6. Charlotte

6

CHARLOTTE

A s soon as he tells me to go and lie down, that urge to run flares up again. In a fight-or-flight situation, I’m definitely always going to choose flight. But this one is flight-or-fuck—and I’m dangerously close to picking the latter.

If I run now, it feels like admitting that Nate was always right about me. That I deserved to lose the relationship, instead of him being the asshole that never even gave me a real chance to be what he wanted. That’s how it’s felt all night, every time I’ve come up against one of these decisions.

Talk to the masked man. Have a drink with the masked man. Go upstairs with him. And then ? —

I hadn’t even really noticed that there was a bed in the room. All I’ve been able to look at is him. But now, as I twist around to look for where it is that he wants me to go, I see the rest of it.

The room is warm and luxurious, continuing the sort of modern French baroque theme from downstairs. The walls are wallpapered a rich red, with a narrow window to the left, draped with gold. There’s a plush, wide chair next to it, as well as a small table, and I feel my cheeks heat as I realize that the chair is the perfect width for a man to sit back in while a woman straddles his lap. My knees wouldn’t even slide off the sides.

To the left of it is one of those padded benches, and I can’t even begin to let myself think of what that’s used for—all the reasons why this man might want to bend me over it or lay me back and use those leather cuffs to hold my wrists and ankles. I think of the feeling of his leather-gloved finger against my lips, and shiver.

To my other side, there’s a cupboard on one wall, a set of drawers, and two more chairs. Directly ahead of me, in the center of the far wall, is a huge bed with a four-poster canopy. There are no drapes hanging from it, and I realize with another flush of heat that the canopy frame is meant for other uses. A myriad of different ways to potentially bind me to the bed, so that my partner in this room can have his way with me.

The masked man is eerily silent. He’s waiting for me to decide, I realize—to either decide that this is all too much for me and leave, or to obey him, and go to the bed. I never thought I was aroused by the idea of obedience—by the thought of submission to a man—but this man wants me to submit to my own pleasure. It feels different, somehow. He wants me to obey, so that he can teach me all of the things I’ve been missing.

Taking a deep breath, I walk unsteadily towards the bed.

It’s made up with a red silk velvet duvet edged in gold, similarly-colored pillows stacked three deep at the head of it. My heart is beating hard in my chest as I stop at the edge, afraid to look back at the man as I nervously kick off my shoes—wondering a second later if I was supposed to do that at all. He didn’t tell me to. But I would never wear shoes in bed.

My teeth sink into my lip again. I’m overthinking this. I want to stop thinking so much. I want?—

“I can help you with that.”

I jump, covering my mouth with one hand to stifle my small yelp of shock. I didn’t hear him move. I didn’t realize that I’d said that last sentence out loud. But I can feel the heat of him now, standing behind me, feel his presence without even seeing him.

He gave me instructions, if I want this. I take a deep, shaky breath, and climb onto the bed.

No sooner do I lie back on the pillows, turning my head to look at him, than I see his mouth curve upwards in a wicked, almost satisfied smile. As if he’s thrilled to see that I’ve obeyed him. As if he’s getting what he wants out of this, instead of what he’s promised, which is that this will be all about me.

A nervous shudder runs through me, a fear that I’ve been talked into something that isn’t going to be what I thought, and I hold up a hand before he can move.

“Wait,” I say nervously. “Do I—Ja—my friend said something about safe words. Something to say if I want you to stop. What do I?—”

He chuckles, but there’s no malice in it. “Normally, those words are for play where you’re going to pretend not to want what I’m doing to you. There won’t be any of that tonight. But if it will make you feel better, choose a word. Any word will do.”

I search for something, looking around the room. “Paris,” I blurt out, taking in the French-inspired decor, and he laughs again, softly.

“Paris, it is. Not something I can imagine screaming out at the height of pleasure whether I wanted to stop or not.” He smirks. “And there’s something else in these rooms, too. May I?” He reaches out towards my hand, and shakily, I nod.

It seems silly to be nervous about him touching my hand, when soon he plans on touching so much more. But I feel my breath catch as soon as that cool leather glides over my fingers.

He lifts my hand up, towards the headboard, and I almost pull it back. I think, for a second, that he plans to tie me up, and that both terrifies me and sends a bolt of heat through me at the same time—one that I don’t have time to examine. Because a second later, I feel my fingers brush against the smooth wall—and something raised there, a round shape.

