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Dominance. Submission. Honor.
Ophelia Mills is coerced by her friends into having a fashionable night out, where she discovers the newest night life destination is actually an exotic BDSM Club named Dungeon Pleasures. She’s always been curious about the lifestyle, but her reserved nature has so far held her back from exploring her desires. When an over enthusiastic clubgoer goes overboard with his intentions and attempts to force her into submission, the club’s owner comes to her rescue, defending her honor. After a scorching one night stand with her knight in shining armor, Ophelia discovers that the fantasy was one for the record books.
Tobias Ford likes his life just fine. At the helm of two successful businesses, he’s a Dom with a checkered past and isn’t looking for anything permanent. He’s perfectly content to enjoy the submissive offerings at Dungeon Pleasures, as well as his membership in the exclusive Dungeon Fantasy Club. Then Ophelia Mills stumbles in, needing his protection, and bringing forth every dominant urge he possesses. After a torrid night he cannot forget, he devises a campaign, laying siege to her heart even as he spanks her bare bottom for disobedience. With every one of her pleasured cries, Tobias falls further under Ophelia’s spell as she surrenders to his mastering.
As he indulges her newfound carnal appetite, Ophelia will have to face old hurts, and decide whether or not she can trust him with the most precious of gifts.
What the hell had she gotten herself into this time?
"Of all the…" she muttered under her breath as she gripped the wooden handrail on the bar. The club's boisterous crowd jostled Ophelia on her barstool; the movement skewed the aquamarine feathers of her mask so that they tickled her nose.
Reaffixing her disguise so that she didn't inhale feathers, she assessed Dungeon Pleasures. End of Summer Masquerade Party her foot, it was more like an excuse to fondle, ogle, and show everyone your naughty bits. Its tagline should have read, 'debauchery central, if you want it, this is the place to get it'. 'It' meaning sex. This club was a place for the wilder LA crowd to break out their leather gear. Ophelia didn't think she'd ever seen so much leather and spandex in one place, nor so many nipples. Women and men displayed their cleavage wrapped in clamps, jewelry, or spilling out of leather corsets—or all three. And she wasn't even going to mention the barely-there skirts or number of people going commando. There was a cowgirl strutting herself in assless chaps. She hadn't known until tonight that they made assless chaps, but apparently, they do.
A resounding bass pumped out of the sound system and that, combined with the sweaty mix of gyrating, oversexed bodies getting their groove thing on out on the dance floor, was enough to send Ophelia scurrying for the hills. She'd rather be at home, curled on the couch with a good book, than in the midst of this sexual feeding frenzy. She liked sex; she did, but she had never been into overt displays. She was more the fine wine, candlelight and lingerie type, than the leather studded corset type.
So why was she here? Besides the crushing amount of guilt she needed to assuage. Ophelia turned Anna and Molly down for attending social functions ninety-nine percent of the time. It wasn't that she didn't like her friends—she did—but she also far enjoyed her own company above the overcrowded, over-stimulating clubs her peers seemed to adore without question. There really was something erroneous about her attitude toward social interaction. She knew it, but didn't believe there was a fix for it. Crowds made her uncomfortable and filled her with anxiety. And, if she were honest, most clubs bored her to tears, even ones with ample amounts of bared flesh on display. Although Dungeon Pleasures did take the cake for the sport of people-watching. Yet Ophelia far preferred her books than the bump and grind she was presently witnessing. That was where the world made sense, where men behaved with honor and dignity, sent you a calling card so you knew from the start what their intentions were toward you.
Dating was something Ophelia had never seemed to get the hang of, not in high school, not in undergrad, and certainly not now. She'd had boyfriends, who had skedaddled the moment they realized she was more interested in her books that she was in them. Sad, really, when she thought about it.
