Sparks (A Special Agent Novel Book 1) Read online

  “I really must remember to lower my voice when saying shit like that,” he finally managed to get out, when we’d both recovered.

  “Might be prudent,” I said, pressing my lips together to prevent further fits of giggles.

  “Are you ticklish, by any chance?” He was examining me again, like I was a tiny bug under a microscope, and I knew that everything he learned today would be filed away for later.

  “You’ll get your chance to figure that out, hotshot. Right now, I want to hear more about the earlier scenario you were talking about,” I wasn’t entirely sure if that was true, but I was curious, and if I was going to get myself into really deep water, to be forewarned was to be forearmed.

  “If I continue, I’m just going to scare the fuck out of you. I can already see it in your eyes. Why don’t you fill out that limits form and we’ll talk about something a little tamer? It’s best to work up to the more intense forms of play. I certainly don’t want you throwing a whitey on me, mid-scene.”

  My lips drew together in a puzzled frown. “A what?”

  He rolled his eyes. “A white out or grey out. Some people have an adverse reaction to some forms of play, especially if I’m pushing their limits, and pass out. It’s just a mild form of shock, but having unconscious females all over the place is bad for business, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  I snorted to myself. “You’re not going to have that problem with me. You might have other problems, but that won’t be one of them.”

  “That’s what you say now, but it might be a whole other kettle of fish when you’re strapped down.” He looked me up and down for about the fiftieth time that day. “You already look like you’re on the verge of passing out, and probably haven’t eaten a decent meal in forever.”

  “Well, thank goodness you’ve fed me today, so I’ll be in tip top shape for your evil games tomorrow,” I said. He was right, though. It had been nine months since I had eaten a single meal with more than four hundred calories. Surprisingly, my stomach hadn’t rebelled at the feast before me, but if I was going to get back into racing shape, I would need to pay attention to my nutritional needs. Taking a sip of my coffee,

  I inhaled a lungful of black magic and almost swooned. “What is this?” My eyes devoured the contents of the cup in wonder.

  “If you go into shock this easily, Ms. Reeves, we have a problem.” Picking up his delicate, black espresso cup, he took a sip of his own. He gave himself a few seconds to consider the flavour. “Citrus with lemon and maple syrup notes, in my opinion. “I’d say it was Ethiopian Sidamo.”

  My jaw dropped in awe, but then my look turned disbelieving. “There is no way you can tell the brand of coffee bean from just one sip.” I shook my head.

  “The study of coffee has become something of a personal calling, but you can ask the waiter if you don’t believe me.” He looked supremely confident in his statement, and for some reason, I expected he was right on the money.

  “Yeah, right. Like he’s still talking to us,” I eventually said. We both laughed.

  “So, what now, Ms. Reeves? Are you finished with your interrogation? Naughty girls need their beauty sleep, I hear.” Those damn eyes were laughing at me again.

  “I need a bedtime story first,” I said. “Finish the earlier scenario, and then I promise I’ll let you get your beauty sleep. Let’s face it: You need it more than I do.” I gave him a friendly wink.

  He looked comically affronted for a moment, but then his wicked gleam was back. “Ms. Reeves. Oh, Ms. Reeves, I am so looking forward to working with you and your smart mouth tomorrow.” He sucked on his bottom lip, and it was all I could do not to reach across the table and eat him. My hands had to clutch the bottom of my chair again to ensure this did not happen.

  “C’mon, please?” The pleading note in my voice was strange, even to my ears, and I was beginning to suspect there was more to this BDSM stuff than met the eye. My body currently felt like it was being force-fed oysters, while someone super-charged all the little androgens and estrogens that were floating around, forcing them to watch TV shows containing Damon Salvatore or Charlie Hunnam over and over again. Suffice to say, I was uncomfortably aroused and actively seeking my own destruction, by the looks of it.

  “No. You can be a good girl, sit quietly, and we’ll talk about the weather or something.” His tone of voice indicated that was the end of the matter, but I wasn’t about to back down.