“A panic button.” The man lets go of my hand. “There are others, but since I don’t have plans to tie you up tonight, I don’t think we need to spend time exploring all the safety measures in this room. The point is—you’re safe, little dove,” he says, his voice softening. “Nothing will happen here that you don’t want. The owner of this club has gone to great lengths to make sure of that.”

I feel a flicker of disappointment when he says he’s not going to tie me up, followed by a sort of warm confusion. “You’re worried about me feeling safe,” I murmur softly, and his smile falters for a moment.

“You should always feel safe in a situation like this. Even in— especially in—the ones where you want to feel unsafe for a little while. Kink has rules, little dove. And the more dangerous and deviant the play, the more rules there are.”

I bite my lip, unsure how I feel about that. My life is full of rules that I always play by. Full of me always trying to do the right thing, to be the perfect employee and friend and girlfriend. I want to forget about the rules for a little while. I want to be free of all of it.

But part of me is grateful to know that underneath it all, I’m safe here. And I can feel myself subconsciously relaxing, with every thing this man does to let me know that he’s not here to take advantage of me.

At least—not in any way that I don’t want him to.

“Now.” His lips curl in that smirk again. “There are things I’d rather be doing with my mouth right now than talking.”

A completely foreign sensation sweeps over me, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, shivering over my skin at that. It’s not like I’ve never had a man’s mouth on me before—but just the way he says it implies that this will be unlike anything I’ve felt before. And I can’t help thinking that maybe he’s overselling it. That he has too high an opinion of himself, and that tonight is going to be just another disappointment.

Slowly, he moves onto the bed. When he’s kneeling at the very foot of it, those dark blue eyes intent on mine for a moment, he lets his gaze drag down my body, so slowly that I can almost feel the weight of it. All the way down to my bare feet—and then he reaches out, his gloved thumbs sweeping up the inner curves of my feet as his hands wrap around my ankles.

Another shiver washes through me, my body twitching at the sudden contact. That smirk never leaves his lips, even for a moment. “Ticklish?” he asks, amused, and I shake my head.

“Not really.” My voice sounds breathier than I think it ever has in my life, and he’s only touched my feet . “I just?—”

I feel my face flush, because I don’t know how to explain what I’m feeling, and everything that comes to mind just makes me feel horribly naive and inexperienced. And before tonight, I didn’t think I was. I’ve dated. I’ve had sex. I’ve had a handful of semi-serious relationships and one big, very serious relationship with Nate. But everything about this man makes me feel like a blushing virgin. Like I’m sixteen again, fumbling around in the back of a car with no real idea of what all these new sensations are or what I’m meant to do about them.

He’s experienced, I tell myself, as his hands tighten around my ankles, spreading my legs apart enough for him to inch forward on the bed, kneeling in between my feet now. He knows what he’s doing. So he’ll teach you what all this means.

There’s a relief that comes with that. With giving myself up to this man’s knowledge, to his touch, to whatever it is that he has planned for me. I exhale a breath as his gloved hands slide up my calves, cool and soft, so supple and flexible that it would be easy to forget that they’re gloves at all, and not his bare hands.

Except I don’t think I do want to forget. It adds a layer of strangeness, of mystery to all of this, that makes it that much more erotic. Just like the masks, the anonymity, this entire theatrical display of hedonism.

His hands reach my knees, the hem of my velvet dress. My revenge dress, now, instead of one that was supposed to mark a special night in my life. A turning point. A new beginning.

But it occurs to me, as he begins to push the dress slowly up my thighs, that this night could still be all of those things. This could be the night that I discover something new about myself. Where I become the kind of person I’ve always envied from afar.

The kind who takes chances. Who prioritizes herself. Who lets herself want .

Someone who doesn’t dismiss her own needs and desires as impossible.

Because this—what he’s making me feel, felt impossible before this moment. It feels as if sparks are dancing over my skin, my lungs tightening, my skin growing hotter and more flushed with every inch that he pushes the dress up my thighs. The sensation of the cool silk lining against my heated skin makes me gasp, all of me sensitized with curiosity and anticipation—and he hasn’t even touched anything that could really even be called an erogenous zone yet. He’s touched my feet and my legs—that’s it. And yet, I’m on the verge of panting, of whimpering, of begging .

I’ve never felt like this before.

He pauses as the dress reaches halfway up my thighs, his hands dropping to my knees. “How are you feeling, little dove?”

I look up at him helplessly, my lips parting, but nothing comes out. My mind feels foggy, like all I can think about is more .

“More,” I whisper, and there’s something knowing in his smile this time.

“Gladly, little dove,” he murmurs, and his hands tighten around my knees, pushing them apart.

