“Don’t come, handsome, so beautiful, I want more,” she ordered, watching him, taking it all-in, letting his show drive her higher.
“Ma’am,” he groaned, now bucking in her couch.
Utterly dazzling.
“Give me more,” she demanded.
His head came up, his eyes unfocused, the need stark on his face.
She’d done it.
God, God.
Dazzling.
“Evangeline,” he whispered.
“More,” she pushed.
“Need to blow.”
“More, Branch.”
“Fuck,” he bit out, head falling back, he gave her more.
“That’s it, baby, ride it, earn it, that’s it.”
Then it came.
Low, guttural, tortured.
Perfection.
“Ma’am, please.”
“Come,” she commanded.
Instantly, he blew. Bucking violently underneath her, his cum jetted up his chest as she kept at him, staying in sync with the intensity of his orgasm.
And he came more, milky gushes shooting out, wave after wave splashing on his boxed abs.
“Fuckin’ fuck me,” he groaned. Brutally jacking her hand with his hips; he kept coming to the point Evangeline knew she needed to lead him down.
Carefully, slowly, she glided the toy out and tossed it to the towels.
She shushed and cooed at him as she gentled her fingers around his dick, swiftly unclamping his nipples. She soothed them with light petting from her thumb before she soothed his neck, his jaw. Milking the last weak bursts from his cock, she was resting her body against his side, in the bend of his hip and thigh, gently stroking his cock.
Finally, his head lolled and she just held him warmly at the base and watched his face, the harshness softened to an almost unbearable beauty in his aftermath.
“Okay?” she whispered.
He turned his head to the side so he could look into her eyes.
“Too bad I’m not into exhibitionism so we don’t have a witness to an undoubtedly record-breaking orgasm in length and amount of cum.”
A joke.
Again.
Branch could joke.
She smiled at him.
As he had that morning, his eyes grew unfocused as they fixed on her mouth.
And damn, she wanted to kiss him.
But she needed something else.
And after his show, that something else had to happen immediately.
So she lifted up off him, grabbed his hand in hers and yanked up her skirt with her other hand.
That got his attention. The usual alertness (and then some) returned to his face just as she slid his hand, with hers, into the front of her panties.
She bent over him again, her other hand braced in the seat between his body and the back of the couch, put her face close to his and rubbed his middle finger, hers covering his, against her clit.
The feel of his strong, long, calloused finger rasping over her tight nub made her head snap back and she needed more.
So she gave herself more.
Manipulating his fingers, she touched herself, fucked herself (with her finger and his), rode their hands and took herself there (with a good deal of his help—he took the guidance, but he added his own pressure and it … was … divine).
And she came on her knees, bent over him, spasming against their hands, her forehead nearly resting on his, her delicate puffs of breath and soft moans landing on his lips.
Jerking lightly through some aftershocks, she cupped herself with their hands and let her forehead float down to hit his shoulder.
She’d done it.
She’d earned his cum (a good deal of it). She’d earned the beautiful climax she’d just had that came from watching him perform for her. She’d earned this man jacking himself at her command twice that day and texting her that he did, then watching him walk in her kitchen door while she was making dinner. She’d earned him lying under her, his hand in her panties, the massive load of his cum still exhibited over his torso.
She’d earned this.
She’d earned him.
But as she came down, she realized there was something she hadn’t earned.
The scene was done. They’d both come. It was over.
And now, he could clean up, get dressed and walk away.
He could also wrap his arms around her recently orgasmed, sensitive, relaxed, heated body and hold her to him.
Or touch her.
Or stroke her.
Or show her some affection.
He did not.
She held his hand against her sex and she knew the only reason he kept it there was because his Mistress was making him keep it there.
They’d just shared everything.
But they had nothing.
And then he gave her something.
His mouth to her ear, his fingers at her pussy giving a tender squeeze, Branch whispered, “Okay?”
It was only a little bit of something.
But Evangeline was going to take it.
She nuzzled her face in his neck and whispered back, “Yes, honey, okay.”
She felt a tenseness hit his body when she said the word “honey,” but it was there and gone in a way she wondered if she’d felt it at all.
Because she sensed it was paramount to keep him focused, she didn’t delay in lifting her head and looking into his eyes.
“Now, my big boy, it’s time to take care of you after you gave me such an amazing show and then get you ready for bed.”
The eye flare that got was also brief.
But it was closer to the surface.
Progress.
So she’d take that too.
eight
Asshole
BRANCH
Branch woke the next morning perfectly aware of where he was.
That being as Evangeline had positioned him after the warm bath she’d given him, this being after she’d fucked him on her couch.
He was tied to her bed with silk ropes at his wrists and ankles, on his stomach, arms spread wide, legs spread wide, hips up on a soft, cylindrical bolster, ass in the air, all of him covered in her sheets with her tucked tight against his side, her leg wrapped around the back of one of his thighs.
