Addicted

Copyright

Mischief

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.mischiefbooks.com

Copyright © Charlotte Stein

Cover design: Head Design 2017, cover images: Shutterstock.com

Charlotte Stein asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition 2013 © ISBN 9780007491605

Version: 2017-08-19

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

More from Mischief

About Mischief

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The Master, by Kit Connor

I know how wicked I must look, all bound like this. He hasn’t even used something decent like a length of rope or a nice scarf. He’s used fat strips of red ribbon, and everywhere he’s wrapped them I can feel their thick edges digging into my flesh. Can feel them turning me into something obscene – breasts pushed up and out by the presence of them laced beneath, eyes sightless behind scarlet silk.

Yet no matter how lewd I look – how ready to be used – he doesn’t make a move towards me. I can hear his heavy footsteps against the glossy wooden floors of this expensive apartment, and occasionally there’ll be another hint of him: the faint tang of his cologne.

But nothing substantial.

I don’t get anything substantial until I hear the whisper of his breath, and have to wonder if that sound is slightly heavier than it would usually be. Do I look good enough to make my Master pant with anticipation, perhaps?

I doubt it, but find myself hoping anyway. I always hope, no matter how unlikely it is that he would show me the smallest sign of his own pleasure. He is like granite, my Master, he is a rock I cannot penetrate, and yet he moves me to do things I never thought I was capable of.

‘Take your clothes off,’ he had said to me, and I did it. I didn’t even ask him to close the curtains over the broad glass-covered cityscape that I know lies behind him and in front of my bound form. We’re high up here in this island of luxury – London is just a dot – but it’s possible that someone could catch sight of me. Someone might look out of their high-rise window and see me across the city – a faint blur of naked skin, striped with red.

Though, alarmingly, the thought doesn’t dampen my ardour. It enflames it instead. It makes me slick between my legs, to the point where I’m almost uncomfortable.

I think he knows it. He never seems surprised to find me wet and wanting, and he’s even less surprised now when I break, quite suddenly.

Which seems unfair, because I’m surprised. I even shudder to hear myself say:

‘Please touch me.’

Though I confess, it’s the good kind of shudder. My sex swells, my body thrums, I ache to think of him in me. God, a hand on my breast would be so good right now – maybe rubbing one of my nipples ever so lightly, the way he so often does when I’m writhing and past the point of no return. That teasing, twisted look on his devil’s face, as he works one stiff little point back and forth, back and forth.

Lord, I can’t stand it. I can’t, I can’t – and then he goes and says:

‘If you’re a good girl, perhaps I will.’

And I can stand that even less. I want to scream at him that I’m not good, that I’ll never be good, but the truth is – he sees to the core of me. He knows the layer of restraint I’ve built up around myself; he’s unearthed every hallmark of a buttoned-up, too-perfect princess.

And he won’t be satisfied until he’s stripped it all away.

I can almost hear him now, contemplating how best to ruin me. In fact, I’m sure the red ribbon blindfold has become somehow see-through, because I can nearly make him out in front of me. That firm, slanting jaw like something out of a magazine that doesn’t exist – Moody Men Monthly, perhaps – and those eyes, both steely and shot through with tease.

He’ll be wearing just his pristine shirt, by this point – suit jacket discarded – and, as he examines me, his left hand will toy with the cuff beneath his right.

Because it gives the proper look, I think. The look of a man of clear means and sharp desires, who never has to ask for a single thing in life because oh, people just give it. He points, he demands, he simply stands there with that one crisp cuff beneath his fingertips, and people give it.

Like me right now.

‘Lean forward,’ he says, and I do it. I lean forward as far as I can go without falling off the bed, thigh muscles straining, body protesting. I know I won’t be able to last long like this – knelt and bent until I’ve made a rigid Z shape, for his pleasure – but I know just as deeply that he’s going to make me stay like this for a long, long time.

And maybe, in the middle of me holding this position, he’s going to reach up and get a fistful of my hair, and tug me until I feel something solid rub over my cheek.

Of course I know what it is. What sort of fool wouldn’t? I didn’t hear the rasp of a zipper, but that doesn’t mean anything with him. I’m convinced he could get out of his clothes just by willing it to happen hard enough. Lord knows, it took nothing to get me out of mine.

It didn’t even take anything to get me bound like this, straining, as his erection slides everywhere but the place I want it most. But he doesn’t try to force me into taking him.

Instead he teases, and torments, and keeps me still with that hand in my hair, until I’m somehow the one who goes for him. I just part my lips and follow his slow thrusts, searching blindly for the thick head of his manhood.

And when I finally get a taste of him – just a little lick of something so good and solid – it feels like victory. I can ignore the mocking laugh he gets up, the moment I lose him again. I don’t have to feel like a failure, or like something made weak.

Because that one little slip means he failed, not me. He was made weak enough to allow my mouth on him, my tongue on him, and that same feeling of sudden triumph surges through me the moment he lets it happen again.

