Blurred (Connections, #3.5)(6)

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Ben Covington.”

I was still trying to figure out how I knew her.

“I didn’t think you’d recognize me. We went to high school together. We were in the same English class.”

I couldn’t f*cking place her and by now it must have been evident.

“We were partners on the Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn projects. I made the Mississippi River for you and the blue epoxy stuck to my fingers for days.”

“Fuck, yes. How the hell are you . . . ?”

She laughed. “Dawn, Dawn Buckley.”

I lazily swept my eyes over her and recognition finally hit. She wasn’t the Dawn I remembered. That Dawn was a little freaky—goth, heavy eyeliner, black fingernails. This girl couldn’t look more different. Long, blonde hair, sexy legs, and hot.

“Yeah, I know I look different so I didn’t expect you to remember me.”

“No, I do.”

“I always had a crush on you, you know?”

I laughed. “Really? No, I didn’t.”

“You want to get out of here?” she asked.

She didn’t have to ask me twice. We left in my car and she started things off right when she showed me how this little game of hers was going to go—road head was my reward for inviting her back to my place.

The porch was pitch dark when we arrived and she began undressing while I fumbled for my key. When we finally made it in the house, we stayed where we landed—in the family room.

Time must have flown by afterward because now when I stand up and glance out the window I suddenly notice it is light outside and wonder how the night flew by so fast.

“What time is it?” she asks, squinting as the sun breaks through the blinds.

“I can’t even tell you what f*cking day it is, let alone what time it is.”

“It’s Sunday or maybe Saturday.” She laughs.

I shrug and scratch my head wondering why this chick is still here. I should tell her that it is time to end this party, but her presence is helping me forget the things I don’t want to remember. In the kitchen I grab a drink and steel a look at the clock—nine a.m. Fuck, we’ve been at this for hours. I walk back in the room after chugging down another beer and she has a scowl on her face.

“Did you change your mind?” she asks.

“No I didn’t.”

She points to the ground. She wants to punish me and I’m going to let her. Why not? I already knew it was coming—she warned me. She wanted me to go down on her after she got herself all worked up, but I wasn’t into it. Since I refused—punishment it is. I drop to my knees, facing the couch as she instructs. She stays silent. She’s dead serious about this and I try not to laugh. She ties my ankles to the bottom rung of the coffee table with some ribbon she found on my mother’s desk. When she’s done she lies on the sofa and fingers herself. She’s masturbating in front of me and it’s f*cking hot. Her method isn’t entirely worthless because I definitely want to touch her now, but her * is too far away. Obviously this is working just the way she planned it—entice me with the view. And I’m enticed. My dick swells while watching her and once she starts humping from her own touch, I take it in my hands and start stroking myself.

She jumps up in an instant and whips the belt off my shorts. “No, no,” she purrs from behind me. She grabs my hands and tucks them inside the seat cushions of the couch. “Now, don’t make me tie these, too.”

I’m so turned on by this chick’s forcefulness that my heart is racing . . . I’ll do whatever she wants as long as the rush doesn’t leave. I’m sitting here, naked, on my knees, my back to her, when I feel the cool metal of the belt buckle slide across my ass. From my peripheral vision, I can see her slap it lightly against her palm and my blood starts pumping even faster. How big can a guy’s dick get before it explodes? My ass muscles clench as I prepare for what I think is to come. But she isn’t going to give it to me that easily. She yanks my hair, pulling my head back. “You’ve been a naughty boy. I asked you to do something and you refused. Maybe the next time I ask you—you’ll do it.”

I have to swallow, not out of fear of course, but, f*ck, this is so hot. Her hands are on my balls and she’s squeezing them. “You like it when I touch you?” she asks.

I’m practically panting and she can’t miss my nod. The leather snaps across my ass and it stings like a son of a bitch. My shoulders hunch and I lean my forehead against the couch when she kneels behind me and again grabs my balls. But this time she runs her other hand up and down my ass crack. “Let’s try this again. Do you like it when I touch you like this?”

“Yes,” I answer, my voice low and harsh.

She leans away. “You will learn to give me a complete answer, I promise you,” she hisses and again I can hear the leather slap against her palm.

But before I can feel the burn of her anger, or the pleasure of it, the sound of my sister’s horrified voice echoes in my ears. Serena screams, “What the f*ck is going on? I’m calling the police. Ben, are you okay?”

I try to get to my feet, but my ankles are tied to the coffee table. “Fuck. Serena what are you doing here?”

She stands there in shock, as I twist around trying to undo myself. The chick is scurrying to get dressed. Once I’m untied, I rise to my feet and find my shorts. The chick is picking up her things scattered around the room. Serena doesn’t move, but her eyes follow mine every step of the way. Her mouth hangs wide open and the bag of groceries she’s holding is looking pretty heavy. I take the bags from her and set them on the half-round table in the entryway then I flip around. “Hey,” I say to the chick. “Wait for me outside.” At least her forcefulness is only in the bedroom because she hurries past Serena in a flash. I want to tell her to call a cab, but I don’t want to listen to Serena’s shit about my lack of manners.