The only reason she had come tonight was because lately, she'd been feeling like she was nearly coming out of her skin she was so desperate for physical contact. In other words, she wanted sex, with no strings attached. She didn't have the time necessary to cultivate a relationship. Her end game was sex. Really hot, she might need to fan herself with an Austen novel, pulse-pounding sex. She wasn't a virgin or a prude but found most men lacking in this department. Then again, the deficiency could be in her, and maybe she just needed to order that super deluxe vibrator she'd found online, the one that promised its purchaser hours of pleasure. At the rate Ophelia was going, she'd be happy with five minutes. Between school and classes, she had little time to develop the necessary foundation for a relationship, when what she truly desired from a man at this point in her life was a few good orgasms. Was that really so wrong of her? She was just shy of her twenty-fifth birthday. Her peers were all having copious amounts of one night stands, it was what all the women her age were doing now anyway, and she wanted just one night to sustain her while she finished her masters. Then there were the myriad online dating sites she'd perused the other night, the same night on which she'd found the all-star goliath of vibrators. Ophelia had inspected the dating profiles and groaned, and not in a good way—those damn sites were the reason why she considered the men in her books a better, safer bet.
She had one measly year left before earning her master's degree in eighteenth century literature. Then roughly three to six years to earn her doctorate, depending upon how long it took her to write her dissertation. Once she reached that milestone, had those three letters added to her name, then she could have a real life, but until that time, she didn't know how to balance a relationship with the demands of her career. When she wasn't in class, she was teaching undergraduate classes at the university, or studying. That was it; the entire substance of her life was English literature. Her robust work ethic was something her parents and her older sister had instilled in her. She couldn't let them down.
Ophelia had assumed that, with her friends' penchant for discovering the latest hot clubs, she'd have a chance to mingle and find a reasonably attractive man, have some hot hanky panky and be done with it. Itch scratched—no harm, no foul. Not that she'd ever been good at the whole sex thing, as most of the interludes she'd experienced had left her sadly wanting something she couldn't name. Her sexual experiences had been pleasant diversions, but that wasn't what she craved. She wanted no holds barred passion. She wanted to be taken by a man who knew what the hell he was doing. Her fantasies of late had been disturbingly carnal.
The one thing Ophelia hadn't counted on was that her friends would take her to not just any type of club, but to a hot new BDSM Club, Dungeon Pleasures, in Pasadena, and would subsequently desert her, leaving her to her own devices, shortly after entering. Who knew where Anna and Molly were in this place? The building was an old converted warehouse. Wall to wall bodies, and sex practically oozed from the ramparts. The thumping bass competing with the symphony of moans—because clubgoers were having sex right on the dance floor, never mind finding a darkened corner or alley—and the whole entourage was starting to give her a headache as she sipped her Cabernet. She could feel the beginning drumbeats of a migraine at her temples.
The warehouse style club boasted multiple rooms. Ophelia sat at the bar, a modern meets Goth style number that mixed sleek gray steel with midnight taboo and suggestive undertones. The décor dripped the promise of naughty pleasure. The first area, where she sat people watching, was aptly named the Arena—which was more or less a regular club if you took away the obvious bump and grind action happening—with glossy black floors, lowlighting, and neon purple lights that throbbed in time to the mind-numbing techno music. Through a set of grand theater style double doors, again in a lacquered black, to her left, was the entrance to the more private, I'm-hooking-up or about to hook-up with a virtual stranger and have super kinky sex area. It was inscribed the Devil's Lair in large, garish, burgundy letters which had the appearance of flames. And then, finally, from what she had learned from the bartender, there was the third and final area known as the Dungeon; for the avid lifestyle BDSMers. She probably didn't want to know what happened in that third level, even if she was curious. It was a bad habit of hers, that curiosity. Made her want to find out if they sacrificed virgins or something on that level, or had raging orgies.
Tonight's theme was a Masquerade Ball, which was why Ophelia was inhaling feathers from the peacock mask she wore to compliment her barely there sapphire dress which clung to her body, her cleavage all but spilling over the top, and she had to sit precariously on the stool or she'd be flashing the whole room her naughty bits, thankfully covered with a silky strip of black lace panties—but it left little to the imagination. Not that anyone in the place would notice her. Believe it or not, her attire was tame compared to that of most of the party-goers.
