Waking Kiss Read online

  I froze. Was that true? Of course it was. I knew all along my hang-ups were mental, but I never considered that my body could work outside of that. If I could just turn off my mind…

  “But you need your mind to have really good sex,” he said, dashing my sudden inspiration. “Without your mind it’s just physical, without meaning or excitement. So turn off the boundaries in your mind and let me touch you. Let yourself feel whatever you want to feel.”

  With those words he slid his fingers to the side and brushed them over one of my hardened nipples. There was an instant, potent flash of pleasure. “No fear,” he murmured. “This feels good.”

  Oh, yes, it felt amazingly good. My palms slid over his shoulders as he touched my nipple again, then the other one. Each time there was a strong, bright sensation of something delicious. Chemistry. Craving. Attraction.

  Lust.

  Next I knew, I was gripping him by the neck and he was leaning closer to take the tips of my breasts in his mouth. That was a whole new sensation, warm and wet and tingling. Guys had done this to me before but I’d found it vaguely off-putting. I hadn’t wanted them to do it. Now I didn’t want Liam to stop.

  One of his arms held me trapped as he suckled my left breast. The other hand trailed over my hip and then up to my right breast. His fingers closed on the tight nipple and pinched it. The mix of pain and pleasure caught me off guard. The moan that came out of my mouth shocked me, as did the unconscious thrusting of my hips. I pushed away from him.

  “Okay.” He took my hand to stop my retreat. “It’s okay.” His lips were half open, his eyes burning with the same building passion I felt. “It’s okay to enjoy it. It feels different, doesn’t it? To enjoy it?”

  I nodded, speechless. Breathless. I looked down at his jeans, at the massive hard-on outlined there, and took another step back.

  “All I wanted to teach you today,” he said, “is to be aware of your boundaries, and your own power to let them up and down. I want you to be aware of your mind’s role when it comes to sex. Or in your case, your mind’s interference.”

  I was aware of that now, one hundred percent. I wanted him to touch me again, to kiss my breasts and hurt them with his fingers, but my mind wasn’t ready for the sexual part of me to be in charge. But…I had a sexual part of me. It wasn’t gone. The idea of that filled me with hope.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m okay.” I swallowed hard as he squeezed my hand. “I have a lot to think about.”

  He took my other hand too, watching me for a few moments. “It’s good to have things to think about. I’m also going to give you homework.”

  My eyes widened. He reached out to brush his fingertips across my still-hard nipples. “I want you to touch these the way I touched them, at least once every day. I want you to do it while you’re lying in bed, and I want you to concentrate on enjoying it. Nothing else. No shame. No fear of what comes before or after. Can you do that?”

  There was only one correct answer in this room. “Yes, Liam.”

  “But I don’t want you to touch anything else,” he added. “Only your nipples. Only right here.” He traced around the edges, then back to the middle of the tight peaks. “No other part of your beautiful little body.” Before my eyes, his gaze went seductive and smoky. “I want you to save the rest for me. Do you understand?”

  I could barely draw breath. I nodded, trying hard not to thrust my breasts against his palm.

  He left my aching nipples alone and reached down to catch my fingers. “Your other homework is to get screened for STDs. I will too. It’s a pain, but you should ask every partner to be tested. No exceptions.”

  “Okay. I know.” Awkward. Embarrassing. But necessary, I supposed. “I think there’s a clinic the dancers use.”

  “Good. So that will be all squared away.” He scratched the side of his neck and looked very directly at me. “There’s one more thing we need to discuss before you go. Do you know what that is?”

  I thought I knew. I was afraid to say it. His steady gaze pried out the words. “I—I did something wrong.”

  “What did you do wrong?”

  “I argued with you when you told me to take my shirt off.”

  “And I specifically warned you what would happen, didn’t I? If you kept arguing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you try a ‘Yes, Sir?’” he suggested with an edge to his voice.

  I shivered. He was amazingly good at this dominance thing. “Yes, Sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay. We improve through practice. And punishment, of course. That’s what it’s for, to teach you. You understand that?”

