Burn (Songs of Submission #5)(20)
Author: C.D. Reiss

His room was likely behind the thick wooden door with the big lock. It sat next to the empty china cabinet that would probably be filled if I called the concierge and announced I was entertaining. If Jonathan wasn’t in his room already, he would be soon enough. He had to make a show of sleeping. I touched the door, trying to feel him on the other side. I lay my cheek against it. How I wanted him. If only he wasn’t carrying the baggage of Bondage Girl, the looks, the smart comments, the self-defeating turning of my own brain.

What if I rejected him completely, again? Like an addiction, the bodily ache needed to be broken first, then the habit. If I made it through this trip, I might get home ready to take on something new. Maybe date? Maybe meet someone nice? Like any addict, I couldn’t see a world outside the drug. But I knew there was one.

I stepped away from the door and got ready for bed in a haze. I hung up the dress and got out my work clothes for the next day. I’d done all right. My voice was an instrument for the piece. I’d recorded cleanly and done good work. I just needed to finish the job. Tomorrow. I had to focus on that.

I got into bed naked, feeling the brush of cool, hotel sheets on my skin, and immediately Jonathan was back on my mind. The drug. Putting his hands on me. Stroking my back, my ass, my thighs. He cupped my br**sts, caressing them, then pinched and twisted the ni**les until pleasure turned into a sharp bullet of pain. My hand followed the path my mind created for him, and I looked forward to release and rest. Arching my back into the imagined warmth of him, I spread my legs, giving my fingertips a place to land. I slipped them between my folds, pretending they were his, imitating the tenderness he showed right before the roughness took over.

I rolled over onto my stomach and slipped my fingers over my clit. I wasn’t ready. How could that be? I couldn’t go to bed frustrated. I wouldn’t be able to sleep. My mind needed to talk some sense into my body, but apparently, they weren’t on speaking terms. I put my ass up and felt a little tingle that might have been something or nothing, but I didn’t touch myself. I just imagined myself in his ready position, waiting, unsure of what he’d do next. But it was too comfortable.

I slipped down to the floor.

The carpet was grey wool, rough to the touch. It dug into my knees and palms as I crawled, naked, into the living area. My arms and legs kept a midtempo rhythm, head bowed in submission to someone who wasn’t in the room. Everything was taller. I was lower than the table, the couch, the chairs. My body’s reaction was almost immediate. Fluids collected between my legs, lubricating them against each other.

What a repulsive creature I was, unable to find arousal without crawling on the floor. Even my self-loathing turned me on so intensely I had to stop crawling for a second to shudder at the power of it.

I was alone. I was safe. No one was watching. I could allow myself to feel it, to do it, to be however I wanted. I got to the door between my suite and his. On my hands and knees, I put my lips to it, thinking his name over and over, tasting the flat flavor of wood and dried lacquer, finding his sawdust scent inside it.

Doubts came, but I washed them away in the knowledge that no one had to know. Only a locked door kept the company of my submission. My sexual abdication. The resignation of responsibility and control.

When I moved my lips from the door, I saw myself in the window, a translucent reflection of a lone, naked woman crawling to her master’s door. I fell to the carpet, put my cheek on the rough wool, and watched my reflection as I turned my back to the door, hoisted my ass up, and slid my hands between my ankles.

I was ready for him, but he wasn’t coming.

I spread my knees and slipped my hand from my ankles to between my legs. I gasped, then as I pushed through the layer of thick slickness to stroke myself, I groaned.

“Jonathan,” I whispered so softly I barely even heard myself, “my king.”

Knowing him, knowing how he played and how he f**ked, I touched myself ever so gently, around the opening, over the tip of the clit. I placed my fingers at the tip and pressed my hips into them slightly, then back, anticipation and hunger in every move. Two sides of myself warred. The side that wanted to just rub and orgasm out of myself, and the side that wanted to lie there with my cheek to the floor and milk it for every second of pleasure. I wanted the milking side to win. So I stroked my clit with a single fingertip three times, then once hard, then three times lightly, then stuck two fingers in my soaking pu**y.

Repeat.

I heard sounds on the other side of the door. A shuffle. A light clicking on. A drawer opening. A voice speaking a foreign language as if it was on the phone.

Right there. He was right there on the other side of the door.

I pressed my finger against my clit and drew it down, hard. It hurt, just a little, then exploded into pleasure so deep I had to lift my cheek off the floor. I rubbed it again. I’d jumped four stages of desire right into orgasm close. My thighs warmed. My folds shuddered when I touched them, and my back straightened. My face came off the floor, and I kneeled, legs spread, fingers between my legs and rubbing in a circle. A ball of heat wound tight around itself in my pelvis. I crouched, pressing the heel of my hand against my clit, and then bent my back. I drew my wrist, then my forearm, along my wet slit until my fingertips reached my lower back. The constant, single direction of pressure broke the coil of pleasure, and when I straightened, bringing forearm, wrist, and hand back over my clit, I exhaled in a clenched groan. I did it again until my forehead was on the floor, and I pulled back, my forearm now a slick instrument. My ass and pu**y clenched repeatedly as I tried not to cry out loudly enough to be heard by the king on the other side of the door.

CHAPTER 20.

JONATHAN

Sometimes, talking to people in Asia was enough to make me want to do bodily harm to myself or others. I shouldn’t have let that phrase enter my mind after what I’d revealed to Monica in the bathroom of the Gulfstream.

Sunshine and lollipops. I thought the words so hard I almost said them in Korean as I explained to my VP of operations that the vision for Hotel M in Seoul was exactly the same as the ones in Los Angeles, Vancouver, New York, and Chicago. The spirit of the thing was what mattered. Getting the exact same designer for Seoul as we had in New York was less important than getting the same type of designer.

I hung up, then looked at a calendar as if I could deny the truth.

I had to go to Asia tomorrow afternoon at the latest.

Fuck.

I wanted her so badly, and it took all my concentration not to take her too soon. I couldn’t lose focus. Too much was going on. But there I was, getting Jacques on the line and telling Aling Mira to pack. I had no choice. Putting business first was a habit I couldn’t break.