Leather, corsets, and bare breasts seemed to be the couture of the night. It made her wish all the more for her yoga pants, comfy blanket, a cup of tea, and Mister Darcy or one of the other noble heroes she was head over heels for at the present. Hell, she'd re-read Jamie Fraser's adventures for the hundredth time if it meant getting her away from her unfortunate night out.
When Ophelia spied a woman—in violet, sprayed-on latex—kneel at her biker-clad counterpart's feet and begin to give him head right there in the open, she knew she was in way over her head and was out.
Signaling the bartender, Ophelia paid her tab, slipping the Goth girl, with blue hair and skimpy fishnet top, a generous tip. What a hell of a place! With her purse clutched in her hands, she got down off the stool and started to maneuver through the throngs of bodies to the exit. A set of strong arms slithered around her waist from behind and pulled her body flush against his.
"You weren't leaving yet, were you, baby?" the man mumbled in her ear, rubbing his obvious erection against her ass.
Gross! He drove home what he wanted, rubbing his hips back and forth. White hot anger bubbled and foamed at the surface. This was why she didn't come out much, because of asshats like this. What the hell had happened to chivalry? Or asking permission before you manhandled a woman, grinding your erection up against her? Not to mention she hated that endearment: 'baby'. Ophelia wasn't a baby; she was a grown-ass woman.
"Get your hands off me," she ordered, praying her voice would sound firm but cursing how whiny and scared it sounded to her ears. She struggled against his grip, squirming until she was half turned in his arms and could finally get a look at him.
The only word she could think up for him was 'poser'. His outer appearance was a walking billboard for Bikers'R'Us, replete with a skull and crossbones bandana over his bald head, while his dull, cornflower blue eyes said 'investment banker playing at being a hard-ass'. She rolled her eyes, praying that she could extricate herself without causing too much of a scene. She just wanted to catch a cab and go home at this point, she'd text Molly and Anna that she'd left and that would be that.
"Now is that any way to be, baby? I've been watching you at the bar and thought we could head to Devil's Lair and have ourselves a private party."
Ophelia grimaced. "Thank you for the offer, but no. Please take your hands off me and let me pass." She pushed against his hold, feeling more and more like a fly caught in molasses.
An unholy light gleamed in his eyes as he narrowed them into slits. He yanked her back against him, his hand covering her mouth. "You're coming with me and no one's going to stop me, you uppity bitch."
The first grips of panic speared her pulse as the man used the crowd to his advantage and ushered her toward the doors with the red lettering. The throng was so busy dancing and getting their groove thing on that no one noticed as she struggled against his iron grip. Fear pounded in her veins and she prayed she could escape him. Ophelia didn't care about any scene she might cause—she might want to get laid, but not by him, and no way in hell was she going to let this guy force her. Beyond those doors, they had bondage tools available. He'd have her gagged and bound before she could call for help. The phrase 'be careful what you wish for' played on a recorded loop in her mind as she fought to free herself.
Unable to think of any other avenue of escape as his fingers closed like a vise around her arms, she acted without thinking and bit the hand he had slipped over her mouth. She bit him hard, unwilling to let go until she drew blood.
He yelped, howling in outrage.
"Fucking bitch!" He slapped her across the face, breaking her hold on his other hand.
Ophelia cringed as he drew his arm back, struggling to escape his grip. One minute, she was preparing for another blow. In the next, she was watching in stunned amazement as a gladiator of a man knocked her attacker to the ground. Tattoos covered his muscled biceps, disappearing under a fitted black shirt with the club logo that displayed his wealth of muscles. His angular face was too masculine to be considered beautiful, with dark stubble covering his jaw, framing full lips that were set in a hard line as he hauled her attacker to his feet.
The man fought his grip, belligerent that he had been denied his prize. "I'll sue you and this club," he roared.
"How about we call the cops? I'm sure they'd find your assaulting a woman a punishable offense," her rescuer said.
"Fuck you," the man spat, clearly deranged, as two more bouncers—who looked like they bench pressed semis on a daily basis—stepped in, restraining him.
