Sheer Discipline Read online

  He returned a few moments later with our bags.

  “I’m going to take a shower.” He hadn’t bothered to put his jacket back on when he’d gone outside to get the bags, and now he reached down and pulled off his sweater. His expansive chest came into view, the dips and valleys and ridges of his muscles as impressive and sexy as ever.

  He started on his pants next, unbuttoning his belt, and my pulse raced. He undid the buttons on his pants, and my eyes landed on the soft trail of hair that started at his belly button and dipped down.

  “Relax, angel,” he said, watching me. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”

  I turned away before he disappeared into the bathroom, hating him and wanting him at the same time. A second later, the sound of the shower starting echoed through the closed door.

  I pulled out my phone and opened my text messages, my finger hovering over Violet’s name.

  There were the last three messages I’d sent her, all of them a version of the same thing – I’m worried about you, please call me, I hope you’re okay.

  None of them had received a reply.

  Before I could decide whether or not to send her another message, my phone rang in my hand, startling me.

  Blocked Number flashed across my screen.

  Violet.

  I answered it.

  “Hello?” My voice sounded shaky, and I wiped my palms on my jeans.

  “Aven Courtland?” a woman’s voice asked. Her tone was clipped, professional.

  “Yes, this is Aven.” My heart sank as I realized it wasn’t Violet. Most likely it was someone about a job, especially after all those resumes I’d just shotgunned during the drive. I tried not to get too excited – I’d had a few of these calls over the past few weeks, most of them from HR assistants or headhunters that had found my resume and wanted to ask me a few questions. They were inevitably disappointed when they realized I had no experience, or when they found out I didn’t have my MBA. Which made no sense, since it was all right there on my resume.

  “This is Misty Bryant, from the New York Courier? We met last night in Landon Sheer’s hotel suite?” She said it as if we’d actually met, like we’d talked at a party or something, instead of her trespassing into Landon’s hotel.

  My stomach clenched, and I instantly wanted to hang up on her.

  But I forced myself to stay on the phone. Hanging up on her gave me that same feeling, the feeling I’d had before when I’d told Emma not to worry about this woman, where it felt as if I were being loyal to Landon. And even though that was my first instinct, my mind told me to rail against it.

  “Yes?” I said shortly.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she said. “You seemed a little… flustered last night.”

  “I was flustered because you barged into Landon’s hotel suite without asking, confronted him about a story you were writing, and had to be hauled off by security. It was quite jarring.”

  “You sound like someone who knows Landon well,” she said, a sarcastic tone to her voice, as if she knew I barely knew Landon at all. “When did you two meet?”

  “Landon didn’t do the things you said he did,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt. “And if you –”

  Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  A shiver ran up the back of my neck.

  “Hang up the phone, Aven.” His voice was low, commanding.

  “Is that him?” Misty asked. “Is he keeping you from talking to me?”

  “He’s not keeping me from anything,” I said, angry now. “And if you continue to harass me in this manner, I’m going to have to –”

  I never got to finish my sentence, because Landon had my phone now.

  He ended the call and set it down carefully on the nightstand.

  He hadn’t showered yet.

  He was standing there, still in his dark jeans, shirtless, his black belt undone, revealing the dip of his hips, the peaks and ridges of his six-pack right at my eye level. I resisted the urge to lean toward him, to slide my tongue up over his torso. I remembered how his cock had felt in my mouth, hard and thick, how he’d choked me with it.

  “Get on your knees, Aven.” He delivered the command and then picked up his own phone, dialed a number and barked instructions to whoever had answered the call. “I thought we were taking care of Misty Bryant,” he growled. “Oh, really? Because she just made an unwanted phone call to Ms. Courtland. Fire Drake immediately and get Ms. Courtland a new phone,” he said. “Now.”

  “I don’t want a new phone,” I said once he’d hung up. “Violet has this number.”

  “You will be seeing Violet soon,” he said. “You can give her your new number then.”

  “But --”

  “You are not on your knees, Ms. Courtland.” He moved to the sliding glass door in the corner, which looked out over the courtyard, and began to close the heavy cream curtains that hung on a sliding rack over the glass. “Am I to assume you didn’t hear me?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I heard you.”

  “Then get on your knees.”

  I got on my knees.

  My heart was pounding as I remembered the things he’d told me he was going to do to me in the diner.

  Tie me.

  Whip me.

  Fuck my ass.

  Ripples of fear ran through me.

  I wondered if he was going to do those things to me now, if he was going to fuck my ass, and then I realized I wouldn’t know until it was happening, that part of his domination of me included keeping me on edge, in anticipation, not knowing what kind of delicious torture he had in store for me.

  I watched as he walked to his suitcase that was sitting by the door, picked it up and then set it down on the bed. He began to pull things out of it, one by one, his movements deliberate.

  Something black and long that looked like a whip or a prod.

  A pair of handcuffs.

  Ropes.

  The sight of the instruments sent more fear ricocheting through me. But there was something else, too. Desire. Instantly, I craved his lips on me, his hands tangling in my hair, his body firm and heavy, pressing into mine. The ache between my legs, the one that was always there when I was around him, intensified and burned.