The movement shoves my dress higher up my thighs, rucked up around my hips now as he pushes my knees wide and flattens them against the bed, exposing the smooth black material between them. I’m suddenly thankful that I chose black, because I can feel how wet I already am, the fabric clinging to my folds, and I don’t know if I could handle the embarrassment of him seeing how thoroughly soaked I am when he hasn’t done—really anything, yet.

“Keep your knees against the bed,” he murmurs, and another jolt of heat washes over me at the firm command, issued in that rich, smooth voice. “Or as close to it as you can.” He pushes gently down on my knees again, a reminder to hold the pose that he’s situated me in, and then those gloved hands start to skim up the inside of my thighs.

I can feel myself shuddering under his touch. I don’t realize how hard I’m biting my lip, stifling any possible noise, until his hands suddenly pause at the very top of my inner thighs, and I open my eyes to see him looking at me.

“Don’t be quiet, little dove,” he murmurs. “I want to hear you through all of this. Every sound you make turns me on. Moan or beg or scream if you want to. I’ll enjoy it all.”

The idea of anything making me scream in bed sounds ridiculous. But I’m already on the verge of moaning. The only reason I haven’t is because a part of me is embarrassed to let him hear how much I want it. How much he’s already aroused me.

But if he wants to hear it?—

His hands press down on my inner thighs, and I suddenly feel the firm press of one of his gloved fingers, between my legs. Over the wet material of my panties, just against the seam of my folds, rubbing there back and forth.

A gasping moan slips free. I can’t help it. My hips arch up into his touch, a burst of pleasure rolling through me from the friction of his thumb, rubbing my folds against each other, against my clit.

He chuckles, but there’s no amusement in it now. It’s a dark, rough sound, a sound of masculine pleasure, and when he pulls his thumb away, I gasp.

“You need this more than you realized, little dove,” he murmurs, and his hands slide up my hips, just beneath the crumpled velvet of my dress, hooking in the edge of my panties as he starts to draw them down. “I’m going to make you come so hard. And then I’ll make you come again.”

The promise in his voice sends another shudder through me, even if I still don’t believe him. But it sounds like he believes it, and that’s enough to make me wonder.

He slides the panties down my hips, over my legs, and as he pushes my knees apart again, back into that pose where he arranged me the first time, I feel the first temptation to resist. Because there’s nothing between me and his hungry gaze any longer. Nothing except his own mask, which somehow makes me feel even more exposed, because he can see every wet, swollen inch of the most intimate part of me, but I can’t read his face. My only hint at his emotions is in that ever-present smirk on his face, and heat blooms through me, my fingers curling into the silk-velvet duvet.

His eyes drop between my thighs, taking in all of my exposed, vulnerable flesh—and he licks his lips.

Like he’s hungry. Like he can’t wait to devour me.

My hips lift up off of the bed without my meaning for them to, a wordless plea, my body begging for something that I’ve never had and can’t begin to imagine. But somehow, subconsciously, something in me seems to answer to that promise in his smile, in his eyes, hiding behind that mask.

He moves closer, stretching his long, muscular frame onto the bed between my legs. I realize with another flash of heat that he’s still fully clothed, entirely covered except for the lower part of his face and the upper part of his neck, while I’m disheveled and half-undressed, naked from the waist down. His hands move up, his gloved thumbs resting on the seam of my folds, and I shudder at the touch, another moan slipping from my lips. I hear that dark, rumbling chuckle again, and then he leans forward, his thumbs parting me—and his tongue touches my most intimate flesh.

I feel it, flat and soft against me, wet and hot, dragging a searing line upwards from my entrance to my clit. My head falls back, my entire body reacting to the sensation after so much foreplay, and I cry out without meaning to, a shudder of pleasure rippling through me.

It feels better than any mouth on me has ever felt before. And it’s only the first touch.

He pulls back slightly, his thumbs skimming over my soft flesh, and it takes everything in me not to beg him to keep going. But I’m not there yet. Not quite.

“I knew you needed this as soon as I saw you,” he murmurs, his voice low and dark, his breath heated against my oversensitive skin. “But I had no idea how much.” He leans in again, so close that I can feel the barest brush of his skin against mine. “Don’t hold back, little dove. You can come as many times as you like. I want you to have as much pleasure tonight as you possibly can.”

He says it like it’s a given that I’ll come. That I’ll come again, and again. And I didn’t believe him before, but now—as his tongue slides over me again and I feel another toe-curling wave of pleasure crash over me, I understand his cockiness. His confidence . Because I’m going to come, and I’m already so close.

