Vegas Curves (A Masters of the Game BBW Erotic Romance) by Christa Wick
Authors: Christa Wick
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then thaw just long enough to shake my head. Whatever that black, rubbery column of three balls of increasing size is called, it is not going in me. I don't care which direction or which hole. It isn't going in. Period.
Looking from that thing to Luke's face, I see his wry smile split a little wider. He breaks it with a lick of his bottom lip then reaches back into the drawer. He pulls out something I recognize -- a leather flogger, its suede strips cascading over the edge of the nightstand. I press my lips together, my gaze narrowing to ensure my entire face is tightly locked down in disapproval.
"Which part of complete submission don't you understand, Marie?"
There is a tease to his voice, playful and sexy, but I am not about to be suckered in by it or by that charming lift of one brow or the way his eyes glitter when he looks at me. Those are just the effects of light and acoustics and--
My brain comes to a full stop as he pulls out a third item -- something that looks like a metal antenna but narrower and without the little knob at top.
I suck a breath in, the air entering me with a choked, wheezy cry. I blink, my eyes shuttering and opening a couple dozen times in the space of a few seconds as every muscle in my body constricts defensively.
"Marie..." Luke drops the rigid strip of metal and lightly rests his hand against my cheek.
I pull back. He knows how to please a woman, I have no doubt on that point, but that switch, or whatever it is, has nothing to do with pleasure.
"Is it this?" Bending down, he retrieves the rod from where it landed on the floor.
I flinch. His sharp gaze catches my reaction and he slowly brings the tip to rest against my cheek. His eyes narrow in concentration and he moves the switch a fraction of an inch to the right. I know what he is studying so intently. The line of the scar is thin and faint, undetectable with makeup on, but I am not wearing makeup.
"What happened here?" He strokes the tip of the switch over the scar.
I close my eyes. I don't want to talk about it. I won't.
My expression must reflect unrelenting obstinacy because he orders me to roll over. He guides me with a hand on my shoulder until I am flat on my stomach. His hands brush the hair from my back and then his fingers gently explore my flesh. He takes his first long pause at the bottom edge of my left shoulder blade. I screw my eyes more tightly shut, trying not to remember the way my father's belt strap cut into me once as I tried to run.
Luke's fingers resume their slow walk down my spine. He leans closer, his breath light and warm against the center of my back as he inspects two more faded scars. Same belt, different nights. Pressing my face deeper into the pillow, I clench my right hand in a fist.
"Show me your hand."
Nothing escapes his attention it would seem. Trying to comply, I lift my left hand and press it to his chest.
"Not the one I want." His soft, tender voice reminds me for a moment of my mother despite the clear masculine timbre. Resting his arm across my bottom, he strokes the tense lines of my fist.
I refuse to relax the hand. He sighs, the heat of his breath sending a shiver up my spine. Retreating, he strokes my shoulder and tells me again to roll over. I raise my face just enough from the pillow to speak.
"If you stop your inventory." My emotions too raw to look at him, I hide my face against the pillow once more.
He strokes my back. "Show me your hand and I will."
I shake my head, the motion lost in the down-filled pillow.
"Roll over." Nothing soft remains in his voice. This is a command, calm but resolute. He won't let go of the issue until I obey.
I roll over. The movement brings my right hand to his side of the bed. I feel as transparent as a child in trouble, but I cannot help tucking it beneath me, the palm open and flat against the mattress.
"Look at me, Marie."
I answer with another shake of my head. I am afraid of what I will see -- pity or a sadistic monster getting off
Looking from that thing to Luke's face, I see his wry smile split a little wider. He breaks it with a lick of his bottom lip then reaches back into the drawer. He pulls out something I recognize -- a leather flogger, its suede strips cascading over the edge of the nightstand. I press my lips together, my gaze narrowing to ensure my entire face is tightly locked down in disapproval.
"Which part of complete submission don't you understand, Marie?"
There is a tease to his voice, playful and sexy, but I am not about to be suckered in by it or by that charming lift of one brow or the way his eyes glitter when he looks at me. Those are just the effects of light and acoustics and--
My brain comes to a full stop as he pulls out a third item -- something that looks like a metal antenna but narrower and without the little knob at top.
I suck a breath in, the air entering me with a choked, wheezy cry. I blink, my eyes shuttering and opening a couple dozen times in the space of a few seconds as every muscle in my body constricts defensively.
"Marie..." Luke drops the rigid strip of metal and lightly rests his hand against my cheek.
I pull back. He knows how to please a woman, I have no doubt on that point, but that switch, or whatever it is, has nothing to do with pleasure.
"Is it this?" Bending down, he retrieves the rod from where it landed on the floor.
I flinch. His sharp gaze catches my reaction and he slowly brings the tip to rest against my cheek. His eyes narrow in concentration and he moves the switch a fraction of an inch to the right. I know what he is studying so intently. The line of the scar is thin and faint, undetectable with makeup on, but I am not wearing makeup.
"What happened here?" He strokes the tip of the switch over the scar.
I close my eyes. I don't want to talk about it. I won't.
My expression must reflect unrelenting obstinacy because he orders me to roll over. He guides me with a hand on my shoulder until I am flat on my stomach. His hands brush the hair from my back and then his fingers gently explore my flesh. He takes his first long pause at the bottom edge of my left shoulder blade. I screw my eyes more tightly shut, trying not to remember the way my father's belt strap cut into me once as I tried to run.
Luke's fingers resume their slow walk down my spine. He leans closer, his breath light and warm against the center of my back as he inspects two more faded scars. Same belt, different nights. Pressing my face deeper into the pillow, I clench my right hand in a fist.
"Show me your hand."
Nothing escapes his attention it would seem. Trying to comply, I lift my left hand and press it to his chest.
"Not the one I want." His soft, tender voice reminds me for a moment of my mother despite the clear masculine timbre. Resting his arm across my bottom, he strokes the tense lines of my fist.
I refuse to relax the hand. He sighs, the heat of his breath sending a shiver up my spine. Retreating, he strokes my shoulder and tells me again to roll over. I raise my face just enough from the pillow to speak.
"If you stop your inventory." My emotions too raw to look at him, I hide my face against the pillow once more.
He strokes my back. "Show me your hand and I will."
I shake my head, the motion lost in the down-filled pillow.
"Roll over." Nothing soft remains in his voice. This is a command, calm but resolute. He won't let go of the issue until I obey.
I roll over. The movement brings my right hand to his side of the bed. I feel as transparent as a child in trouble, but I cannot help tucking it beneath me, the palm open and flat against the mattress.
"Look at me, Marie."
I answer with another shake of my head. I am afraid of what I will see -- pity or a sadistic monster getting off
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