Suzanna Danna

Click here for Part I.

Click here for Part II.

Click here for Part III.

He kissed her fingertips, “Mon petit agneau,” he whispered. She blinked and another tear fell. She cleared her throat gently and looked away from his mouth, “What? … What is that you are calling me? What are you saying?”

“Ah,” he smiled against her knuckles as his goatee tickled her cupped hand in his. “She speaks.” He said to himself. “I am calling you ‘my little lamb’ in French.” Her eyebrow betrayed her and rose towards her hairline. The furrow returned to his brow. She shook her head gently and tried to pull her hand from his tender grasp. “Why ‘lamb’?” she asked. “That makes me think of Hannibal Lecter and being led to slaughter.” The furrow deepened between his eyebrows. “My apologies if I have frightened you or made you feel … vulnerable.” The last word was raised in pitch at the end like a question.

He let go of her hand and wiped the tears from her cheeks. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead and widened his gaze. “You would prefer something different?” She felt it. That wall. That need to be in control. It was pawing the dirt at the back of her mind, ready to charge. She shoved it into a mental steel reinforced box, shutting the lid tightly and answered him, “No. It is fine. I am sorry.” He brushed his hands over her shoulder and down her arms so he was cupping her elbows. “Do not be sorry, if the term of endearment makes you uncomfortable we will find something else.”

He was so diplomatic. So sure of himself. So, calm. She struggled for calm. She took a deep breath and settled herself in front of him; still clutching her little purse in front, his warm hands cupping her elbows, his inquisitive eyes watching her face. She met his gaze with comfort and even let her rigid posture relax a little. He noticed her ease and his smile was open and made him look years younger. It lit up his face and she felt pride at making him smile.

She realized that she wanted him to be proud of her. Having no idea where that particular thought came from made her a little dizzy. She couldn’t believe how comfortable she was; she looked at the man in front of her and unclenched her hands around her little purse. She was in no danger. She was no lamb being lead to slaughter, this wasn’t some horror movie. This was two consenting adults, with a little time on their hands. That is all. No big deal. Right?

He took her purse from her hand and laid it on the desk to his left. He stepped forward and put his hands into her hair. He rubbed the base of her neck then ran his hands into the thickness of her hair at the crown of her head. Oh, he could really read her; this was one of her favorite things in the world! To have her hair played with, to have it brushed and fingers run through it. She closed her eyes and melted. It felt so good that she found herself leaning into his touch. His touch was gentle but with firm pressure he massaged her scalp and then ran his fingers through the length of her hair, stepping into her personal space to use both hands to pull at the ends a bit where it hit at her back. She let herself feel his hands, the warmth of his body against the front of her own, and when his hands reached the ends of her tresses and he pulled a bit, she let her head fall back so that her neck was exposed.

She could have purred.

He pushed one of his hands up her back between her shoulder blades and kept one hand on the ends of her hair… she felt that openness again. He kept the pressure on the end of her hair, her head being pulled back. He then pulled her against him with that hand high on her back. He lowered his head to her neck and inhaled the scent of her skin. His goatee brushed the sensitive skin below her jaw and she shivered. He opened his mouth to taste her alabaster skin and just the heat of his warm breath on her neck made her moan.

She reached her arms up behind his and gave her full weight to him. Her hands lightly pressed against the backs of his upper arms, her head thrown back with his mouth almost on her neck she could feel her pulse jump at her throat. He opened his mouth wider and closed the distance between his lips and her skin. When he pressed his mouth to her skin, feeling her pulse flutter against his tongue like a small butterfly he encircled her in his arms and crushed her to the front of him. She tasted like sunshine.

She rubbed herself against him like some luxuriating cat. She wanted him to bite her, pull her hair, take her control and for the first time, it didn’t feel wrong or perverse to want these things. He kissed his way from her neck to her jaw to her soft mouth and then kissed her with a possession that bordered on animalistic. She loved that he just took the kiss, that he nibbled at her lips, gave her his tongue to suck on and bringing his hand back up to the base of her skull her moved her head as he pleased. She was compliant and it pleased him. She could feel how much it pleased him pressing against her hip.

He broke the kiss with her nibbling on his bottom lip and with a hand in her hair he made a hard fist. It surprised her so much that her eyes flew open, her mouth opened; freeing his bottom lip; and she made a small sound of protest. It was like having a bucket of water thrown on her as she slept. It was so abrupt. He stepped back from her with a fistful of hair wrapped around his hand and moved her head so that she looked him in the eyes.

“Hmmm mon petit chaton sournois.” She was perplexed. “I do believe I have found something you like, and my first estimation of you was completely incorrect. You are no lamb, my dear; you are a sneaky little kitten. Mon chaton, you almost made me forget my manners. That will never happen. Do you understand me? I want you to reply with a ‘yes Sir’ and I want you to mean it. Do you understand me?” He pulled her head back a little and she felt floaty and weightless. She heard herself reply, “Yes Sir.” Her voice had that same dreamlike and far away quality as when she spoke his name not even an hour before.

“Chaton.” He said as she struggled to focus her eyes on his face. “Chaton?” He asked again. She heard herself question, “Chaton?” “Yes, yes… it means ‘kitten’ in French. Are you quite alright?” He still her head held in a viselike grip with that fistful of hair. She swallowed and tried to nod. That didn’t work. She whispered, “Yes Sir, I am very well.” She felt him nod and he began to release her hair. He said, “Good, then. We can begin.”

Begin!? What did he mean begin?

*This is Part Four of a series. If you are interested in having it continue, please leave a comment below.