It was still mostly dark. He saw from the light in the room that dawn was just touching the sky, and he didn’t even try to stop his mind drifting back to all she’d given him the night before.
It went without saying, the woman knew how to take a man’s ass. She’d used a thick, long, rigid, sweet cock he’d feel for the next week.
And totally get off on it.
And he’d come harder, and needless to say, longer than he’d ever come in his whole fucking life.
Close to the end of it, he thought he might not ever quit coming.
And he didn’t fucking care.
Evangeline kneeling between his legs, taking him there, her face not hiding the fact that she seriously dug the show, he’d do it again. He’d do it hourly, if his ass could hack it, just to get off that fucking huge.
Just to know she was getting off right along with him.
But it was arguable if that was the best part.
No, even after the most phenomenal orgasm he’d ever been given, his fingers deep in her sweet, wet pussy, watching her take herself there couldn’t have been better.
Fuck, so damned pretty he’d never forget it. Never forget watching her eyes darken, her cheeks get pink, feeling the little gusts of breath she pressed out against his lips.
But even with all that, one could say he was not a big fan of coming to her house and discovering he had to sit for dinner and small talk (though her cooking was unbe-fucking-leivable—it was spaghetti but it was amazing).
He couldn’t have felt more awkward, a man like him being in the kitchen of a woman like her. A kickass Mistress.
But so much more.
She’d built her own business. Bought herself a sweet house. Ha
d good friends who felt everything for her. Created a home that might be frilly and busy and flowery, but it was also warm and inviting, comfortable, and a place where Branch had not earned the honor to hang.
Unless he was giving her something, like allowing her to fuck him because she loved doing it and loved that he loved taking it, and letting her use his fingers to make her get off.
But he had to admit that she somehow made even hanging in front of her TV eating dinner not as bad as it could have been.
If it had been as bad as it could have been, if anything could make him walk away from Evangeline Brooks, that would have done it.
He couldn’t say during that time he shared with her eating in front of her TV that he ever felt like he was right at home mostly because it had been years since Branch had felt right at home anywhere.
He could say the longer he was with her, the easier it got, and once she’d unwound from her day, she didn’t fuck around being how she was.
Hands seriously on.
After the scene on her couch was over, she didn’t invite him kindly to leave and he also had no opening to do that himself.
Not that he’d want to.
Her version of looking after him included a warm bath in her big, oval sunken tub that comfortably fit two, the jets on. A bath that smelled of lavender and mint, where she got in with him, bathed him and petted him and stroked him. And the warm water, his huge orgasm and her attention, with her curls stacked in a mess on top of her head, some hanging down on her shoulders getting wet, far from sucked.
Not to mention, his ass needed it. He liked rough. She liked rough. And she could give it rough, but more, be right there as he rode himself raw.
After the bath, she’d toweled him off, made him stand there while she did the same with herself, giving him time to take her in naked, something he’d only seen briefly as she joined him in the tub, a spectacle that was as he’d expected it would be.
Seriously fucking sweet.
She’d then pulled on another nightie (this one gray with lace, but just as short as the other), no panties, and led him to a bed where she’d already swept the covers down and laid the bolster.
She gave him his instructions, he carried them out, then he got languidly hard again as she’d tied him down.
Once she had him down, she put more antibiotic ointment on the cuts on his back that didn’t need it, but this time, he didn’t attempt to share that info.
After that, with his ass in the air, the room dark, was when she quietly, efficiently and tenderly took care of business he’d not once allowed anyone to do for him, not even Tara, inserting a capsule of some gel up his ass that instantly eased his jacked hole.
After doing that, she kissed each cheek, the small of his back, the area between his shoulder blades and the side of his neck.
Without a word, she’d pulled up the covers and settled tucked into his side.
He was learning she could fall asleep at the drop of a hat.
What shocked him was that, tied to the bed in a position that wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it hindered all movement, her sweet body pressed close, within minutes of her dropping off, he could do the same.
Now he was awake and Branch had a decision to make.
She’d claimed him at the Pound. He’d let her spank him with him braced against his truck (and he’d let her drive the damned thing, and no one drove his baby but him, even if he had someone in his life he could allow to do that). She’d staked him with her jewel. She’d sucked him. Jacked him. Fucked him. Bathed him. Tied him. And he’d filled himself and jacked himself at her command, texting her he’d done it.
He’d come.
So the time had also come for him to decide if he was done.
The right choice was clear.
Get the fuck out of her life.
He was a dead man with a mission and so much baggage, she’d get crushed under it if she knew.
In his research before deciding whether or not to meet her, he’d learned she had a mother and father and two brothers, all living, none of them living close (she grew up in Wisconsin), but she was still close to them, with them talking frequently and visiting each other when they could.
She had a life.
She probably wanted marriage. Kids. Soccer games and dance lessons and family vacations to Disneyland.
Branch could give her none of that.
He didn’t even have a social security number.
