DELIVER(38)

At a similar height, their mouths brushed with ease and familiarity. Slowly, enthrallingly, it bloomed into a jaw-stretching, tongue-touching, hands-wandering-curves pleasure to watch. The intimate slide of bodies and lips was sweet, gentle, and hell on his libido. Throughout the kiss, Kate held her mouth open and accepting, her tongue tracing her own lips as if inviting Liv to lead. The fluidity of their shared breaths drew him in, heating and hardening his groin. He gripped the chains to steady his balance.

“Very good.” Liv pulled back, her smile quivering. No doubt the muscle movement aggravated her injury. “A slave’s kiss anticipates her Master. It’s intuitive, an articulation in submission, total perception-by-feel. Return to the cot, girl.”

Beneath the delivery of her words lurked a strained emotion. It didn’t sound like a scripted speech. More like a remembered feeling leaking from a deep well within her. Something akin to the inviting kiss she’d let him steer in his truck. What did that mean? How did it fit with her motivations? Those answers held the key to unlocking her.

“Boy.” Liv stared up at him. “As with all your requirements, number two is commanded by your future Master, for his purpose, which means you will learn how to kiss a man the way a man desires.”





Chapter 19




Josh’s pulse sputtered and his stomach bucked. He should’ve expected this. Van’s role was suddenly and devastatingly clear.

As if he’d conjured the devil, a hot, sweaty palm gripped the curve of his shoulder and throat. Fingers added a warning pressure to his nape, punctuated by a thumb on his trachea.

Van leaned in. His mouth was too damned close, reeking of roast beef and ill-intent. The toothpick protruded from one upturned corner.

Restrained by the hand and the blasted chains, his thrashing only pressed him closer to Van’s body. “No. No way in hell. I won’t do this.”

The swing of the crop whistled behind him, and the sharp burn of leather struck the rise of his backside. Ow, Jesus, that hurt. He clenched his jaw.

“Open your mouth and accept his kiss.”

His muscles tightened. “No.”

Another strike, harder. He sucked in a breath. “I won’t kiss him.” He ground his teeth and prayed for his parents’ safety. “Not happening.”

The lashes that followed came quicker, spreading out over his buttocks, thighs, and lower back. He held onto his resolution as his body swayed on his feet and his head swam through a haze of pain. At some point, she switched to a whip. Still, he refused the kiss.

She and Van gave him a wide berth as he fell to his knees, his torso held up by his arms in the chains, the tip of the whip cutting so sharply he felt it scorch through his blood.

The strikes turned into hours, the hours into days, and so his training lunged into full swing. As those days passed, they didn’t seem like days at all. With the absence of windows and the constant pull of fatigue, it was always night. But he gaged the stretch of time by the healing of Liv’s face. When he slept, it was on the rug beside her mattress. When awake, he was chained to the ceiling, the floor, the walls, or her bed.

While her tactics varied in creativity, her drive was steady, unyielding, and rife with trickery. Hours of silence would spur him to speak. Twenty lashes. A tender caress on his cheek would draw his eyes to hers. Twenty lashes. Her gripping strokes along his penis guaranteed an orgasm. And twenty lashes.

Some sessions were better than others. Sometimes the pain carried him to a strange space of unawareness where time and chains didn’t exist. Where he mindlessly accepted the punishment. He anticipated that feeling of bliss. In fact, when he was in the moment, he didn’t want her to stop.

On the third evening, she restrained his naked and kneeling body to the floor and opened the door. Van’s swift gait sounded through the room followed by the click of her heels.

His blood pressure doubled as Van circled him. He lifted his shoulders, protecting his neck, and held his elbows close to his sides. After countless beatings, he’d learned to protect the most vulnerable parts of his body.

Luckily, he hadn’t seen Van in three days. It didn’t take long to find out why she’d finally invited him in.

She slammed her spiked heel into Josh’s back, knocking him forward. “Accept his kiss, boy.”

Violently shaking on his hands and knees, he glared at the floor and bit down his cheek. His anger boiled so hot his skin flushed with fever.

Van squatted before him, hands laced together beneath Josh’s bowed head.

Screw them. He’d rather stab the bastard with a three-foot toothpick than kiss him. He would not become a broken grateful slave. “No.” He pinned his lips and braced for twenty new welts.

The silence in the room drew tightly around him, overtaxing his nerves as he stared at Van’s unmoving hands. Finally, she spoke, using the empty voice he’d become accustomed to hearing.

“Raise your eyes and sit back on your feet.” She walked around him, the pointed toes of her black heels stopping beside Van.

He lifted his upper body, his bruised muscles screaming in protest, and lugged his gaze to meet the frigid sharpness of hers.

Van rose and tucked his hands into his jeans pockets. “It’s okay, Liv. He doesn’t have to kiss me.” His tone was casual, but his gaze was molten silver and aimed on her. “You’ll give me what I need.”