  This was madness. You asked for this, Ashleigh. I felt scared and turned on in equal measure. “Yes…Sir. I understand.”

  “Okay. We’ll keep it simple today.” He stepped away from the bed and I found myself, a moment later, bent over the edge of it, right where he’d been sitting. “Arms out to the side. Don’t move them.”

  Nervous pangs fluttered in my middle. You asked for this, you crazy person, so suck it up and take it. He nudged my legs apart a little more with his foot.

  “Plant your feet and brace yourself. I prefer my submissives to be still,” he said. My breath accelerated to a thousand miles an hour. I heard the clink of his belt buckle and the swish of him pulling it from his jeans. “Five warm ups and five harder ones. You’re new at this, but you need to feel what a punishment means.”

  Oh my God.

  I felt his hand on my back, the whisper of leather across the fabric of my panties. It felt smooth and cold. Then… Whap! It felt a lot harder than I thought a warm up would be. I barely had time to suck in air before another blow fell, and another. It stung like hell but it wasn’t unbearable. The instant of contact was the hardest part. No, the hardest part was waiting for the next stroke to fall. Whap! One last warm up. Oww. It was a little harder than the others.

  “Look at me.”

  I turned at the command in his voice. Was he checking to see if I was all right? I wasn’t totally sure I was. For one thing, my pussy had grown astoundingly wet since he’d made me bend over, so wet I was afraid it would show through the gusset of my panties. Please, please, don’t make me pull them down. “These are going to be harder,” he said. “Keep your hands where they are and don’t move.”

  “Yes, Sir.” The “Sir” came out automatically this time, a reaction to his stern voice.

  WHAP!

  I cried out in shock. Way, way harder than I expected. Not like the warm ups. Not comfortable at all. Right on the heels of that surprise, the next stroke fell. I knew this was supposed to hurt, to teach me a lesson, but…God. My ass burned like fire and there were three more to go. WHAP! I wondered wildly if Mem could hear this all the way downstairs. I felt humiliated but I felt excited and turned on too. WHAP! Okay, less turned on now. I squeezed my legs together, wanting to turn away, wanting to jump up and run away from him.

  “Spread them,” he said. “One more to go.”

  I huffed out a breath and made myself resume the proper position. I expected the last one to be the worst one and I wasn’t disappointed. He held me down with one hand and snapped a hard crack right against the middle of my ass cheeks. With the pain I’d already suffered, it brought tears to my eyes.

  Then he touched me.

  He ran a palm over both my ass cheeks and tugged up the edges of my panties. I looked over my shoulder to find him studying my skin. Assessing the damage? The act seemed more intimate than a kiss. He flung the belt down on the bed and lifted me, and then he did kiss me. I was hyper aware of a thousand sensations as his lips moved over mine…my throbbing ass, the wetness between my legs, his firm grip on my elbow, my bare skin against his. My tears had disappeared. The world disappeared, replaced by his demanding touch and his sexy male scent.

  Just as suddenly he broke away from me. The savage look in his eyes was brought under rigid control. “Congratulations,” he said, stroking a fi
nger down my cheek. “You took that very well. Although that’s not exactly how it’s supposed to end.”

  I searched his face. “How is it supposed to end?”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw as he poked a finger toward the far wall. “Corner time. Ten minutes.” He reached for his belt and started threading it back through his jeans. “No rubbing your ass cheeks either,” he said as I reached back to soothe the sting. “I’ll let you know when you can leave.”

  Chapter Ten: Liam's Girl

  Liam drove me home a short time later. It seemed like I’d spent hours in that bedroom but it had barely been an hour. I got home just after two in the afternoon. My pajamas were on the floor where I’d shed them, and the curtains to my bed were still crumpled in a ball. I felt like I’d changed into a completely different person since I’d ripped them down last night. I still wasn’t the person I wanted to be, but I didn’t think I was as messed up as I’d been before.

