesh. Reluctantly he withdrew his touch to rearrange his own clothing. But the separation was only for a moment. “Put your arms around my neck,”

he commanded her quietly.

When he lifted her, he left her shoes tumbled against each other at the base of the statue. He couldn’t think of a more appropriate offering to the deity devoted to love and sensuality.

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Mirror of My Soul

When he got to the threshold of his bedroom, Tyler paused. Breathing in, breathing out. Like the woman he was bringing here, he knew the power of a Mastery, the

complete surrender of a submissive to the Master or Mistress. When the message was,

“
All I am, I offer to you, I give to you. I’m yours
.” She’d said this was what she wanted and he was never going to take the gift for granted. He was going to give her the world if she let him. Every beautiful thing he gave her to blot out an ugly piece of her past would tear a hole out of his until they could cast their nightmares like ashes into the Gulf and lay the past to rest. He hadn’t realized the key to his own emptiness until she’d had the incredible bravery—so much bravery there was no way to describe it—to open up her soul and shed light on the answer he’d been unable to find until her whispered words had provided it.

He’d never entered a life-threatening situation without a full arsenal of weapons.

Marguerite had let her father torture her night after night with nothing to defend her except her fierce love for her twin, the protection of his life the one thing that kept her focused.

Some wounds could only be healed by the touch of a soul mate, two broken pieces coming together to become a whole being again, so simple the jaded world would call it a cliché. The angels would call it one of God’s miracles, offered off the tips of His fingers like diamond raindrops, driving and cleaning away all that didn’t matter.

That love was worth any torment, every disappointment. It couldn’t be explained or described. It simply was, in the same way Marguerite wanted him as her Master, not even understanding what that meant. Just knowing as he’d known all along that she belonged to him. The beautiful, indomitable Mistress Marguerite.

He had perhaps not even comprehended it himself at the beginning, that she could be both. Both aspects were who she was, the sculpted result of her past, the decisions of her present. But there was a newly acknowledged part of her soul. A part that, if she held on to her courage and he didn’t let her down, could become the cradle to hold all of her amazing diversity. Protect it, cherish it and let the beauty of her many different flowers become a bouquet of possibilities they could share.

His rational mind knew all that, could analyze it forever while his soul merely rolled its eyes and pushed him toward the path it had always known was the right one.

Claiming her fully, making her dark and light his now and forever so there would be no path she had to walk alone ever again. It was what she’d said she wanted in that one word she’d whispered in his ear. The Master in him wasn’t waiting to hear it twice.

Putting her down, he guided her in and closed the door. He stopped her at the foot of the bed, the only light coming from the dim strip of hallway light under the door.

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Joey W. Hill

The house was silent, all the guests occupied outside and Sarah’s kitchen on the opposite end of the house. It was just the two of them.

Marguerite watched him move to the dresser. He’d been so quiet since they left the party, but then words didn’t feel necessary. Flame illuminated him when he lit a trio of candles that were there, along with an arrangement of fresh flowers, a stack of scripts and a belt he’d apparently discarded earlier in favor of the one he was currently wearing.

“The picture of your wife is gone.” The small wooden box with the rings was as well.

“Not gone. Just moved. I had Robert hang it along the stairs with the other family pictures.” He turned, began to remove the wedding ring.

“No,” she spoke softly. “Don’t.”

He stopped, a rare look of surprise crossing his face.

“It reminds me who you are.”

He put the pieces back together, by himself. And most people couldn’t have done that…

About eighteen months after she went back to Europe, he went after her… He never divorced her,
you see.

Sarah’s words echoed in her head, reminded her of the type of man he was. She met his gaze across the room. “I meant what I wrote on that note. If I’m here, it’s because I want all of you. You’ve told me you want me, light and dark. Give me the same trust.”

Something painful passed through his expression, his fingers still over the ring. She stepped forward, one step, two steps. Kneeling before him, she took his hands, separated them to press her lips to that ring finger and rub her cheek against his knuckles. When he drew in an unsteady breath, she made a new discovery. The loyalty and devotion of a submissive could be even stronger than the power of a Master.

“Why did you move the picture?”

“I loved her, will always love her, but this room is yours and mine now. I wanted you to know that when you stepped into it.”

“When? Not if?” She tried to sound challenging, but her heart was pounding too hard. It increased as he drew her to her feet, took a scarf from a drawer.

“When. Not if. Another day and I would have come for you. And I think you know that.”

She put up a hand, uncertainty returning, and halted the scarf’s upward advance.

“What are you doing?”

“Blindfolding you. Making love to you the way I wish. Trust me, angel. For once I want you to try to relinquish all control to me. Try to trust me as your subs trust you.

To give them pleasure, to keep them safe.”

She lowered her hand as he tied the scarf around her head, taking away shapes and shadows, leaving only darkness.

“That’s an illusion. I can’t protect them.”

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Mirror of My Soul

“I’ve heard about your vengeful streak. I disagree.” His lips brushed her forehead.

When he moved away, he held on to her hand until the last possible moment.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m right here. I’m just turning on some music.”

The rumble of the doors of the heavy armoire, the click of equipment, a remote. The quiet trundle of a CD player opening, closing.

He came back as the first strains of “Unchained Melody”, the version done by the Righteous Brothers, poured into the quiet darkness of her mind. His hands stroked through her hair, spreading it out on her shoulders. It soothed, made some of her anxiety recede.

“Every time you see me, you take down my hair. I was thinking of cutting it all off.”

His hands curled in, tugged. “You’d kill me, angel. You don’t know what your hair does to me when it falls down your body like this. All I can think of is Lady Godiva riding through the village on a palfrey, clothed only in her beautiful hair.”

Then his hands moved from her shoulders under her arms. He hooked his thumbs

into either side of the sleeveless cream dress, taking it down, baring her breasts, folding it down to her waist. He left it there and cupped her breasts, one in each hand as her hands quivered at her sides, not interfering with his pleasure, their pleasure. Touching the curves, he moved his hands over them slowly, taking his time such that she knew he was watching every change in her body. Not just the tightening of the areola and nipple, but the elevation in her breath, the pulse of her throat, the ripple of gooseflesh in one place, a flush in the other. He kept fondling one breast, but captured one of her hands, lifted it to his mouth, nibbled her fingers. One by one he kissed them, then made his way down her palm to trace her wrist pulse with his tongue as she shivered.