His hand is so tight in my hair, so very tight, but somehow I manage to suck him into my mouth. And I do it so greedily, tongue lashing the underside of his thrilling rigidity, mouth wet and tight around his length.

For the first time, I long for my hands. He’s just so big, that’s the thing, and there’s so much of him I can’t reach no matter how greedy I’m being. Of course, I go to take him all – pushing hard against my gag reflex, making myself as relaxed as I possibly can to feel him pushing and shoving against the back of my throat – but I’ve never been good at it.

I have to pull back, and God, I get a startling thrill when he won’t let me. He holds me there, mouth full of him, hand suddenly a fraction too tight in my hair.

‘No,’ he says. ‘No, take it. Take it.’

And I don’t even know what happens to me, once he does so. I go tense, and then I go hot, and then I can’t help moaning around a mouthful of him. I’m not choking – not exactly – but it feels like I’m about to at any second, and something about that is just …

Electric.

It’s shameful, it’s awful, but I can’t deny it. If I wasn’t so stuffed full of him I’d beg him for more, more – do it harder, be rougher. But the best thing about my Master is that he never crosses that point. He always knows how far to take me and no further, and yet still there are moments like this.

Moments when I forget my own name, and the ache between my legs spreads down through my thighs and up through my belly. I’m on the verge of orgasm, I think, but that seems utterly crazy without so much as a hand on me. I mean, I sometimes come the moment he touches me … but that’s different.

This is … unnerving. I stir restlessly, burning muscles briefly forgotten, and the second I do he seems to know what it means. He laughs again, dark and throaty, then decides that what I need is an extra dose of torment.

Or, better put – he runs one finger over the curve of my shoulder, and down my arm.

I could scream. It’s hardly a touch at all, and the meanness of it makes me react in a way I wouldn’t usually. Usually I wait for his commands, but now I can’t, I can’t. For just a second I lose control, and squeeze my thighs together to get that good bloom of pleasure going.

But he doesn’t do what I expect in response. Typically, if I give in and get greedy, he’ll move away. Deny me even the slightest thing – like, say, the maddening taste of him.

This time, however, he doesn’t let go of me. He doesn’t step away, and leave me in a trembling, tortured mess on the bed. He rocks into my mouth faster, instead, and then just as I think I’ve got away with it he tells me in a rough, filthy-sounding voice:

‘Get those legs apart.’

I could cry. I think I do cry. My sex feels so tender, so swollen, that even shuffling around on the bed and spreading my thighs apart makes it twang with arousal. I’m so close to coming that someone could breathe on me and it would happen, but for now I have to make do with this:

Him thrusting jaggedly into my mouth. His hand in my hair, controlling the depth and length of each suck. And then, oh, God, then even worse than all of this – him telling me terrible things like I’m never going to let you come. I’m going to leave you here, on this bed, bound and beautiful for my pleasure. And every day I’m going to come in here and use your mouth until I spurt, and you’re going to love it.

It’s that last thought that settles in my mind and won’t let go. Just the idea of him being this person who actually can will things to happen. Who can make me crazy at the mere thought of something, who can make me give in even when I’m sure I don’t want to.

It lodges in the back of me somewhere, that thought. It makes my knees weak and my body lose all of that careful rigidity I’ve built up in this awkward position – and for a second I can’t hold it. I almost collapse face-first into his groin, despite the hold he’s got on me.

But it’s OK, because he knows that too. He knows it and, without saying a word about my weakness, he rolls me over onto my back. He carries on, as though getting me into this new position was all his idea and has absolutely nothing to do with me reaching my limit.

Oh, I love him. I love him I love him I love him.

‘Yes,’ he says, and then I feel his hands between my legs. So sudden I can’t process it, at first – or at least I can’t until he strokes over my clit. After which my whole body loses the liquidity it had just fallen into, and stiffens quickly and easily.

‘Yes, now,’ he says, and I have maybe a second to wonder what he means, before great jerking jolts of pleasure go through me. They swell up from the clit he’s barely touched, taking me out and through and all the way back again.

Though it doesn’t stop there. The moment I feel the patter of him on my upturned face – the moment I hear him grunting like an animal – the pleasure washes through me again, a double wave of bliss that seems to barely have anything to do with the finger he’s still got on my sex.

Though I have to say, the feel of him worrying it – just a little, a slick back and forth – is a glorious extra. It makes my legs jerk out straight and then sounds spill out of my mouth – long, rattling, dirty sorts of things.

Followed by words I don’t mean to say.

‘Uhhh, you’re making me come,’ I tell him, as though somehow he won’t know. Like it’s a thing that needs to be spelled out, in the world of me and my strange Master.

Which it may well be. He sure seems to appreciate it, after all – and he never appreciates anything. He’s always aloof, always impervious to any pressure, but in this burning hot moment he puts a soothing hand in my hair, instead of a rough one. He strokes me, and says amazing things like ‘Yes, yes, that’s my girl.’

And I suppose I am – his girl, I mean. Though to know how I got there, you’d have to go back to the beginning.

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