  Moving forward, my face crowding him inside our little two-seater table, I said, “Seriously. I’ll give you anything you want if you’ll just finish your earlier scene. You have piqued my curiosity.” If my eyes were pleading before, they had now turned Bambi.

  He looked at me with one of those looks generally reserved for small children who have been very naughty. It was slightly patronising and a whole lot of exasperated. That turned me on, too. I wanted to slap my forehead at the realisation of what he was doing to me. “One of these days, you’ll learn to think first and act later. You seem to rush into everything you do with a kind of foolhardy energy that will get you, at best, injured, and at worst, killed.”

  He was reading me like a book. I think my latest psychological evaluation had my therapist stating nearly the same thing. It was annoying and frustrating. To even out the score in my favour, I pouted at him prettily and hoped for the best.

  Eventually, after several seconds of perfecting my pleading look, he caved. “Fine. Anything I want, huh?”

  “Anything,” I affirmed breathlessly, knowing that if it was something I couldn’t handle, the option of running out on him was still available.

  He went silent as he considered my request. His head tilted this way and that as he thought about his options and, finally, a hint of a smile crossed his features. Picking up the flickering candle that had been positioned to the left of us, he tipped it from side to side in his hands. I wasn’t entirely sure I was going to like where this was going, but I guessed it could have been worse.

  “Heard of wax play?” He dropped two spots of wax onto his forearm and didn’t bat an eyelid. It set me to wondering whether he could take pain as well as dish it out.

  “I’m guessing it doesn’t have anything to do with cleaning out your eardrums?” My insouciant grin was guaranteed to annoy him and, sure enough, he gave me an irritated frown in response.

  “All of your sarcastic comments are being added up and jotted down in my head. Your buttocks will be on the receiving end of your misbehaviour tomorrow, Ms. Reeves, so bear that in mind.”

  I grinned at him. “So what do you want me to do? Dribble wax down my arm and try not to cry like a baby?”

  He pondered that for a second, then said, “Well, that’s not exactly how I’d have put it, but yes, I guess that’ll do.”

  He held out the glass candleholder, and I had to tease it from his fingers. He seemed to enjoy the contact between us, whilst I wanted to shy away from it. When I’d finally wrested it free from his grasp, his hand lingered in mid-air, and he looked lost for a moment. The implacable mask was back seconds later, and I wondered if my mind was playing tricks on me, but I was trained to notice these things. It’s not something I would have imagined. The chemistry wasn’t one-sided. What a shame. What a fucking shame. In another lifetime, we could have made the marriage altar, if that had ever been a goal of mine, which it hadn’t. There was just something about him, something that I wanted to keep for myself. With a shake of my head, I brought myself back to the present and peered into the candleholder.

  As I had expected, there was molten wax, and lots of it. The candle had been burning for a couple of hours at least. Now, I could sit here all day and debate the burning temperature of the wax and whether it would be too hot for my skin to bear, or I could just get the fuck on with it. Half of this crap was just mind over matter, anyway. This would be child’s play compared to what was in store for me tomorrow, so it was best just to get it over with. That had always been my motto in life. If I’d been afraid of somethin
g or someone, I always met the fear head-on. One day, it probably would get me killed.

  I pushed my coffee cup to the left of me and sat my forearm across the table. Starting from my elbow, I quickly drew a long dribble of wax all the way to my wrist before the holder was snatched away from me. I didn’t have to look at James to know I’d shocked him. He’d expected me to drip a few little spots on my forearm, whimper prettily, and brush away a few tears. That was not how tomorrow was going to play out.

  Blowing upon the meandering path of wax that decorated my arm, I watched it solidify from a clear liquid into a thick, white, raised line. It had stung on impact, but that was about the extent of my discomfort. There was no lingering burn, and unless I was much mistaken, it wouldn’t leave a mark. Peeling off a section in my fingertips, I discovered my judgement was correct. There wasn’t even the slightest pink tinge to my alabaster flesh. I smiled.

  The smile was wiped off my face in an instant. James had grabbed hold of my wrist, and with his other hand he quickly stripped off the rest of the wax. His grip was like cold steel - hard, inflexible, and unforgiving.

