Hot Revenge Box Set 2

Chapter 30

Ryan takes the wineglass from my fingers, setting it down on the table. There’s that look in his eye. “Time to retire, I think.”

I take a shot at demure… “I think so, yes.” … But as his nostrils flare, realise I have failed miserably.

He presses against my thigh, oh, so lightly… And my already warm pussy purrs. Several hours of waiting and the promise of the kind of incandescent sex Ryan offers, have me teetering on the brink.

Which was of course entirely his intention with the day’s earlier performance. Belongs © to NôvelDrama.Org.

“We’re going to bed,” announces Ryan. “It’s been a long day for us.”

Voices call around us. Heads nod.

“Of course. Goodnight.”

“See you in the morning.”

“Sleep well.”

I don’t believe I’ll be sleeping for a while yet.

As we exit, Michael, eyes creasing, waves towards the tray of drinks on the sideboard. “Take a bottle up with you and a couple of glasses.”

Ryan chooses a bottle of Rioja. “Very civilised of him,” he murmurs as we make our way up the stairs.

In the bedroom, he closes the door, pushing until the lock clicks. He runs eyes over me. “You may undress, Kirstie.”

Heat rises in my cheeks. Even as I tug the thick sweater off over my head and my skin gooses, my neck and face are warm.

Ryan makes no attempt to remove his own clothes. Instead, he adds a couple of logs to the fire, using bellows and a poker to rouse the flames, then he turns off the ceiling light, leaving us bathed in the firelight.

He pours wine red as a holly berry into the two glasses then, resting a hip on the end of the bed, sips from one of the glasses, watching as I undress. Fire flickers and dances over the slight wave of his hair, raising highlights in amber and gold. His face is calm, almost tranquil, but his chocolate eyes too, reflect the flames which glimmer against the dark centres.

My beautiful Lover. My Dom.

My Master.

What do I feel for him?

Arousal?

Desire?

Lust?

Love?

I shimmy out of my jeans, then kick off thick furry socks. My bra, black satin and lace, I chose because I know Ryan likes the style, which enhances my not-overgenerous breasts.

The panties too, high-cut at the thighs to make the best of my long legs, and now damp and fragrant with my own arousal, I chose because I know he likes them. Ryan watches in silence as I hook fingers

into the side laces, sliding them down over thighs and calves to leave myself naked save the velvet choker at my neck; his gift to me, the symbol of what binds us.

He crooks a finger, beckoning me. Already, my heart beats faster. Moving closer, I stand over him where he sits on the end of the bed. He sips his wine again, then offers it to me. Smooth and dark and heady, it caresses my tongue and throat as I swallow, then pools warm in my stomach.

He takes the goblet back from me, then looking up, trails it, cool and smooth, over the line of my chin and neck. My skin prickles and my pulse begins to race.

Down to the dip of my collar bone, he runs the glass over my chest, then replacing it with a fingernail, descends through the valley of my breasts.

The nail strays further, tracing a tight, sharp path over my breasts to a nipple, stiffening now in a combination of cool air and arousal.

Ryan pauses, sips more wine, swishing it around his mouth, then setting the glass down, leans in, wrapping his lips around the nipple. My breath jolts at the hot-flesh-chill-wine on my skin. As he cups the breast with a palm, suckling gently, the nipple puckers, hardening further and I hiss at electricity jangling through me.

Biting gently, he teases at me with his teeth, plucking and tugging, drawing out my flesh. His free hand glides south, fingertips sliding through the dark hair at the vee of my thighs.

The sound of pleasure rumbles from his chest. “Already wet for me, Kirstie. But then, I think you have been wet for much of the day. That’s very good. I like that. It makes it easier for me to decide if I will let you come…”

Oh, God…

“Ryan… Master… Please let me come. I’ve been waiting for hours.”

He rumbles again. “We’ll see.” Rising, he releases my breast, but the fingers of his other hand still curl into my loins. He touches the pearl which dangles from the choker. “This… says that I get to decide when and if you will come…”

My knees threaten to buckle, and a hot trickle makes its way down inside my thighs.

“Face the bed,” he murmurs. “Close your eyes. Spread your arms. Hold tight.”

I turn, reaching out to grip the bedposts.

Behind me, he’s standing close, his body heat on my skin, my naked spine. His clothes brush against me, the woollen fibres of his sweater tickling, the fabric of his jeans scratching my skin.

Sweeping up into my hair, he gathers it in, raising it and exposing my neck. Then with a twist, he pins it up. Laying hands on my shoulders, his breath washes over me, laving me in his heat. I quiver at the softness of his lips brushing over me, then the wet heat, and the soft gnawing of his teeth as he mouths over my shoulders, biting gently.

My pussy purrs then liquifies. I semi-turn, wanting to return the kiss, but his grip on my shoulders tightens. “You may not move. I have not given you permission.”

He nips at me, the bite on my neck sharp enough for pain, and I jolt. “I can smell your arousal. I know you are growing ready for me. But you must wait.”

Wet heat moves down from the nape of my neck to the top of my spine; the soft bite of his teeth, nipping.

