Chapter Fourteen

Sebastian

Having been given the "all clear" by the hospital and discharged, I leave none the wiser as to my sudden and unexplained, orgasm-induced seizure. Unless I suffer another seizure, they can't formally diagnose me with anything. For now, they're deeming it a rare and unlikely event. And I'm free as a bird to go on living my life until such time treatment is deemed necessary.

Gripping Jackson's waist, we zip through the streets of Los Angeles, the city of lost angels. A more befitting name for our home, I couldn't imagine. On the back of my boyfriend's Harley, I feel as if I have wings. It's a rush I've never experienced, but I am fucking loving it and could see myself getting used to it. It's exactly what Jack said. Riding is freedom, and now I've had a taste? It feels as though I'll never have my fill.

Soon, we pull up to the apartment building I call home. The Harley rumbles beautifully, purring to sleep as Jackson turns off the ignition, and we dismount.

"That was fucking wild," I say as I remove my helmet.

"I told you it was sweet."

"I might have to get one of these bad boys for myself."

Jackon smirks. "I'm a Nomad, baby. I ride alone."

"That's cool," I respond. "I think I'd prefer to ride alone too."

"So, we'll be riding alone together, then?" says Jack, cocking a brow.

"Them's your words," I say, smacking him on the ass as I dance out of his reach. "Want to see my place?"

Jackson glances down at his watch.

"Got somewhere better to be than this ass?" I ask, giving him the look.

Jackson swings his keys around his finger before pocketing them. "You're so fucked," he says, stalking toward me.

I grin. "That's what I'm hoping."

As we enter the complex, Jackson glances at the buttons in the elevator, then raises his gaze to mine. "You're in the fucking penthouse, aren't you, brat?"

"Damn straight. Best views in the city. Plus, I love jacking off at the window with everyone beneath my cock."

Jackson slams the top floor button, and the doors close behind him. In the next instant he shoves me against the wall, his weight trapping me as his one hand grabs a fistful of my hair, and the other slips down the front of my tailored trousers.

I moan into his mouth as our lips crush against one another.

His mouth opens to me, and he stakes his claim, aggressively kissing me as he begins to stroke my cock. Then his teeth are at my throat. He nips, grazing my flesh with his teeth, sucking on the skin hard, forcing my blood to the surface and leaving me with a love bite—marking his territory like a baser beast.

"Oh my God," I gasp, my hands straying to his long, dirty-blond locks. Like the cheeky little shit I am, I slip my hand down his leathers and start playing with him, reveling in the feel of his semi-erect cock as we grope each other like rabid teens in a hotel elevator on Spring Break.

Minutes of frantic, desperate passion reach a fever pitch as the elevator pings, stopping at my own private floor. Stumbling into the hall, I reach into my pocket for my key card and chaotically swipe it as Jackson continues to ravage me.

Pushing the door open, he kicks it closed behind us, his eyes blazing. "I'm claiming that ass again," he says, peeling off his leather jacket, and then his simple black t-shirt, dumping them on my expensive furniture. "But this time, I'm filling it with my hot cum."

He continues to strip, his now-erect cock emerging from his leathers with an intimidating jerk. "Get naked, brat. Now. Or I'll skip the lube when I go to town on your ass."

"Joke's on you, cunt," I retort, before biting my lower lip. "I love a good dry fuck!"

"Swearing at your master? You're so screwed."

I grin, awaiting the cat and mouse game that is the dance of a true master and slave. And then the chase is on.

Naked as the day he was born, inked from the neck down, Jackson charges at me, his blond locks flowing behind him as his epic, muscular form powers forward. He looks every inch the fucking Viking juggernaut.

I turn on my heel and make to jump over the couch, but I'm not quite quick enough, and in the next instant I'm yanked backward by my black silk shirt. I hear the fabric rip as Jackson slams me onto my back on the couch.

"You really want me to rough you up, don't you?" he growls, tearing my shirt wide open, and sending black pearl buttons flying in all directions.

"Where would the fun be in behaving, Master?"

Jackson throws my shiny black business shoes across the room, and reefs my trousers off, giving me a chance to escape, and raise the stakes.

I dive-roll, making for the cool, clean white tiles, and start to scramble.

But that big fucker is as powerful as a bloody bear, and he launches himself, landing on top of me, and pinning me to the floor.

I put up a struggle for the excitement of it, but he soon has me overcome.

He pins my hands behind my back, holding them tight at the base of my spine as he spreads my legs roughly with his knees. A second later he's spitting into his hand and slathering my hungry hole. Another second, and the head of his cock is pressed firmly to my entrance.

A moan slips from my lips as he leans into me, using his weight to his advantage.