  “That was incredibly stupid,” he barked. “Everyone will react differently to hot wax, which is why you test a few drops first, as I did. What were you trying to prove, exactly?”

  I had to force myself to look at him. “You said that I was to dribble wax…”

  “No, you said that, and you knew what I meant. You’re not an idiot, so don’t even try to play that card.”

  “Fine. I wanted to see what it felt like, and I don’t tend to do things half-assed. It stings a little, but I’d hardly call it arousing.” I looked at him crossly. The cold eyes before me had not an ounce of warmth in them.

  He clucked his tongue as he reined in his temper. “I think I’m going to like you much better when you’re tied up and gagged.” The look he gave me was reflective, and I knew it wasn’t just my body that he wanted naked before him.

  “You say the nicest things,” I replied, refusing to take the bait.

  “Speaking of nice things,” he said, “I guess I owe you your end of the bargain. You want the naughty girl scenario, right?” He slowly eased his grip on my wrist and gently ran his fingers down the inside of my forearm. Ten thousand butterflies fluttered beneath my skin, but I dared not snatch my hand away. I was far too curious.

  “Yes,” I whispered, already imagining myself on the exam table he had mentioned earlier, with my wrists and ankles immobilised, and my legs spread wide in the stirrups. It was strangely both erotic and captivating.

  “Medical play is always good fun for shock value. There’s nothing quite like a table full of medical implements to scare a submissive witless. Some subbies love a good mind fuck, and if that’s what they’re aiming for, I can usually deliver. It can play out one of two ways. I can either perform an intimate medical exam by playing the role of a doctor, or I can concentrate on things like needle play and minor procedures.”

  “Minor procedures?” I swallowed over the thick lump that had formed in my throat.

  “Piercings, tattoos, suturing, needle corsets. Piercing the skin with a needle triggers lots of lovely hormones such as adrenaline and endorphins. Some submissives find this kind of play intensely pleasurable.” My eyes widened at the list he had just rattled off. Perhaps I should have paid a little more attention to that sheet of limits I’d been handed.

  “You have no idea what a pleasure it will be working with someone who will allow me so much freedom in my pursuits.”

  The scope of what I’d just granted him was now beginning to dawn on me. I had been a little generous. Perhaps I should take another look at the form.

  “I’m curious,” I whispered, mostly because his continued stroking was playing havoc on my body. “Which aspects of BDSM do you perform?”

  He took the palm of my left hand and began massaging my index finger. It was a strange feeling, but not unpleasant. “I like the hardcore aspects, which is why you got me when you booked ‘The Ultimate Guide to Pain.’ The more sensual aspects are performed by some local dominants and dommes that I employ.”

  “What do you consider sensual?” I was very interested in the answer - mostly because I wanted to know what kind of things he didn’t particularly relish doing.

  He waved his free hand in the air in a desultory manner and laughed. “Lacy blindfolds, aromatherapy massage, heart-shaped paddles, and fluffy cuffs. To each their own, but my sessions tend to be a little more intense. I don’t usually deal with newbies. You might be the exception to that rule, but only because my curiosity has gotten the better of me.”

  “So the more intense a scene, the better, from your point of view?” He was working his way through my fingers, and the feeling was actually quite pleasurable now. My hand was feeling warm, loose, and relaxed. When he occasionally flicked his thumb over the pulse point in my wrist, I had to bite down to stop a moan from escaping.

  “Yes. As I’ve mentioned before, I want to break you. I want you screaming down the walls for mercy because the thought of another orgasm is as terrifying as it is pleasurable. I want to take you to your absolute limit and force you past it, to a world you never thought you could enter. I’ll push your boundaries and you’ll see stars, but with any luck you’ll want more. Ninety-nine percent of the women who see me are repeat visitors, and I have one of the best reputations in the business. I’m careful with my research and pretty good at figuring out what makes people tick.”

  “And have you found out what makes me tick?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve barely even started. Rest assured, I will.”

  His voice held a worrying degree of certainty behind it.