  I crawled into my new, curtain-less bed with a book, but thoughts of the past twenty-four hours kept intruding into my head. My father was dying. Cancer. Melanoma. Meanwhile, Liam had taken charge of my skittish sexuality, at least in that room. He’d given lots of orders, dominated me, and I’d submitted. He’d made me take off my clothes and he’d touched me…and I’d gotten turned on by it. Then he’d spanked me with his belt, and God help me, that had turned me on more than anything else.

  When the phone rang flashing Liam’s name, I jumped on it. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ash. It’s me. I’m not going to call you every day to bother you. I’m just checking to be sure you’re okay.”

  “Yes, I’m okay.”

  “We had some intense moments together and I thought everything went great. But sometimes after people have an emotional session, especially newbies, they experience a drop. A blue, depressed feeling.”

  I hunkered over the phone, cradling it to my ear. “I’m not depressed, but…”

  “But?”

  “I’m sort of confused. About what happened at the end.”

  “The kiss? Listen, Ashleigh—”

  “No,” I interrupted. “The part before, when you used your belt on me. I know it was supposed to hurt, and it did hurt and I did feel punished, but…”

  “You liked it too.”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes. Does that make me a bad submissive?”

  “No.” I heard his chuckle carry over the line. “That makes you a masochist. Did you do your homework yet?”

  My cheeks got really hot. “No. Not yet.”

  “Do you have clothespins at your place?”

  I stared across my apartment to the bathroom, where I’d clipped up about twenty pairs of leotards and shoes. “I have a few.”

  “You only need two. Sometime after you touch your nipples, after you make yourself feel good and excited, I think you should try clamping them with clothespins.” His voice dropped lower. “Fair warning. It’ll hurt. But if you’re a masochist, you might enjoy it.”

  Oh my God. “Do I… Do I have to do that?”

  “I want you to try it, yes. It doesn’t have to be tonight. Whenever you feel brave enough. Start with one. If you can’t stand it, take it off. All I ask is that you try it and see how it feels.”

  “Or…?”

  He tsked. “Or you’ll be punished for not doing your homework, and I’ll do it to you on Monday anyway when we meet. Be brave, Ash. Break down boundaries.” His voice went soft and warm like a caress at the last part.

  “Okay, I’ll try.”

  “Just be careful. If a belt spanking turns you on, nipple clamps probably will too. Remember what I said about touching other parts of yourself.”

  “Oh… I…”

  “You do remember what I said, don’t you?”

  It was pretty much all I’d thought about. “You said to save it for you.”

  “Mm-hm,” he drawled, and then his voice turned brusque. “Okay. Just wanted to check in. If you need me or if you have any questions, call me. Otherwise I’ll see you Monday afternoon.”

  “Yes, Liam. Thank you.”

  I’d almost busted out with the Yes, Sir over the phone. We were supposed to be equals outside the bedroom but now that I’d experienced his dominant side in action, I could only seem to think of him as Sir. Later, as I was doing my “homework” in the dark, by the light of my flickering LED candle, I thought he might as well be lying next to me in my bed. His bed. The bed he’d given me.

  I was embarrassed at first and I only fondled myself through the sheer lace of my bra. The second night I pulled the cups down and touched my nipples the way he had, with that same light, lingering touch. I tried to focus on what he’d taught me. No boundaries. No fear or shame. I tried to enjoy it and I did kind of enjoy it, but only when I thought about him at the same time. The third night I made myself go into the bathroom and get a couple of the clothespins. I closed them on my fingertips and it didn’t seem so bad, but as soon as I brought one close to my nipple I lost my nerve and threw them on the side table.

  Was I really a masochist? In class, in rehearsals, I could hardly bear to think of Liam and the hurty things he’d done to me. I stammered through my visit to the clinic, wishing he was with me but knowing I’d be mortified if he was. I had a new, weird, hyperaware feeling about my breasts and my ass, all the time. I felt my nipples while I was dancing. Not felt them with my fingers, but felt them trapped against my leotard, or brushed by my wrist when I folded my arms over my chest. I felt his hands on my ass in my daydreams, or his belt. Every so often I touched my nipples during the day, just because it reminded me of him. Just because it felt pleasurable. Because it made me feel brave and sexual.