"Do you want to press charges?" Her rescuer turned his amber gaze Ophelia's way, addressing her for the first time. She shook her head. She just wanted to go home and forget about the whole night. Maybe drown her sorrows in a pint of double fudge brownie. The press of the clubgoers, the horde that had formed a wide circle around the firework festivities, was becoming too much for her. She felt like she had entered a tilt a whirl as the eager faces of the mob watched the interaction with unrepentant glee.
He nodded his understanding before returning his stare toward the perpetrator. "You are banned from this club. Matt, Derek, fill out a violator's report with his information, call the authorities if you have to, and escort this asshole out of the club."
Ophelia wobbled on her feet in relief as the jerk was dragged away before she focused on the man who'd saved her from unspeakable horrors. She used him as a lifeline as the room continued to spin.
"Are you all right?" the deep gravelly voice of her rescuer said. He really had a nice mouth, the bottom lip fuller than the top, surrounded by burnished copper stubble.
Ophelia opened her mouth to respond, to thank him for his timely save. Then her knees buckled and she felt herself falling. The horror of the night's events finally caught up with her.
"Shit." Her rescuer moved like lightning, which was surprising for a man who was so big. His burly tattoo-covered arms scooped her up, and carried her from the press of curious onlookers.
"Brendan, watch the floor while I take care of our wounded bird here," his voice rumbled as they passed the bar and she felt his words keenly inside her chest. She liked the way his voice sounded. The honeyed baritone resonated, making her belly quiver.
She buried her face in his neck, clinging as tears fell. This was the last time she would hit the club scene for some time. A night out wasn't worth this. A man had struck her because she'd said no. Ophelia would have one hell of a time explaining away a bruise she could practically feel forming on her cheek—where his hand had landed—to her sister, Zoey. She'd be furious and get all over-protective like she had since their parents died.
They passed through a pair of doors on the other side of the bar, down a long, rather forlorn hallway that made Ophelia think of every horror film she'd ever watched, and up a set of stairs. With each passing footstep the sounds from the club became muted and diminished. She felt the sensation as they climbed—it seemed, in her position—the longest flight of stairs in the world.
He pushed inside a large steel door, closing it behind them. He deposited her on a leather sofa and she protested the loss of his warmth, his strength.
"I'm just going to grab some ice for your cheek, I'll be right back." He lightly traced her throbbing cheek. His amber eyes simmered like molten gold as he held her gaze. Then he withdrew, walking around the couch and leaving her there.
Ophelia studied her surroundings, her tears drying on her cheeks as her natural curiosity got the better of her.
Gone was the garish club lighting and couture, replaced by hints of old world décor. It screamed 'expensive'. The loft apartment appeared to span the entire back-end upper-level of the warehouse. Dark walnut hardwood floors, the real deal, not the fake stuff that had hit the market years ago; midnight leather furniture; and plush ebony rugs dominated the open space. Barely any splashes of color anywhere. It made Ophelia wonder what he had against colors other than black. There were a few oak doors, the same uniform color as the floor, on the wall opposite the front entrance. She assumed they led to bedrooms and bathrooms.
Then she returned her attention to her knight in shining armor. His strength was lethal. He had taken down her attacker with one solidly landed punch. Tall, his body power-packed with muscles that rippled with each movement, he moved with a lion like grace as he withdrew a bag of something from the stainless steel industrial grade refrigerator. His kitchen color scheme was like the rest of the place, dark wood and black, with stainless steel appliances breaking up the monotony.
He approached her, then, kneeling in front of her, he removed her feathered mask, which she'd completely forgotten about with the entire hubbub. He lightly gripped her chin, angling her face as he inspected the damage, and then placed a frozen bag of peas against her jaw.
"Ow," she murmured. She winced, hissing, staring into his sensual amber eyes framed by some of the longest inky eyelashes she'd ever seen. There were women she knew in this town who would kill for a set of eyelashes like his.
"Sorry, you're going to have quite the bruise there. Are you sure you don't want to press charges?" he said.