His thumbs hold me open, his mouth pressed tightly now against me, his tongue sliding up to focus on my clit. He licks me in long, hot strokes, then circles my clit as my moans turn to gasping whines, the sounds coming from me like nothing I’ve ever heard before. They’re certainly no sounds I’ve ever made before. But I can’t stop. If he stopped right now, I would beg. Because I’m so close, so fucking close, and as those circles tighten, his tongue stiffening, I feel the muscles in my thighs seize, and I realize that what I’ve always thought was an orgasm has been nothing but a dim shadow of what I’m about to feel.

My entire body tightens, the sensations building to a singular, sharp point that suddenly explodes like a thousand fireworks, light bursting behind my eyes as my fingers claw at the blankets and my hips jerk upwards, grinding shamelessly against his face as I start to buck and writhe and gasp with a nearly incomprehensible pleasure. He’s still licking, still keeping up those same intense circles, and I keep waiting for him to stop, but he doesn’t. It draws out the pleasure, until I realize dazedly that the orgasm has ebbed, but the pleasure hasn’t stopped. He’s still going, and he’s right—if he keeps this up, it feels like I could come again.

I’m still grinding against his mouth, gasping and making small sobbing, moaning sounds, and he slides one hand away from me, looping his arm around my thigh and over my stomach, effectively pinning me to the bed. I gasp at the pressure of him holding me down, another moan slipping from my lips, and his other hand moves down, two gloved fingers pushing inside of me as his mouth tightens around my clit and he starts to suck .

I cry out. It’s very nearly a scream; the pleasure intensified even more at this new assault on my swollen, oversensitive flesh, and his fingers curl inside of me, the feeling of the smooth leather thrusting inside my body foreign and delicious at the same time. It feels like bare fingers and not, simultaneously, and I gasp, my hips rolling as much as they can under the weight of his arm as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, fucking me with them as he sucks harder at my clit.

I feel him groan as arousal floods me, soaking his fingers, his hand, his mouth, his chin. He must be dripping with me by now, but the embarrassment of it all has faded, replaced only with the desperate building need to come again. I’ve forgotten that I don’t believe it’s possible, forgotten everything except how much I need this, and I writhe under his grasp, riding his mouth to my second climax as his gloved fingers thrust and curl, his tongue lashing and fluttering against my clit.

He sucks harder, hard enough that I can feel how swollen my clit is, throbbing against his tongue, and the pressure builds to that sharp, sparkling point again?—

He was right about making me scream.

It almost feels as if I black out for a second. I’m not aware of what my body is doing, of my hands scrabbling at the blanket or the bucking of my hips as I ride his tongue to my second climax. I’m only aware of sensation, of how impossibly good it feels, of how I never knew anything could feel like this, the cold strangeness of the gloves and mask and his fully clothed body nestled between my bare legs, only heightening everything. It’s an experience like nothing I ever imagined, and I faintly hear my voice, shrieking out my pleasure as I take all of it from him, wave after wave, until it fades, and I lay limp and trembling on the bed.

I feel his tongue slide over me in one last long, lingering lick, before he pulls back, his fingers sliding out of me. I stare numbly up at him, speechless, as he looks down at me with that satisfied smirk on his face.

His lips are wet. So is his chin, glistening with my arousal. He sees me looking at him, and reaches up with one gloved hand, lewdly dragging it across his face. My mouth drops open, and I stare at him, at the unabashed, unashamed sexuality that drips from him.

He leans forward, two gloved fingertips pressing against my lower lip, and before I can react to what he’s doing, he pushes them into my mouth. The leather is damp, salty and tangy from my arousal, and before I can think better of it, my lips close around his fingers as I suck the taste of myself off of him.

It’s what he wanted me to do. I knew it, instinctively, even though I’ve never imagined doing anything like that in my life. But those dark blue eyes look startled, as if he didn’t expect me to actually do it.

He groans, his head tipping back as he tugs his fingers free. It’s only then that I think to look down, and I see the shape of his cock, straining in a thick, impossibly hard ridge against the front of his suit trousers.

My mouth goes dry. Unless it’s some kind of optical illusion, he’s huge . Bigger than any man I’ve ever slept with, for sure.

“That—turned you on?” My voice is a breathless gasp, still recovering from everything he just did to me. I don’t think I can move.

His eyes widen again. “Is that a serious question, little dove?” His voice is still smooth and rich, that British accent clipping every word, but he sounds surprised by what I said.

