Page 20 of At Her Pleasure
“Show me yours.”
She lost the insulting tone, turning it into the smooth burn of whiskey. She was here to play.
Her gaze moved over his thighs in the black slacks, his hips, belt flat against his trim waist. The noticeable not-flatness beneath the zipper. “I want to see how hard having a woman tied up and helpless makes you.”
His blue eyes rested on hers. “You’re not helpless. That’s what makes me hard.”
“I didn’t say explain it. I said show me.”
He shifted back a pace, his ass pressed against the arm of the facing couch. His feet straddled her bound ankle. He unbuckled the belt with a clink of noise, unfastened the slacks, and took the zipper down with a quiet snick. Reaching into his underwear, he cradled his cock and balls, pressing them against snug black cotton.
“Want to see actual flesh? Maybe shoved between those pretty lips?”
“If you want two inches taken off the top.” She gave what he was showing her a critical look, even as her body got slicker, more restless. “Don’t worry. You’ll still have enough to give me a decent fuck.”
“Mistress, you do know how to give a man a backhanded compliment.” He removed his hand and refastened his slacks. When he buckled the belt, she imagined wrapping the strap around his wrists, making him fight the hold so hard he’d have deep red grooves when she finally freed him.
As he pivoted toward the front, she had the opportunity to bring up the booted heel of the free leg. She thumped against his upper thigh, but he’d anticipated her, shifting out of the way to grab her ankle and calf before she could hit more sensitive areas. He pinned the leg back to the floor with a heavy foot, leaned down and slapped her ass. Hard. Fucking bastard.
“Shut up and lie there.” His tone was ominous, his eyes a match for it. “Think about what I’m going to do to you.”
“I’m going to think about all the ways I’m going to fuck you up.”
“Already there, honey.”
Satisfied, she laid her head on her forearm and watched him take a seat behind the wheel. The engine started with a coughing roar, diesel kicking in, and he put it in drive.
Despite what he’d said about wiping his feet, the floor she was lying on was clean, as were her surroundings. Nothing too new, but all of it cared for. She detected a lemon scent, fragrant and light, which made her wonder if he cleaned with pure juice, rather than a chemical cleaner. Then she noticed a lemon tree with bright yellow fruit and dark green leaves tucked into an alcove between the kitchen and living area.
She went counterclockwise from there, exploring her perimeter. She saw a closet, door closed. The storage bins under the large bed in back held folded clothes. Her attention moved to the couch, where he’d leaned when he showed her his cock under straining cotton. What would he have done if she’d reinforced her order to do as she’d told him, take it out and show her? She licked her lips, anticipating that view.
Behind the clear doors of the cabinets mounted over the couch, she saw a few books. In this lighting, at this angle, she couldn’t make out any titles except one. The words stamped on the spine were a reflective gold. Huck Finn.
Next to the books were pastel-colored knickknacks. She squinted to bring them in better focus. Fucking hell. He did have a Precious Moments collection. Only a few pieces, but still. She assumed they were super glued to the shelf so they wouldn’t be dislodged by the vehicle’s rockier movements.
In the kitchenette he had a coffee pot, with a loaf of bread and some fresh fruit stored in the cubbies.
He’d said this was where he lived, but he hadn’t called it home. Beyond the one shelf of books and the out-of-place figurines, she had few hints of his history or interests. A couple file boxes stored under the table seating were marked with the labels “Taxes” and “Kink Events.”
Had he fucked women here? Entertained friends? Traveled with family? It didn’t feel like it.
Mick could see her in his mirror, and she noted he was keeping an eye on her. He knew to monitor someone who was bound. Because he had her rear view in the rear view, she gave him the finger and wiggled her ass at him. “Could have left me a pillow to take a nap.” She raised her voice to be heard over the engine.
“I’m a gentleman. I’ll stick one under your hips before I rip off your panties to fuck you.”
“Not in this lifetime. Why aren’t you a cop anymore?”
“I wasn’t a good one.”
He made another turn and the motorhome bumped over gravel, or a poorly paved lot. Her teeth clicked together from a deeper-than-expected pothole.
He shut off the engine, and the safety lights along the aisle went dark. No outside illumination came through the windows. In the resulting murk, she could barely see Mick’s silhouette as he rose.
Her fingers curled in the cuffs, metal biting into her flesh.
It was like going into a Halloween haunted house. The ticket holders were funneled through dark hallways and rooms as people jumped out at them in costume. Just entertainment, no “real” risk, though the really good set ups had the right combination of sensory input and deprivation to tap into people’s fears. Fear of the dark and unknown, of the violence that waited closer than they acknowledged, but the subconscious knew was always possible. Right around the corner, waiting to leap on them.
As Mick loomed over her, that prickling apprehension trickled into her chest, her mind. She was more aware of her cuffs and the zip tie holding her leg. What made it real was knowing he was dangerous. It wasn’t an act. She could feel it from him, and not knowing what he meant by “I wasn’t a good cop” only increased the uncertainty of what lay ahead.