  Seven

  When I returned to my apartment that evening, my body was singing with unspent energy. James’ effect on me was so bad, I wanted to hump my coffee table, and that was saying something. Practically running to the kettle, I shoved it under the tap and smacked the switch down. Camomile tea. It was supposed to be calming and soothing, and it was the closest I’d get to what I really wanted, which was copious amounts of alcohol. Unfortunately, years of training had taught me that in high stress situations, you needed to have all your wits about you, and alcohol, or indeed its aftereffects, weren’t going to help me get through my little situation tomorrow.

  No, but several orgasms might. I literally watched the kettle boil while I jumped frantically up and down. My clit was throbbing in earnest, and all I wanted to do was give it some much-needed attention, but I had to get my cup of post-climatic tea first. There was no way I was getting out of my bed once I’d settled down under my duvet, so when the sound of boiling could finally be heard, my eyes lit up with avid delight.

  Clutching my tea tightly, I practically ran to my bedroom. This was not a particularly smart move whilst carrying a hot beverage, but somehow I made it there unscathed. Settling my mug down on a coaster, I then tore through my underwear drawer, knowing that a vibrator or two would be nestled around somewhere in amongst the panties and bras. Sure enough, when most of the floor was covered in a carpet of black and white lace, a rabbit vibrator came into view. Hallelujah! Fighting through the sea of crepe de chine that covered me, I finally managed to get free of the thing, and it was also unceremoniously dumped on the floor. I had no time for niceties, and I couldn’t even be bothered to take off my underwear. Instead, I took a flying leap upon the bed and switched my rabbit to its highest setting. Using my left hand to scrape my panties aside, I rammed it against my clit in a feverish haste. I came within thirty seconds. It took a further three orgasms before my body felt exhausted enough to sleep. The ferocity of my climaxes had taken me by surprise, because my libido had been entirely absent for the past nine months or so. It appeared that James had awakened it, and instead of coming to slowly, it was demanding that the time lost be made up immediately and in triplicate. I almost felt sorry for James.

  ****

  The next morning, after a solid ten hours of sleep, I felt a burst of anxie
ty at the afternoon ahead. It was more a fear of the unknown than anything else, but I was always a firm believer in the adage “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I could handle anything that James dished out for me on the pain front, of that I was certain, but there were other aspects that frightened me.

  The stripping naked thing for starters, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. Following orders, having someone I didn’t know play about with my most intimate parts, and trying not to scream the place down if I saw him come at me with a needle were all high up on my list. The humiliation aspect also didn’t sit well with me, and if he expected me to masturbate in front of him, we were going to enter stalemate territory, but he’d find that out soon enough.

  Everything that happened that morning was mechanical, but I had long been used to robot mode. The toaster beeped, and I added butter and marmalade to the bread. A glass of orange juice followed, although I had no real desire to eat or drink. A sixth sense told me that my session with James was going to be very demanding, and that even if I didn’t feel like eating, it was important to get as many calories as possible into me before this afternoon. I’d never forgive myself if I fainted. A cup of coffee and a bath followed, allowing me time to primp and preen to the best of my ability. Nikki, my beauty therapist, had given me a bikini wax a couple of days ago, but I was diligent in my search and eradication of any other strands of body hair that dared to show themselves. Soap, shampoo, water, and moisturiser followed. I was going to smell like a goddamned florist’s shop, but at least I wouldn’t be covered in thick waves of nauseating, expensive scent. I wasn’t allowed to wear it for my job, so I refrained from buying it. I’d probably saved myself a fortune over the years.

  Taking a ridiculously long time over-styling my brunette locks, I tamed them into sleek, long lines with the help of my GHD straighteners. Deciding my makeup needed just as much attention to detail, I got out all manner of pots and brushes, and applied it like a pro. I went for the temptress look. It took an age to get it right, but when I was finished, my eyes looked huge surrounded in black kohl, my skin looked flawless, and my lips had more red on them than one of London’s traditional double-decker buses. Deciding there was no point spending much time on my wardrobe choice, considering it was going to spend the majority of the session lying on the floor, I settled for a pair of jeans and a soft, black cashmere sweater. The colour matched my mood.