I bite my lip, some of my self-consciousness returning. “I—I’m just used to guys needing to get fully hard again, after doing that,” I half-mumble. “They always say it’s distracting.” I try to think rapidly of any man I’ve ever been with who didn’t have to quickly stroke himself back to a full erection after going down on me for the cursory two or three minutes to get me wet enough to fuck—never enough to make me come—but I can’t.

He snorts inelegantly, a little of the polished facade slipping, for a moment. Enough to let me see that he’s playing a part, here. That the man here with me in this room, this club, isn’t the man he normally is on the outside.

Whoever that is, I’ll never know. I wait to feel disappointed, or robbed of something, but I surprisingly don’t. I knew what this was. And it’s been everything I could want.

“The taste of you makes me painfully hard, little dove,” he murmurs. “I can’t think of anything more arousing than making you come on my tongue. I’d do it all night, if we had more time.”

“I don’t think I could take it again,” I admit, and he chuckles darkly.

“You could,” he promises. “But maybe not tonight.”

I swallow hard, looking down at that thick, threatening ridge again, straining against his fly. “What do you want?” I ask softly, starting to push myself up from the pillows. “Do you want oral, too, or?—”

“I don’t want anything,” he says firmly, starting to slide off of the bed, and I reach out on instinct, grabbing one gloved hand. He freezes, and I look at him curiously.

“I don’t understand.” I frown. “You’re turned on. You just said so yourself. You don’t want to fuck me? Or use my mouth, or—” I feel my cheeks flush again, and I’m oddly hurt that he doesn’t want me to return the pleasure that he just gave me.

His smile softens slightly as he stands up. “No,” he says calmly. “I think you’ve had a lifetime of being expected to give something in return for any pleasure you receive. So I think for tonight, little dove, you should get to only take.”

He sinks down into the chair next to the window, his long, muscled body relaxing into it. I can still see the evidence of how aroused he is, but he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to do anything about it.

I have the distinct feeling, though, that I’m being dismissed.

Slowly, I sit up the rest of the way, still feeling dizzy and a little shaky, as if I haven’t entirely reinhabited my own body. I look for my panties, realizing that I have no idea where they ended up, and the man sitting across the room watching me seems to have no intention of helping me find them. The idea of looking around for them while he watches feels embarrassing, so I give up on the idea of them, tugging my skirt back down around my knees. Walking out of this place without my underwear is the least insane thing that I will have done tonight.

I slip my feet back into my shoes, glad for the low heels. Jaz tried to talk me into borrowing a pair of her stilettos, but I would tip right over if I tried to walk out of here in those shoes. I feel like a newborn deer trying to walk, as it is.

The man is still sitting there, motionless, as I walk past him. I look at him once more, silent and strangely handsome behind his mask, those dark blue eyes resting on me, and I try to think of what to say. I feel like I should say something before I leave, to the man who just made me come harder than I ever have in my life.

Twice.

“Thank you,” is what comes out, and my face flames instantly. I’m painfully aware of how ridiculous it sounds. But he just smiles, one gloved hand resting on his thigh, close to that straining ridge in his suit trousers. I look at his hand, at those fingers that were inside of me, and another shiver runs down my spine.

“It was my pleasure, little dove,” he murmurs. And then he leans back, his head resting against the back of the chair, and I realize with a flush of confused heat that he’s waiting for me to leave.

He’s waiting for me to go so he can finish himself off.

My eyes widen a fraction as that lust spreads through me again. I want to watch. I want to participate . I can envision myself going to kneel in between his legs, unzipping his trousers, and wrapping my hand around his cock as I slide it into my mouth, watching his expression change behind the mask.

My body goes tight at the thought, clenching, aching. But he’s made it clear what he wants for tonight. And I have no more part in it, even if, for the first time, I want to give something in return for what I received.

I don’t feel like a second thought. Like my pleasure is a necessary chore. And that makes me want to give him everything in return.

I bite my lip, wondering if I should push. But everything about him feels closed off, as if the night—with me, at least—has ended for him. And that feeling is enough to propel me towards the door, looking away from him reluctantly as I go to leave.

There’s nothing else from him as I open the door. No parting words. He’s utterly silent, as if he’s ceased to exist, and my chest tightens as I step outside, closing the door behind me. I stand there, drawing in a long breath, and another jolt of lust ripples through me at the thought of what he might be doing right now.

I’ll probably never see him again. I feel a flicker of regret at that thought—but it’s overwhelmingly doused by a different one.

What else is out there that I’ve been missing this whole time?