The government had killed him off once, not a loss to his drink-addled mother and drug-dealing older brother, two of the three reasons why he’d escaped and joined the army at eighteen in the first place. The third being his father, who had showed in their lives often enough to teach Branch how not to treat a woman, and this not only the lesson of You Shouldn’t Take Your Fists to Your Wife, but a shitload more, before he’d disappeared altogether.
His computer geek buddy, and partner in a variety of literal crimes, Gerbil, had made certain Branch was well and truly dead, no one could trace him, no one could track him, no one even knew there was a him to track.
Regardless, Branch remained off the grid. No bank account. Cash-only payments for business. No foreign travel. Condo and truck owned under a shell that could, if given a year and a team of forensic accountants to find it (Gerbil was that good), be traced to a man from Monaco who’d died three years earlier.
Nothing else.
No trace of Branch Dillinger.
He breathed, he didn’t exist.
Gerbil told him he could get on the grid. No one was looking but it didn’t matter. Gerbil could make it so he could live a real life and no one would find him.
But until Gerald Raines was dealt with, Branch was going to remain a ghost.
After he was dealt with, Branch was going to take the cash he’d been carefully accumulating and go somewhere no one could find him, and more important, he couldn’t fuck up anyone else’s life.
No family trips to Disneyland in the cards for him.
And none of that even scratched the surface of why he’d checked out in the first place. Joined Raines’s team. Happy to leave his life behind in a permanent way as a living ghost who was sent on government missions they’d deny any knowledge of if the team fucked up. This after he’d ended things with Tara because he was young and stupid and hadn’t learned relationships were compromise.
He’d had a shit life. He just wanted easy and a paycheck and not to bicker about stupid shit. Like how it pissed him off she left rooms where she didn’t turn out the light and she threw it in his face he made more money than her but that didn’t mean he got to make all of the rules when she wasn’t trussing him to their bed and giving him what they both needed.
This leading her to take stupid risks to get her kink when she didn’t have him at the same time make a point to Branch which got her dead.
He had a lot of blood on his hands, Tara’s was the most indirect, but hers was the blood he knew he’d never wash off.
Yeah, the choice was clear.
He should get the fuck out of Evangeline’s life.
He drew in a breath that drew in the scent of her hair.
And he suddenly was unsure if he was a bigger asshole for breaking up with Tara about stupid shit, this act leading to a violent, ugly death where, before it came, she’d had to have been terrified out of her mind. Or knowing down to his balls there was no way in fuck he was done with Evangeline, and he knew beforehand him just breathing her air meant her life might unravel too, since he seemed to have a knack for causing that.
The breath he took must have been big because it stirred her.
Her hand slid down his side, along the small of his back to his ass.
“Branch?” she called sleepily.
Sleepy. Turned on. Just talking, she had the prettiest voice he’d ever heard.
“I’m awake,” he answered.
She shifted, touching her lips to his lat and murmuring, “Did you sleep?”
He really wished she
’d quit with the lip touches, the kisses.
The affection.
And he really wished she’d not.
“Yeah.”
“Good?”
After coming that hard and a bath with her?
He’d slept like the dead he was.
“Yeah.”
“Good,” she whispered, tightening her leg around his thigh. “You doing okay?”
She meant being tied.
He’d stay tied for her for a year, if she liked him this way.
And not because she fucked him better than anyone who came before.
Which was also not the reason why he knew he was going to be a tremendous asshole and keep it up with her for as long as she’d have him.
The reason why was because he didn’t know if he’d be able to keep breathing if he lost the shot at witnessing another one of her happy smiles.
And this was because he hadn’t done much good in his life and seeing that happy come in a way he knew he gave it to her was something he’d never experienced but had known immediately was precious.
That thought in his head, his voice came out soft, “I’m yours, Evangeline. I’m okay any way you want me to be.”
Her hand at his ass gave a squeeze and she pressed herself closer, murmuring another “Good.” She cupped his crease and whispered, “Here?”
“All good,” he muttered.
“It needs a break today.”
She was probably right.
That still didn’t mean it wouldn’t suck he’d walk away from her house not having her inside him.
Fuck, he was an asshole.
She glided her lips up his lat to his back, her hair sliding with her, as she said softly, “I’m going to have to be creative with how I’m going to make sure you’re reminded of me all day.”
Christ.
His morning erection grew bigger.
It was then she began, giving him a screaming indication he should let her have what she was going to take from him in her bed that morning and then he shouldn’t only disappear from her life, but get the fuck out of Phoenix so he didn’t have the urge to come right back in.
At the same time she made it utterly impossible for him even to think about that option.
Lips, hands, tongue, and gentle with the teeth, she explored his body, every inch of it that she could get to. Arms, neck, shoulders, back, ass cheeks, thighs, calves, ankles, and then in a cute, sweet, hot burrow, laving his balls in a way he knew she was knelt between his legs, her touch almost reverent, like she was worshiping his sac.