Take Me: A Collection of Submissive Adventures. Victoria Blisse

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       Shattered

       Sommer Marsden

      I stared at it, trying not to feel discouraged. The fixer-upper I had bought and proceeded to gut was coming along much, much slower than I’d thought. My tiny deck outside the small kitchen was a mess. It was only about eight by six. Built as an offshoot where a backdoor should have been, it stood on what must have been twenty-foot stilts, suspending the deck above the yard below.

      ‘Not what I was hoping for,’ I sighed. I’d stopped in to check on the work. Oddly, of the entire house I’d bought, it was this tiny odd little porch I was most excited about.

      ‘We’ll get it there.’

      I jumped about a foot, clutching my heart and making an ungodly noise. Anger rushed through me in a red wave at being startled and embarrassed.

      ‘What. The. Hell?’ I ground out.

      Then I was face to face with him and he grinned. ‘Sorry. I thought you’d hear me clumping in here in these clodhoppers.’ He pointed to his thick and dusty work boots. Steel-toed, no doubt.

      ‘I didn’t.’ Now I was ashamed of my temper. ‘I was lost in the world of dream home makeovers.’

      He laughed. My stomach tumbled at realising it was him. The one and only worker on my disastrous and constantly shifting home project that I had noticed. More than once I’d felt the tickle of energy on my skin and turned to see him staring at me. More than once I had found myself staring at him and then been caught red-handed when he’d turned and spotted me.

      And we’d smile and look away. Me with a blush. Him barking orders at men.

      ‘We’re getting there. Don’t worry.’

      ‘Not as fast as I hoped.’ I stopped looking at him because it was starting to get hot in the kitchen even with the door to the deck open.

      ‘These things never go as fast as we hope,’ he said.

      I turned fast and didn’t stop myself. ‘What’s your name? Mine is Maggie. I know you know that but I don’t know … yours.’

      ‘John. John Frost.’

      I nodded. ‘Nice to –’

      He took two big steps toward me. The motion both comforting and aggressive – a looming, sexy oxymoron.

      ‘– meet you,’ I gasped.

      When he reached out to touch me, I never questioned it. When he turned me back to face the porch, his large body crowding mine but not actually touching me, I never complained. ‘What will it be, Maggie?’ he asked me.

      His breath was hot in my ear and I could barely hear his words because my head was full of the sound of my almost violent heartbeat. My top lip beaded with a fine cool sweat and I could feel my hands shaking, so I clenched them into fists. ‘A bed, mostly.’

      Laughter rumbled out of him and shook his body, which in turn shook me. ‘A bed?’

      I nodded, smiling. ‘A bed,’ I echoed. All of my effort was focused on not focusing on the fact that my body felt tingly and electric where he was touching me.

      He leaned in closer. His bulk almost but not quite touching mine. His fingers curled more firmly to my shoulders and my nipples peaked as easy as you please. I wondered if John Frost could see over my shoulder and make out the shamefully plain evidence of what he was doing to me.

      ‘I want it to be new hardwood and a bed that rests up against the back wall. Layers and layers of colourful fabric. Like gypsy fabric, but a big fat tall bed fit for a princess. Like a daybed on steroids.’

      ‘A gypsy princess?’ he asked. When his lips came down on the back of my neck a small strangled cry slipped out of me. His fingers bit into my shoulder again and I held my breath until spots appeared.

      Is this what all our shared looks and unaddressed attraction had done? And did I want this to go forward?

      I exhaled, hearing the shiver in my breath. Then inhaled deeply like I was doing yoga and I had my answer. Yes. This was what I wanted. We were the only ones here and I’d been fixated on this tall, bulky, blond man for ages. His eyes were the colour of seawater and the scar that ran through his left eyebrow never failed to make my pussy wet.

      ‘A gypsy princess,’ I stammered.

      ‘What do you want to do on this bed, Miss Maggie?’ He stopped kissing me but his hands slid around my waist and splayed, and his palms rested over my waistband. His fingers pointed down and brushed the top of my sex. My clit thumped along with my pounding heart. I was so wet between my legs I might be embarrassed if I didn’t want him so badly.

      I wished my gypsy bed was out there. Layers and layers of thick padding and bright fabric. Because I’d want him to fuck me on it. Out in the cool night air under the navy-blue sky, pinpricked with white stars.

      ‘What would you do on this bed?’ He unsnapped my pants. One snap, two snap … and then he put his hands under my blouse. Not high up, just along the stripe of skin above my waistband. I made a mewing sound so full of need my cheeks blazed with shame.

      ‘I would read.’

      ‘And?’ СКАЧАТЬ