Like a complete ninny, she couldn't stop the tears as they spilled on to her cheeks. Ophelia had never been exposed to violence like that, even though she'd lived in LA her entire life. She'd never even seen the pictures from her parents' fatal car crash. Mom and Dad had used time out and other punishment tactics growing up. Even though she'd had a few frenemies throughout high school, not one of them had ever struck her. It burned her to her core that she couldn't seem to stop shaking. Ophelia wished with everything inside her that what had transpired downstairs hadn't decimated her sensibilities, but she'd be lying.
"No, I just want to forget it ever happened. No one's ever—" she blubbered, unable to stop the tears. She observed him through watery eyes, trying to finish her explanation, but found that words escaped her. God, she must look horrible, holding a bag of frozen peas against her right cheek, tears leaking down her face, her left arm wrapped around her body as if she could hold herself together by will alone.
"Hell," her beefy, gorgeous rescuer muttered.
Her world upended itself as he lifted her up into his arms, turned and seated the two of them on the sofa. He cradled her against his chest, his warmth seeping into her frigid limbs, and held her with such gentle chivalry. A dam burst inside her and she wept on his firm shoulder. All the while, he comforted. His large hands stroked her hair, her back, cuddling her close while she unleashed her sorrow upon him. As the storm abated, he held a tissue up to her nose.
"Blow," he commanded.
She did as he instructed. She kept her face buried in his chest as embarrassment replaced the tears. What must he think of her? Falling apart like this, with a stranger, no less? After her experience tonight, she should be freaked out that she was alone with a man she didn't know, but she felt safe with him. Unlike her attacker, he didn't make her skin crawl. In fact, she became more aware as her crying jag subsided. Warmth had seeped inside her at every spot their bodies touched. Ophelia was curled up like a cat on his lap, her face buried in his firm shoulder, plastered to the contours of his body. He felt marvelous.
His rather large hands rested on her. They had stopped stroking her as some point during her waterworks, and were now motionless. One hand had curled around her waist, the other rested on her thigh, teasing the hem line of her dress. For the first time, she noticed his warm scent, a little spicy, mixed with deeper notes that made her think of the great redwood forest and set off her pheromones.
Still holding the bag of peas she angled her head back, taking in just how masculine this man was. This was no poser, no mama's boy, or metrosexual, but an unabashed, unapologetic alpha male who exuded confidence, dominating the world with his presence. Her body had plastered itself to his, melting in a puddle, and she perceived how nicely she fit inside his arms. Her softness met with his corded muscles, not finding an inch of give.
He was sexy, dangerous and, studying his tousled burnished copper locks, she had the distinct urge to run her hands through it, to see if it was as soft as it seemed. She knew she should say something, thank him for what he had done to rescue her, and then leave this place never to return. The thought of never beholding the sexy fullness of his lips or the way his eyes turned to liquid metal as he considered her filled her with sorrow—which was just crazy, they'd didn't know each other. But she couldn't move away from him if she tried. She didn't want to as she studied his face, unwilling to break the spell of the moment.
Neither did her mystery savior, or so it seemed, as his amber gaze regarded her, his eyes assessing her response to his nearness. His long fingers stilled against her, tightening their grip slightly. After everything Ophelia had experienced tonight, the stark desire igniting in her belly was the least expected. It should shame her, but the thought of that rough hand sliding under her dress and touching her center made her breath stutter in her throat. And those damn lips of his were so close, and were just begging to be sucked on.
Ophelia's sister had accused her on many occasions of thinking too much. Ophelia was the proverbial over-thinker. She never made hasty decisions, usually agonizing over them thoroughly and examining every possible scenario she could think up. But this time, just this once, she didn't want to think things through or worry about the consequences. She just wanted to feel like a normal woman. Acting on instincts, she lowered the unthawed bag of peas to her lap and kissed him full on. His stubble rubbed against her lips enticingly as she moved her mouth against his. His taste reminded her of an aged whisky, with hints of honey swirled in the mix, and made her desire above all else to drink him down to the last drop. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth, nipping at the fullness. Her hands crept up to the corded muscles in his neck, attempting to pull him closer.