  Then came the shame.

  The humiliation when I realized I craved this, that it turned me on, that the things he did to me were dirty and disgusting and yet I wanted them. God, did I want them. So badly that resistance was futile.

  Landon returned to where I was on my knees, tipped my chin so that I was staring up at him.

  He looked down at me, his expression hard and stoic, and then his hand was on the back of my neck.

  “Do you remember how I like my dick sucked, angel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Pull out my cock.”

  I reached into his unbuttoned pants and took his cock in my hand, squeezing it in my fist.

  He guided my mouth to him, and then he was fucking my mouth, hard, fast, making me choke so hard that my eyes watered. As before, there was no preamble, no warning. It wasn’t so much a blowjob as it was a gesture of possession, of ownership.

  When he pulled back, he reached down and pulled me up gently until I was standing before him. He crossed the room to the wingback chair in the corner, sat down and stared at me. His gaze made my skin prickle with hot goose bumps, blooming on my skin and making me feel as if I were on fire.

  He hadn’t even touched me, and my skin felt too tight, like I was going to explode if I didn’t have his hands on me.

  “Strip.” His voice was a low growl, deep in his throat, something primal and alpha beating below the surface.

  I thought about saying no. I did. But I knew that saying no would make it worse. And so I reached down and began to unbutton my shirt. My hands were trembling. He’d seen me naked before -- Jesus, his mouth had been on my pussy. But now he was just sitting there, watching me, his own beautiful body on full display. I was s
uddenly self-conscious.

  “Tell me what you’re doing, Ms. Courtland.”

  “Unbuttoning my shirt.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you told me to, sir.”

  “Good girl.”

  When I was done, I dropped the shirt on the floor.

  “Now your tank top, Ms. Courtland.”

  I grabbed the bottom of it and pulled it off, slow and steady, over the curve of my black push-up bra. The cool air hit my bare skin, and I shivered as Landon licked his bottom lip slowly.

  His hands tightened around the arms of the chair he was sitting in, his grip so tight that his knuckles turned white. He reached for the bottle of water that was sitting on the desk, uncapped it and took a long swallow.

  He was fighting his instinct to get up and punish me, to ravage me, to fuck me. He was struggling to hold onto his control. It was humbling, thinking that I had that effect on him. Why me? Why, when he could have any woman he wanted?

  “Turn around,” he demanded.

  I did as I was told, turning to face the wall opposite us.

  “Brush your hair forward over your shoulders, so I can see your back.”

  I did as I was told, brushing it forward over my shoulders, so that he could have a view of me from behind, unencumbered. He waited a beat before speaking again, causing me to wonder if he was rising up from the chair, if he was going to approach me from behind, if I was suddenly going to feel his hands tightening around my upper arms, his lips on the back of my neck.

  “Take off your pants, Aven.”

  His voice cut through the silence of the room, and I almost jumped.

  I unbuttoned my jeans, and began to pull them down.

  “Slowly,” he growled. “Bend over while you do it, so I can see the marks I left on your ass.”

  I forced myself to slow down, even though my instinct was to go fast. I bent over, pausing with my pants right below my ass, teasing him by showing off my lacy black thong. I knew he could see the red marks he’d left on my ass cheeks with his belt, knew it was turning him on.

  When my pants were finally at my ankles, I straightened back up.

  “Arch your back and lean forward,” he commanded.

  I did what I was told.

  “Now pull your panties to the side and spread your ass.” His voice was dark and deep and it slid over me like the bass line of a song, reverberating deep inside of me.

  I pulled my thong to the side and spread my ass cheeks, feeling that same heady mix of humiliation and arousal that he seemed to be able to stir up in me without much effort.

  “Tell me what you’re doing, Aven.”

  “Spreading my cheeks for you, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “So you can see my pussy from behind.”

  “So I can see your cunt from behind.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Say it.”

  “So you can see my cunt from behind.”

  “Good girl.”

  He made me stay that way, bent over and spread for him, exposing myself to him, for what felt like forever. My clit was swollen and aching, and I felt slick between my legs.

  After a while, he finally spoke.

  “Come to me.”

  I turned around and walked to him.

  He stood from his chair and ran his hands up my sides, his touch leaving goose bumps all along my ribcage.

  “Aven,” he whispered. “God, Aven, you are so beautiful.” His face had softened, and the look in his eyes was a mixture of awe and affection. When he kissed me, it was soft and gentle, his tongue parting my lips tenderly.

  I let this rare moment wash over me, my body tingling as he began to pull the straps of my bra down over my shoulders.

  He was slow, deliberate, totally in control, his knuckles skating over my bare skin as he rendered me topless.

  He placed the bra on the back of the chair he’d just gotten up from, then reached down and plumped my breasts into his hands, rubbing his thumbs over the nipples, his touch whisper soft, like a feather.

  “Go to the desk, Aven,” he said. “And bend over.”

  I walked to the desk, and bent over it as he’d instructed. The glass top was cool against my cheek, a stark contrast to the raging heat that permeated the rest of my body.

