Lisa Jones - My Hunger

“Crystal,” she pants, arching against the two fingers I’ve slipped inside her. “And you don’t seem to need instructions.”

I remove my fingers abruptly. “If you want them back, you have to tell me.”

She sucks in air. “I do. You know I do.”

“Tell me you want my fingers inside you.”

She glares. “That’s unfair play.”

Play. Another BDSM word that I find curious. “Is this unfair?” I ask, lightly touching her clit with my tongue, then pulling back and running my tongue over her knee.

“Very,” she hisses.

“Tell me what you want, Ms. Smith.”

“The orgasm I’m not going to beg for.”

I arch a brow. “An orgasm is a start. How do you want me to give you that orgasm? My mouth? My fingers? Or perhaps my cock?”

“Any of the above work for me.”

“Choose.”

“Fine. With your mouth.”

“You want me to lick you?”

Her look is murderous. “Yes. Damn it.”

“Say it.”

“Fine. Lick me.”

“Lick me, please,” I command her to say.

“No.”

I stroke my fingers over her sensitive flesh, dipping one inside her and pulling back. “Lick me, please, Mr. Compton,” I instruct.

“Fuck you, Mr. Compton.”

I laugh, low and soft. “Not this time. This time I’m fucking you.” I stroke her bare knees with my thumbs, drawing circles on sensitive flesh. “I want to lick you, Ms. Smith. I want to taste you. I want to make you come, but I won’t. Not until-”

“You’re such an asshole,” she blasts. “Lick me, please,” She glares down at me and adds, “Mark.”

I slip two fingers inside her. “You know what you have to say.”

She inhales and lets it out, a mix of embarrassment, anger, and passion washing over her face. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this, or that I’m really doing it. Lick my pussy, Mark. Please.”

“Mr. Compton.”

“Lick my pussy, please, Mr. Compton.”

Satisfaction fills me and I give her the reward she deserves, sucking her nub into my mouth, then licking, teasing, pumping my fingers into her. Her head falls back against the mirror, her hips arching against my fingers and mouth, the salty taste of her pleasure spilling onto my taste buds. And it is only a few more seconds before she gasps and her body clenches, tightening around my fingers. I lead her through the spasms, licking her, my fingers pumping, caressing, easing as her tension eases. And in those moments, I own her pleasure and I own her body. And that means I own the control I feared I’d lost.

When finally she shudders and relaxes, I remove my fingers, give her one last lick, and then stand up. Leaning into her, I slide my fingers into her hair and stare down at her. “That was what we call ‘just an orgasm,’ and yes, it really did happen.”

I push off the sink and leave, paying the bill on my way out. Pushing through the exit door, I get the hell away from Crystal before I forget that control is what I have now and what I need—not her in my hotel room.

San Francisco

“How long did you know Rebecca, Mr. Compton?”

“Asked and answered, Detective Grant,” I reply, leaning back in my steel seat in the tiny room that makes the airplane I’d left an hour before seem downright roomy.

“All right, then,” he replies. “Let’s try something new. Is it true Rebecca called you ‘Master’?”

Tension ripples down my spine. “Yes. She called me Master.”

“Having such a beautiful young girl call you Master must have been a real power rush.”

“What’s the point?”

“I’ll get to the point when I’m ready. See, I’m the Master of this conversation. I’m in control. Now, what exactly did being her Master mean to you?”

“The dynamics of a Master and submissive relationship are defined by each couple, but the basics are the same. It’s the Master’s job to protect the submissive, and put his or her pleasure and safety before all else.”

He snorts. “Clearly you failed on the protection end of things.”

The words successfully hit the open, bleeding wound that no doubt he intends them to. Anger that I would normally contain prickles easily. “Mocking her death does not become a man in your role,” I say tightly.

“I’m not mocking her death. I’m mocking you.”

“Which makes me concerned about your competence to get this job done.” As does his wrinkled shirt and suit jacket that he’s accented with bloodshot eyes and a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard that match his thick¸ rumpled hair.

He arches a brow. “How is my mocking you any indication of how I do my job?”

“A Master in any role, which I would assume a homicide detective should be of his, does not disrespect those who have put faith and trust in him based on that role.”

“I think you’ll discover, Mr. Compton, that we have more in common than either of us would like. Nothing I do is an accident, as I suspect is the case with yourself.”

I narrow my gaze on his, seeing the calculation behind his look. “Whatever head game you’re trying to play with me, I choose not to play. I came down here to assure that you deliver the justice Rebecca deserves. If you want my help, it’s freely offered, but from this point forward, through my attorney.”

“Why, Mr. Compton, would you need an attorney?”

“I don’t, but apparently you do. People who get off task need those of us who know how to get them back on task, to help them remain effective. I’ve been in town all of an hour. If there’s some point to all of this, get to it now.”

“Ava claims her confession was protecting you, the man she loves, because she found out that you and Sara McMillan killed Rebecca.”

“This again?” I ask, irritated by the illogical claim that anyone with two bits of sense could dismiss. “Aside from it being untrue, Sara never even met Rebecca, nor did she become involved with the gallery until Rebecca had resigned. So clearly that claim is impossible.”

“I’m just relaying what Ava’s defense will say.”

“Ava’s defense, or you?”

“Anything that could present as a reasonable doubt has to be dealt with. What do you know about Rebecca’s father?”

I blink at the sudden change of topic. “What does her father have to do with this?”