He drew back, staring at her with banked fire simmering in his eyes. "I don't think we should go any further, sweetness, you're vulnerable right now with everything you've been through, and it wouldn't be—" he began.
"Please," she cut him off and whispered her plea, panicked that he might send her away when she wanted to crawl inside his solid warmth and stay there a while. She wanted to lose herself in him, even if only for the night. In a weird turn of events, the last place she wanted to be was at home alone—or worse, run into her sister and have to explain what had happened. She'd have to describe how she got the bruise on her cheek and what had transpired in minute detail to her over-protective—albeit loving—big sister.
She tightened her hold, pleading with him the only way she knew how. In a move that would normally have shocked her, Ophelia grabbed his hand on her thigh, picked it up and placed it over her breast, squeezing the palm and holding it over her flesh so there could be no misunderstanding of what she wanted from him. Then she planted open-mouthed kisses on his corded neck, licking and nibbling at his collarbone.
"Fuck," he groaned, tipped her chin up with the hand currently not fondling her breast as his lips crashed down upon hers. He possessed her, was all she could think. His kiss vibrated throughout her entire body. She shifted; wanting, needing to get closer to him but never breaking contact with his lips. The bag of peas slid forgotten to the floor as he aided her clumsy movements until she straddled his thighs, plastering herself against him, and felt the turgid bulge of his erection through the flimsy barrier of her panties.
This was what she had been craving, what she had woken up at night wishing for; pure, undiluted, and unapologetic gotta-have-it-right-now passion.
She nearly whimpered at the salacious contact, rubbing herself against his covered member. With his tongue and teeth, he plundered her depths, thrusting inside her mouth. Flames erupted inside her body as hunger overrode any second thoughts about her path. All she yearned for was to feel him inside her. And she wanted more, wanted all that he was willing to give her and then some. She'd spent far too many years reading about passion and now, having glimpsed a mere taste of the explosive passion he offered, she wanted to drink him down and revel in it. She needed to feel his skin under her hands, no longer caring for the restrictions hampered by their clothing. Running her hands over his glorious chest, she tugged at his shirt, pulling it up, revealing the honed muscles she wanted to worship with her tongue.
She broke contact with his mouth long enough to mutter, "Off," panting with need, her breathing shallow.
He growled, nearly ripping the shirt off over his head. His mouth captured hers again before she'd been able to get a good look at his mammoth chest. Her hands caressed his upper body muscles, testing their firmness, running her nails over the whirls of dark hair covering his pectorals. He made quick work of her dress, never breaking contact with her mouth as his hands unzipped the blue material. He slid the straps of the dress off her shoulders, pushing it down to her waist and then unclasping her bra until he freed her breasts, tossing her bra over the couch. They moaned in unison as her bare breasts made contact with his chest.
He shifted positions so that she lay with her back on the couch and he was hovering over her. He took her hands and positioned them above her head.
"Keep your hands there," he ordered. Then his mouth trailed kisses over her chest until he reached her breasts. Taking one of the pert areolas into his mouth, he sucked on the perky bud. Each liquid pull on her breast shot electric currents of need straight to her core. Her dress rose up, bunching at her waist as she undulated her hips against the thick length of his cock, which was still imprisoned in his jeans.
One of his hands snaked down, sliding beneath her panties. A single digit traced her labia, her folds already coated and slick with need. He slid two fingers inside her tight channel and her hips bucked as he speared her depths. His thumb rubbed and circled her clitoris, finding that one spot that made her mindless. The combination of his fingers penetrating her pussy, the tugging pull of his mouth working her nipples into engorged peaks, and his thumb teasing her sensitive nub made her say something to him that she'd never said to another man in her life.
"Fuck me," she begged, beyond thought or reason.
He moaned around her breast, ripping her panties off with a quick yank. He undid his pants, shoving them down his hips, and his glorious erection sprung forth. He positioned his cock at her entrance and in a single swift thrust, seated himself to the hilt inside her pussy.