"You might be my boyfriend, but for the next twenty-four hours you're my red-light rival. You're stealing my clientele and strutting around in those fucking suits like the pretty little bitch you are. And you're going to suffer for it, Crenshaw. I'm going to show you just what I'd do to my enemies. I'll break you and then make you beg for more."

With my face pressed to the tiles, a thrill-like fear races through me. He is so fucking hot when he lets his inner Alpha out to play. Then his cock surges forward and I cry out, my breath forced out of me in an inelegant grunt. I instinctively try to climb out of my own skin in an attempt to elude the burning eight inches that sear up my fucking poor ass.

Buried to his full length, he grabs a handful of hair and roughly shoves my head against the floor, until my cheek is smooshed and I'm wincing in a heady mix of pain and pleasure. Jackson smiles. I can hear it in his voice, even if I can't see it on his face. "That's a good little bitch," he croons, making me weak at the knees. "You want this, don't you? You preen and primp, playing the Switch when it suits," he says between plundering thrusts. "But really, you just want to be taken. You want to feel owned by someone strong enough to claim you."

When I fail to answer, he reefs my head back, sending searing threads of lightning across my scalp.

"Tell me you want me to fuck you until you can't shit straight," he snarls. "Tell me you want me to fill this hungry little bitch asshole until you're leaking all over your pretty penthouse."

I gasp as he fucks my hole without mercy, his Prince Albert piercing hitting the most sensitive and vulnerable places inside of me.

"Answer me, you fucking slut," he demands, leaning back onto his knees. Sharp, brilliant pain radiates from my toned ass cheeks as he slaps one, and then the other. Again and again, until I'm swearing like a fucking sailor.

"Fuck you, motherfucker!" I hiss, indignant in face of the pain as the thrill of the lifestyle role-play has me uncomfortably hard against the cold tiles.

Jackson forces me onto my knees, maneuvering me as easily as a wolf stalking sheep.

I raise myself to my hands, pushing back against his aggressive cock, despite my protests. I can't help what I love. And I love a badass dominating, bullying, and possessing me. I won't lie. Not with words, or with my body. Not to my Jack—my boyfriend—my master. I've wanted this, all of this, for too fucking long to play coy now. This is our game, and I'll play hard.

My master pulls me back, bringing me upright with him, then his hands are around my throat, and I'm grasping at them desperately as they begin to crush my airway, suffocating me. But I'm not trying to pull him away. I'm not fighting for my life. I'm latching onto an anchor, a lighthouse in the dark, a point on the horizon to which I can cling until the vicious onslaught is over. By anchoring myself, I can lose myself to subspace and feel oblivion tugging at my consciousness.

Head back, choking as Jackson thrusts his powerful hips, burying himself in my dry ass over and over, I feel the darkness encroaching. There's nothing but cock and a sense of disembodiment. It's surreal and grounded, and everything and nothing simultaneously. It's like being caught on the cusp of a dream or nightmare. The kind where you find yourself seemingly lucid, but unable to awaken and save yourself from the demons who would fuck you in ways that make terms like "unholy" sounds like child's play.

The light suddenly returns, and I gasp like a sailor broaching the surface of a hellish sea. My body thrums, every nerve afire as Jackson groans behind me, one arm now wrapped around my chest, the other hand having found its way into my mouth. He thunders inside me, pulling at my jaw like I'm cattle. My legs begin to quiver uncontrollably, and I feel the wave of ecstasy building inexorably within me. It bursts forth, erupting from my cock like a congealed cream sprinkler.

"Holy fuck," Jackson growls. He rails me hard, one final, magnificently brutal thrust sending us sprawling forward together, and crashing to the floor.

Still reeling, not entirely retuned from my venture into subspace, I lay trapped beneath him, a mangled, fucked, and exhausted pile of once humanity. Slickness smears under my cheek—cold as the floor—and I shudder internally. I feel every bit the dirty piece of trash of my fantasies. Used, abused, and left lying in a pool of my own cum like a whore. Fuck, yeah!

"Did that do it for you, baby?" comes a husky whisper in my ear.

A smile betrays me, and I sigh, nodding. Not capable of giving voice to anything remotely coherent in my current state.

"You're welcome," says Jackson. "You did so well, baby. You're a good slave."

The praise sings through my soul, warming my heart and fulfilling every secret and debauched desire I've ever dreamed of in a scene. And as Jackson pulls out, leaving me leaking all over myself and the floor, I let go, falling down the dark and endless rabbit hole of fuck-crazed exhaustion.

Lurid red lights flash behind my eyes as I give in, plummeting through oblivion like a star falling from the heavens. We're going to have one hell of a party tonight. For the first time ever, The Dungeon and The Red Bastille are going to join forces, and Los Angeles will hear us raving and fucking until the sun rises over the city of lost and damned angels. And we'll be there, together among it all—proud as fuck—announcing our deliciously deviant enemies-to-lovers union to the world! No fucks given.

The End