His hands follow, palming and smoothing over my arms then moving over my breasts and down to my ribs. His palms caress me, but his thumbs dig in, the nails short and blunt, pressing at my skin, sending

pinpricks of pain cascading down to ravish my core.

“Ryan… Please…”

“Very well.” Without warning, he pushes me, flat-handed, between the shoulders, pressing me forward and down. Losing my grip on the bedposts, I all but collapse, face-down and gasping, onto the mattress.

From behind, hands clutch me at the hips, pulling my ass up. In the same movement, boots shove between my ankles, forcing my feet apart. At the rasping of a zipper, my cunt goes into melt-down and I cry out as he plunges into me, ramming home…

“Yes, I knew you were ready…”

Full-length, he pistons in. No opening me. No gradual waking of the flesh. I was ready for him hours ago and now, as he fills my body with his, I yelp and cry and howl in a rhythm to match his as my Lover…

… My Master…

… fucks me hard.

A hand knots into my hair, pulling back my head, straining me against the other hand planted between my shoulder blades.

My pussy wells and flows, making a scalding fluid trail down my thighs. And now, the throbbing comes, the start of it.

“You may Come for me, Kirstie.”

And released, I ricochet into orgasm, screaming out my rhapsody as repeatedly and again, Ryan sheathes himself deep inside me.

Bucking and writhing, I pulse and jerk and quiver my way through climax, only just aware that Ryan has dropped down on top of me, arms clutched around my body as, grinding his hips against mine, he groans and shivers.

At length, our heartbeats banging a joint crescendo, each through to the other, we lie, sated and sweating.

He nips my earlobe with his teeth. “I call that a good start to Christmas.”

*****

Christmas Eve

Michael strides in, muffled up in a thick roll-neck sweater and a scarf, loaded with firewood. Stacking it by the hearth, he swipes off flakes of snow, which promptly thaw and puddle onto the tiles. “I reckon that’s a good two feet of snow that dropped overnight.”

Beside me, Ryan inhales. “Are we snowed in?”

“Right now, probably, yes...” Michael nudges with the toe of his boot at the heap of dogs lolling in front of the flames. “Budge up you lot.” Grumbling, they shift to make room for him. Scruffy yaps protest. Michael grins, bending down to rub his face then, blowing into his palms, holds them over the fire. “… But the snowplough will be along in a while. And in any case, when James stocked up the kitchen, I think he was planning for the arrival of the Mongol hordes. There’s enough in the house to see us through to the New Year. No-one’s going to go hungry.”

Close by, Charlotte and Mitch sit next to each other at the table, happily making Christmas tree ornaments. Mitch flips through a glossy magazine, admires the photo of a red dress, then rips out the page, folding the paper with practised ease into a multicoloured angel.

Charlotte’s father has appeared overnight. No-one seems inclined to mention Klempner’s arrival or discuss where he might have been, so I hold my tongue. He sits at the back of the room, a whiskey glass in one hand, not drinking, just silently watching the two women.

No… not both of them…

Mitch…

His eyes never leave her except briefly to flick one way or another if someone speaks, but always his gaze shifts back to Mitch.

There is something in his expression as he watches her, something hard to label or categorise…

Love…

Infatuation…

Devotion…

Obsession…

Whatever you want to call it, Klempner watches Mitch as though nothing else exists in the world.

Her fingers are deft. One after another, she tears out multi-coloured pages from glossy magazines, advertising perfume, jewellery and expensive bling. Quickly, she folds paper, sharpens creases and tucks in flaps, producing miniature sculptures in seconds; little paper birds, angels and unicorns. Charlotte is almost as fast, adding in kaleidoscopic stars and icicles.

Beth sits close by, hands clasped over her distended belly, watching Mitch and Charlotte. In his turn, Richard, eyes soft, sits next to her, working through some multi-page document….

The Mill?

… Pen poised in one hand, he makes small corrections and annotations. The other hand rests on Beth’s, absently stroking her fingers, only breaking away to flick to the next sheet.

Making sure she’s calm….

She almost lost her baby…

Their baby…

He straightens up, casts across to me and Ryan. “Nearly done here.” Then he eyes the growing pile of origami’d ornaments. “Aren’t you making rather a lot of those?”

“Three trees to decorate,” says Mitch, her voice brisk. “And none of them are small.” She waves a roll of gold ribbon at Beth. “Would you like to give us some help here.”

“Sure. What would you like me to do?”

“Attach loops of ribbon to hang these on the trees.” She points across the table. “You’ll find pins, needle and thread, glue and stapler over there. Use whatever works.”

Something jolts onto my shoulder, Michael’s huge hand, and I startle. “Kirstie…” His voice booms by my ear. “How do you feel about some fresh air and helping me get some more holly for the dining room? We’ve run out.”

“Absolutely. Coming Ryan?”

He grins. “Great idea. I’ll just get my boots on.”

Michael turns to Klempner. “You joining us, Larry?”

The tall, withdrawn man blinks, then glances to Mitch. She flashes brows and jerks her head to the door. “Go on, then.”

I stand and pat my thigh. “Walkies.”

Chaos erupts from the hearth as a kind of Gordian Knot of dogs unravels itself from the rug to leap, howling and squealing, for the door.

*****