When she would have brought her hands down, he grabbed them both with one hand, holding them above her head. He brought her legs up around his waist and he sank further inside. Then he proceeded, with no further preamble, to do exactly as she had asked him to do. He gave her the fucking of her life. If there was an Olympics category for sex, this man would be a gold medalist, a god among mere mortals in bed sport. He rolled his hips in short brutal digs meant to drive her crazy and slow, hard plunges where she thought his big broad cock would split her asunder and which had her begging for more.
"Please," she whined, needing to come. But he wouldn't let her.
She was supremely glad for her expertise in yoga as he bent her knees up to her chest, tipping her pelvis up so that he could enter her from a different angle, reaching an entirely new depth of penetration. He stroked his length in a seesaw motion with some thrusts that were long and so deep they ached as they touched her womb, and then short plunges that left her panting for more.
Sweat moistened her skin. There was a fine sheen coating his chest as his hips picked up the pace, his cock disappearing in rapid succession inside her pussy. It made her hotter, seeing him spearing his flesh inside her. His fingers stroked over her engorged nub, and she felt herself nearing climax. She writhed, needing that shining release that she could feel building.
"No." She whimpered as he withdrew, only to reposition her so she was kneeling on the couch with her ass up in the air, and head resting on her hands.
He pulled apart the globes of her ass, his fingers tracing over her pussy lips, and she groaned. Her grumble of frustration turned into an open-mouthed moan as he pounded his length inside her from behind. He set a brutal pace. And she took every single stroke, and reveled in the feel, lost in the bliss of need. She had devolved into a carnal being who only cared that he continue fucking her.
His fingers dug into her hips as he pumped his length. She realized the mewling sounds she heard were coming from her. He quickened his speed, hammering his cock inside her to the point where she saw starbursts behind her lids.
She felt him lengthen and swell with each stroke, and knew he was on the verge. He snaked his hand around her waist as he ruthlessly plunged. He caressed her clit with the pad of his thumb, rubbing the swollen flesh, and Ophelia felt herself splinter into a thousand pieces.
"Ah," she cried, thrusting her hips back in ecstasy and feeling him stiffen and roar his own release as he spurted inside her. He kept plunging, drawing out the orgasm, sending waves of spasms through her as her muscles clenched and shuddered around his thick length.
They collapsed on his couch in a spooning fashion, his cock still semi hard and inside her quivering, buttery folds. Closing her eyes, she slipped into a sleepy afterglow haze, feeling more safe and protected than she'd ever felt before.
Ophelia woke a short time later when she heard a male snore in her ear. Her eyes popped open and the entire night's events came rushing back. Arms the size of small tree trunks were wrapped around her body. Her limbs were satiated, her backside snug against his front and she looked down. His member lay against her sex, its size impressive even in its softened state. The spooning action had given him direct access to her body like an 'all you can eat' buffet as he slept and his hands held her breasts cupped within his palms.
A blush spread and bloomed over her cheeks, she could feel the heat of it scorch her face. What had she done? She'd done exactly what she'd wanted to do. Her mission operative for coming to the club tonight had been to have sex. And she'd done precisely that, she'd had stupendous, out of this world, sex. She could feel all the muscles she didn't normally use were sore and stiff. Her inner thighs felt chafed. Her nipples were raw from his attention. And she felt better than she had in an age. What a night!
With extreme caution she slowly extricated herself, praying that she didn't wake him up. As much as she had enjoyed being with him, it had been a fantasy come to life and she feared the waking reality. If he woke, it would break the spell of the night, and could end up ruining one of the best nights she had ever had.
She slid successfully from his grasp after some careful maneuvering. The hardest part was moving his beefy arms. Once freed from their embrace, she slipped off the couch onto the floor. Then she tiptoed around collecting her bra and purse, avoiding the bag of peas still melting on the floor as she clutched her heels. She would wait until she was out of his loft before slipping them on her feet. She didn't want to risk them clicking against the wood floors and waking him.