  This was all very alarming to me.

  *** *** ***

  “Ash-lee. Ashhh-lee.”

  I stopped mid-bang, crouched over in the dressing room. I could have sworn I heard Rubio calling me.

  “Ash-lee?”

  I spun to look at the door. Rubio was calling me. He darted a look around the room.

  “Anybody in here?”

  “I’m here.”

  He made an impatient wave. “No, I mean, anyone else? I need to talk to you.”

  The Great Rubio needed to talk to me?

  He looked past me and gawked at my pile of shoes. “Geez, girl. You have enough to last all season. Obsess much?”

  “I want to be prepared.” He was ninety-nine percent of the reason I did this. He still hissed “Asshole!” in my nightmares from time to time.

  “You stay here too late,” he said. “You look like hell. Raccoon eyes. When you ever sleep?”

  I squeezed a toe shoe in my palm. “The same time you sleep. At night.”

  He narrowed his eyes. He was in practice sweats—and he was sweaty. “Hey, I need your help. You busy? Can you help me a minute?”

  I stared at Fernando Rubio. He was asking me for help.

  “Sure, I can help you,” I said, trying to sound casual about it. “What do you need?”

  “I’m working on steps. I need someone to mark steps with me. You’re the only one here, so come help me.” He scowled at my pile of shoes. “If you have any pointe shoes that don’t sound like hammers, this would be good. Bring them. Come.”

  I got to my feet and sorted through my shoes, picking a good pair and dumping the rest into the bin under my carrel. My mind raced in excited shock. Yes, Rubio was mean and rude but I still admired him as an artist—and he wanted me to mark steps with him. He was inviting me into his private creative process.

  I had to run to catch up with him in the hall. He led me to the same rehearsal room he’d been in the night me and Liam argued. “You warmed up?” he asked. “Go on. Warm up first.”

  I did a few stretches while he paced back and forth, talking through combinations under his breath. At some point I guess he figured I’d warmed up enough because he grabbed my hand and dragged me to the center of the floor. He turned me to face the mirror and described a series of steps in garbled count
s and a smattering of Portuguese. “Okay. You do it?”

  I tried my best to execute what he wanted. He stopped me halfway though and changed the steps, partnering and coaching me at the same time. This back-and-forth went on for about twenty minutes, but at the end of it he’d developed a pretty cool sequence. “Stay,” he said. “Remember the steps in case I forget.”

  He ran over to his book to diagram the combination. I moved through the steps again without him, marking them in my mind. He had a unique talent for choreography. The steps felt energizing, and I enjoyed the flow and sweep of them. When he had everything down I said, “You’re good at this. Have you choreographed before?”

  He wore the funniest expression, like he was trying to think of something nasty to say but couldn’t. He shrugged and half-smiled. “Never like this.”

  “I think it’s good when dancers choreograph. The steps feel more organic. Natural.”

  He stared a minute, then crossed to me. “What you think of this?”

  He showed me another, more intricate combination. I mostly liked it. I told him the parts that tripped me up or didn’t flow right. For another fifteen minutes or so he bounced ideas off me and had me try them out. I don’t know when I stopped feeling self-conscious and started to enjoy dancing with him, but for whole long minutes I wasn’t worried about being judged or measuring up to his expectations. I was collaborating as his dance partner. I was living in his world.

  “What’s this ballet about?” I asked as he spun me and caught me in the crook of his arm. He released me with a frown.

  “I don’t know what it’s about. Why it has to be about something? Why it can’t just be movement? Dancing?”

  “It can be,” I said, trying to regain our earlier camaraderie. “That’s what Balanchine did, right? Just dancing?”

  If anything, his glare deepened. “I am not Balanchine. I do my own thing.”

  I shrugged, doing some passés to stay warm. “Well, I think it’s good. Even if it’s not about anything. What kind of music are you going to use?”