Have Gun, Will Travel (The Bare Bones MC #5)(64)

He slapped my ass just hard enough to sting. “Of course you’re old fashioned. About as old timey as they get, I’d say. Who else aspires to be a nun?”

It did sound pretty funny hearing him say it. “Well, it’ll be for the best if Harte does find out, don’t you agree? Leo’s out of the picture, now he has no dad, and you’ve always been a father figure.”

Sax chuckled. Kneeling, he was working the rope down my thigh. He would tie my ankles together, but not my knees. “That’s what started our giant falling-out ten years ago. I had the nerve to lecture Harte on getting that girl pregnant. Leo felt I was overstepping. That Harte might figure it out just by the way I was acting. Now, if you accept Harte as your stepson, how weird will that be? He’s the same age as you.”

My answer was quick, too. “He’s one year younger than me! A year and a half, to be precise. It’s not like I’ll mother him. We’ve been friends for a long time. Ah!”

Harte’s father had buried his face between my ass cheeks. He hadn’t been able to hold out until he patterned my other thigh all the way up to my cunt, and had unceremoniously buried his face there. Knowing what a talented *-licker he was, I tried to spread my feet on the tiled floor, but could only spread my knees. Sax wound up with his nose in my *, his tongue reaching to stroke my clit, more of a maddening situation that had me jumping around like a scratched CD.

In this position, I could reach behind me by arching my back and grabbing a handful of his thick, scruffy hair. Rotating my hips like a hula dancer, I ground my * lips against his mouth, encouraging him to reach farther, to stretch his throat muscles, to slash his tongue-tip across my puckered hole. That was a lewd, taboo act that was unfamiliar to me, and my inner * shuddered with excitement.

But that wasn’t his goal, and he withdrew to make quick macramé work of the rope. Yanking my hands together at the small of my back, he bound those, too.

“You still need to learn obedience.”

“I know, father.” I still liked calling him that. Whether it was a familial reference or a religious one, either way it was strictly forbidden, heightening the eroticism of the scene. “I feel safe when I’m obedient to you.”

He pressed a knot to the small of my back. “How does this make you feel?”

I squiggled in my bonds. “Safe. Safe and secure in your arms.”

“Good.” With the finality of a big tug on the knot, Sax stood. Behind me, he rustled around for something in the wet bar’s drawer. Coming to stand where I couldn’t see him, he touched something sharp and metallic to my shoulder. I pulled away with a hiss, afraid it was the tip of a knife blade.

He brought the fork around so I could see it, and I exhaled. “Do you trust your father, your Master?” he murmured in my ear. His strong forearm was around my waist, the heat of his bulging crotch pressed against my bound ass. I wiggled my ass so the ropes massaged his cockhead through his jeans. Sax had told me I was an “intuitive,” a natural born bottom. I always knew exactly what to do, how to act.

“Yes, father. I place my entire trust in you.”

“Good.” When he slid the fork tines over my protruding, crinkled nipples, a delicious shiver ran simultaneously up my neck, making me gasp, and down my spine into the very core of my *, making my uterus shudder. Then he did it to the other nipple. The sensation was so strong it was almost as though my uterus was going to cramp. He was stimulating me, riling up my endorphins as though stirring a dangerous stew. Being pregnant, I’d been surging with hormones lately anyway. He was just stirring the pot.

Then he slapped my ass! He would scrape with the tines, down my belly inching closer to my *. He used the fork like a paintbrush, touching me here, there, I never knew where to expect it next. Then he’d spank me with what felt like a big wooden paddle. He was riling me beyond belief, but my hands were bound behind my back, and all I could do was squirm like a stray dog in a net.

“Learning to trust again is the most important thing,” he growled. “You need to believe in me, to know that I’d never hurt you.”

I knew what he was doing. He was using his Psych 101 training to ensure that I never connected him, consciously or otherwise, with the immature, abusive fumblings of Roscoe Flantz. The sociopathic violence of Tony Tormenta, that was a given. Sax was doing everything in his power to make me immune to those memories. Dr. Petrie had mentioned something called EMDR, a PTSD treatment used by the Department of Defense. Apparently reliving my trauma while shifting my eyes back and forth and him tapping or making some kind of repetitive sound, this would eventually render the memory ineffective, take the punch out of it. I could replace it with something positive. It seemed like Sax was enacting something like that. Whether he knew it or not, I couldn’t tell.

But it was working. I didn’t associate the scrapings of the fork or the stinging paddling of the wooden spatula with anything other than Sax’s love. The impact play was the domain of Zane Saxonberg entirely, the only man I’d ever truly loved. My * quivered, in fact, longing for the feel of his long, fat prick inside it, snugly stroking me up to ecstasy.

I whined. I f*cking admit it—I whined! “Zane! I want you! Slide that giant cock inside me and f*ck me. Stroke my clit while you f*ck me, so you can feel me come around you!”

What man could fail to want that, right? Wrong! Sax had to draw out his little game. Cupping my neck in his palm, he shoved me face-first onto the surface of the pool table. My butt was in the air slung over the rail like that. I was vulnerable and as wide open as the sky above, and I didn’t feel violated.