She couldn't locate her panties anywhere. She eyed the couch, wondering if they were hiding under his fabulous, rock-hard body. Even in sleep he had the body of a demi-god turned gladiator. She just needed to be covered enough for a cab ride home. If she went and searched the couch, she would surely wake him and break the night's spell. Worried that he could awaken at any moment, she decided to go commando. Really, other than during the walk out to the cab, no one would see her anyway. She stretched the material of her dress over her rear and naughty bits as much as she could. It would have to do until she arrived home.
In a weak moment, she spied his black shirt in a puddle on the floor and stuffed it inside her purse as a memento for the night. One that would go in the annals of her record books as the best sex of her life.
With a single backward glance at his gorgeous, sleeping form, splayed out on the couch, she blew him a kiss he would never see, and left his loft. She took the same route he had used to bring her up here, exiting into the club, which was still going strong even at this late hour.
Ophelia departed Dungeon Pleasures, sliding into a waiting cab, heading back to her real life in Burbank. It wasn't until the cab lurched away from the curb that she realized she didn't even know his name.
Tobias Ford woke to an insistent knock on his door. He sat up, assessing his surroundings. Finding himself alone and half naked on his couch didn't bode well. His brain was foggy from his orgasm hangover. God, his wounded little bird had been a sweet piece, one he wanted another taste of as soon as he sent whoever had chosen to disturb him this time of night away.
"Just a minute," he grumbled, standing and stuffing himself back inside his pants. He'd never gotten around to taking them off all the way—he'd been in too much of a hurry to slide inside her slick pussy. He rarely ever lost his control during sex. He'd learned through years of training, just like with his military background, how to hold off his own pleasure until he'd brought a sub her release. Tonight had been an amalgam. She'd set his soul on fire with her pouty, trembling lips, large, sad doe eyes, and killer body. She'd surprised him with her boldness, something he didn't think she normally was, and he'd allowed her to set the tone initially. He hadn't counted on her driving him wild with those two little words. Her breath had hitched when she'd asked him fuck her; like she'd been terrified he'd turn away from her. He'd heard the words before, but never had they been uttered by such an innocent, nor brought forth his protective Dom urges in quite that way. He'd needed to possess her then, brand her so that no man would ever quite leave their mark on her the way he did.
He shuffled to the door. Where was his little visitor, anyway? Bathroom maybe?
He yanked open the door with a yawn and his club shift manager, Bret, stood there with the deposit bag. Tobias liked Bret. He was a good manager, a patient, gay Dom who was always smartly dressed, and a softy when it came to women in need.
"We took in a larger haul tonight, boss, and since you were finally free, I wanted to drop it with you," Bret said, grinning with a knowing glance; bro code for, 'Dude, you got some, sweet!'
"What do you mean since I'm finally free?" Alarm bells sounded in Tobias's brain.
Bret replied, "Our little damsel in distress, mon enfant, the one you rescued earlier, left the club about fifteen minutes ago."
She was gone. Why that should bother him, he wasn't sure. Normally he'd be happy he didn't have to make small talk with a woman he never planned on seeing again. He typically avoided spending more than a night with one woman. He preferred variety and, more than that, remaining unattached. That way he didn't have to worry about having one of his episodes and scaring, or worse, physically harming them. His PTSD on bad nights could be brutal, and Tobias hadn't allowed himself to get close to anyone since his ex had walked out on him four years prior.
"Ah, I see." Tobias ignored the question in Bret's eyes. He was not going to talk about his interlude that evening. He had never even gotten her name, and now his sexy little wounded bird had flown the coop. Son of a bitch. He could still taste her sweetness, a blend of honey and vanilla, on his tongue, and craved more.
"Thank you, Bret. I'll get it done in the morning." He slammed the door on his sputtering manager. Tonight had been the first night since he had returned from the Middle East on which he had not woken up sweating with images of blood, bombs, and bodies—and he knew, deep down, that his little bird was surely the cause.
Even if he had to move heaven and earth, he would find her.