Read Photo Slave (The Art of Domination #2) for Free Online Page B

preserve—distill—in a photograph, but the kind of moment that would forever
elude capture. Like a dream I could vaguely remember so long as I didn’t
concentrate on it. The attempt to grasp it only made it dissipate.
    I laved my way back up
the slender column of Iva’s throat to whisper into her ear, “No mask. No
anonymity. Does that bother you? That people can see how much you like this?”
    While Iva surrendered
with her actions, she challenged me with her tone. “This isn’t my first time in
a club, Mr. Beal. I’ve seen worse.”
    My teeth at the lobe of
her ear made Iva jump. “But you haven’t seen better,” I said before spinning her
to face the wall and making her assume again her position with arms stretched
above her. “And I believe you know the proper way to address me. Say it.” She
didn’t. “ Say it .”
    “Nolan.”
    This time, my touch was
a feathery trail of fingertips up and down Iva’s prickling skin, goose bumps
rising obediently. Along her naked arms, across her shoulder blades, down her
tensed flanks, up the backs of her thighs and behind her quaking knees. Did she
understand what I was doing? Did she suspect at all what was coming as these
lightest of caresses sensitized her skin? Iva rested her cheek against the
rippled glass of the wall, face hidden in the crook of one arm, and writhed so
subtly to meet my touch. She paid no obvious attention to the dull hiss of my
belt sliding through the heavy denim loops as I drew it from my pants.
    Less than a second.
That was how long Iva had to realize what was happening as I stepped back just
a half measure, just enough. I laid a lash from my thick leather belt along the
backs of her thighs below the hem of her dress. It was a light strike but a
predictably shocking one. She jumped again, as did the straining member in my
jeans.
    More light, quick
lashes against her bare legs kept Iva tensing and flinching, until I gripped
the hair at the nape of her neck. The gesture was less about keeping her still
than about the warm, tickling shudders I knew it would send through her
shoulders and down her spine. Awash in sensation, her body and mind stopped
resisting in the slightest. She no longer recoiled or winced as I belted her
harder, across the ass where I knew the thick rayon and spandex of the bandage
dress would buffer the blows.
    I knew what I wanted
then, and I wasn’t willing to wait for it long enough to get Iva back to my
studio. With my tensed body at her back, sealing us together, I reached around
her and pulled the hem of her dress up her parted thighs. I clearly heard her
bite down a whimper as my fingertips found her engorged clitoris through the
warm material of her panties. One finger stroked the tender pearl of flesh
while two more delved between the lips of her pussy. The silky underwear kept
me from pushing my fingers deep into her. It was an agony we both relished.
    “You know what you are
supposed to say,” I reminded the submissive.
    Iva’s shiver against me
told me she knew what I was implying, what I intended to do in the heat and
glare and throbbing chaos of the club. Then I went about it in earnest, rubbing
her clitoris in furious circles. Her breathing raced to match my pace. Her hips
matched my motion. My cock was ready, head slicked with moisture.
    But I wasn’t going to
fuck her tonight. I was just going to make her say my name. I was going to make
her give me her climax, her body at its most vulnerable moment, despite the
time and place. No, specifically here, because the lights of Haute were shimmering and shifting like a fever
dream. Because the music was vibrating and pulsing through the walls and the
floors and the sea of bodies, through our feet and our hands and our chests.
Because the air was thick with the smell of champagne and pheromones and a
hundred exotic, expensive perfumes. Because Haute was the kind of place and I
was the kind of man she was running away from. I wasn’t going to let her