  I watched as Landon went to the bed and picked up the whip he’d taken out of his suitcase. It was black and leather, and my toes curled as I imagined what it would feel like slashing against my skin.

  “You will be punished now.”

  “Yes, sir.” I gripped the sides of the desk, bracing myself as he pulled my panties down, hooking them over my ankles until I was completely naked.

  “You will count the blows out loud.”

  “Yes, sir,” I whispered.

  “You will tell me exactly how much you like it.” The whip slid over my ass, soft and gentle. “You will tell me how much it turns you on, to be punished for being bad.”

  I swallowed.

  “Do you understand?” The whip slipped down between my legs, and he ran it over my bare pussy.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The first blow came. It was different than the belt, different than his hand. It was hard and raw, fast and lightning quick, the pain sharper and more intense.

  I gasped, and my pussy clenched. My instinct was to move away from it, and I did, but Landon held my hip, forcing me to stay in place.

  “Count.”

  “One,” I said. My lips were dry, and I licked my bottom lip.

  Another blow, this one harder.

  “Two.”

  “Tell me how much you like it,” Landon growled, his hand grabbing a fistful of my hair and twisting, pulling so hard it hurt.

  “I love it,” I whimpered.

  “You have to do better than that, princess.” Another blow, harder, so hard my eyes filled with tears.

  “Three.” My mind was spinning, my knees weak, and I tried to get control of my thoughts over the swirling desire and need I felt for him. “I love when you punish me like this. I love when you whip my ass.”

  Another whip. I heard it slicing through the air, the whooshing sound of it, and I rose up on my toes as it slapped against my ass.

  “Four.” I groaned. My breath was coming heavy now, short pants, making the glass top of the desk beneath my cheek fog up. “It feels so good.” I knew that wasn’t enough, knew he wanted more, dirtier, more explicit. But my cheeks burned. I’d never said words like cunt or pussy or fuck until a couple of days ago.

  “I will whip you until you’re able to follow instructions,” he said.

  Another whip. Then another.

  I counted them out loud.

  When I got to seven, my pussy was aching, the anticipation unbearable. I needed him to fuck me.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Ms. Courtland.”

  “I need… ” I bit my bottom lip, then summoned my courage. “I want you to whip my pussy.”

  “What, angel?” I could tell by the teasing, half-cruel tone in his voice that he’d heard me, that he wanted me to say it again.

  “I want you to whip my cunt.”

  “Good girl,” he whispered, running the tip of the whip over the outside of my pussy, softly, slowly.

  The break my ass was getting made the sharp, sore pain there warm into a pleasure, a pleasure so intense that it was almost too much, too unbearable, because as amazing as it was, there was the promise of more, more of him, more of his lips, his hands, his cock, so much that he still hadn’t given me.

  As if he could read my thoughts, his hand reached out and moved over the globes of my ass.

  “You should see your ass, Aven,” he said, and now there was rough desperation in his voice. That controlled, buttoned-up tone he’d had before was still there, but something shimmered underneath it -- hunger, desire, need. “It’s all red from my whip. From where I made you mine.”

  The tip of the whip was still resting on my pussy, right on the outside of my slit.
I wiggled a little bit, desperate for something on me, inside of me, somewhere, something to scratch the unbearable itch of arousal and need.

  “Please,” I begged, and I felt all of my inhibitions falling away around me, like a house of cards, taken over by searing want. I didn’t care what I said, how I looked, how embarrassed I was, as long as he would fuck me, make me come, punish me, make me his. “Whip my pussy. Please, sir.”

  He ran the flat end of the whip up over my pussy, pressing it firmly against me, then took it away.

  “Spread your legs, angel.”

  I spread my legs, and he whipped my pussy. The sharp sting of the pain was enough to almost make me come.

  “Not yet, baby,” he said, sounding amused. He reached down and pulled my hair, yanking me back to him, so close that I could feel his lips moving against mine. “You come on my fingers, on my tongue, on my cock only. Do you understand?”

  “I can’t…” I whispered. “I can’t control it.”

  “You don’t need to,” he said. “I will control you.” Then he kissed me, open-mouthed, his tongue tangling with mine. He tasted like mint and danger, the stubble that dusted his cheeks grazing my skin. I kissed him back hungrily, and when he pulled back, he flipped me over, laying me down so that I was on my back on the desk.

  My breasts flattened out, pulling to the sides from their weight, and I reached down to push them back together, but he grabbed my hands and held them out to my sides, pinning them to the glass.

  “Don’t,” he growled. “I need to see your body.”

  He towered over me, tall and broad, and the small strip of light that slipped through the curtains illuminated him from behind, shining over his flawless skin.

  I let my eyes linger on his body, taking in its magnificence, its beauty, its elegance and strength.

  God, he was beautiful.

  The first time we’d had sex he’d been on top of me, but I’d been too nervous and wired with anticipation to really appreciate his body. The second time we’d had sex he was behind me. That was its own pleasure, the loss of control, but now, seeing him poised over me, his chiseled arms, the planes of his chest, the washboard that was his abs…