Hostile Takeover by Hill, W (best novels to read for students .TXT) 📕

getting them there, a catharsis for them and pure, undiluted satisfaction for him as a Dominant.

He’d given Marcie an incredibly intense workout, fueled as much by his own lust as her desire to learn what it was to serve a Master. Somewhere along the way, he’d gotten immersed in it, so he was no longer teaching as much as he was actually striving to take her deeper and deeper into her head, have her give more and more of herself to him. Fuck, what had he been thinking?

She’d told him he held himself away from his subs. He’d told her that was the way he wanted it, that it was intentional. Then he’d stepped across that line, gotten as deep into this as she had.

Watching her perform that remarkable act of obeisance, when she could barely sit up straight, when he knew every muscle in her body was shaking from stress, when her ass, pussy and nipples had to be sore as hell, it took the floor out from under him. For that one second, there was no rational thought. He wanted to fucking own her, make her follow him around naked, wearing nothing but those stilettos she’d mentioned and a diamond and emerald collar and leash he’d have made especially for her.

She’d do it, would strut proudly, sweet sassy thing that she was, letting that ass swing and breasts jiggle, and give him that challenging smile that told him she could handle anything he could dish out…even if it killed her.

Though he always asked club subs for their safe word, he took them far past where they’d have the sense to use it, so his intense scrutiny during a session had as much to do with their well-being as his own immersion in it. As he’d told Lucas and Matt, she was the type of sub who’d get so lost in her head she’d happily allow a Master to kill or permanently injure her, and smile all the way to the last breath.

A lot of Masters wouldn’t touch that kind of sub, because it was too damn much responsibility. Twisted bastard that he was, she was exactly the kind of sub he considered a treasure. She’d trusted him more than any sub he’d ever had, no hesitation in obeying anything he demanded.

Fuck. He went to one knee, caught her as she toppled. “Easy,” he murmured. She clutched his arms, opened her eyes to look at him. That hazy subspace disorientation was like crack to a Master. But her brown eyes were also full of devotion, care, a lot of things that made his chest tight.

“I need you,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, words drunkenly slurred. “Stay with me? Sleep with me? Please.”

In answer, he lifted her in his arms. She bowed up against him like a baby, letting out a little sigh. “First a bath,” he said.

“Too tired.”

“Tough. You need to soak before you sleep.”

“Will drown.”

“I won’t let you drown. Unless you provoke me.”

She let out a little snuffle at that, perhaps a chuckle. But she was in a half doze, completely dependent on him, no fight left…for the moment.

He set her on the padded wicker lounge in the master bath while he ran the Jacuzzi, added the salts. Then he turned to consider her. She was on her side, and her arm had fallen toward the floor, fingers half curled. She was boneless at this point. It would have made him smile, if it didn’t make other things hurt, just looking at her. Taking off his clothes, he put a decanter of whiskey and a glass next to the tub. Then he lifted her once again, set them both down in it, putting the jets on a low boil. She didn’t wake, merely shifting so her cheek was pillowed on his chest, her arms loosely around him. He slid his own arm around her back, resting his palm on her hip.

He’d doused the lights, only a street light outside casting a dim illumination up into the bathroom. Laying his head back on the tile, holding her, he took a swallow of the whiskey, swirling it in the glass with his elbow propped on the side of the tub. Fucking hell.

He passed his palm gently over her buttock under the water. Those marks would be there for a little while. He should be ashamed, but all the thought did was stir his cock back to life. Again.

No, he told it sternly. Give her a break, you sadistic son of a bitch. That one was directed at him, not his cock. His cock wasn’t sadistic in the slightest. It just wanted pussy. Mindless beast. Actually, not quite so mindless, because right now he had no desire to turn his mind to any other woman available to him. Just the one in his arms.

He tried, thinking of some of the most beautiful, hardcore and willing subs he’d had the pleasure of enjoying. As he did, his cock started to deflate. What the hell? He pointed his mind back to the abused ass pressed against his inner thigh, the feminine breath stirring his chest hair, and his cock rose again. Fuck.

It didn’t mean anything. She was real and in his arms, while the others were pale visions in his head. Guys were simple that way. When he pressed his lips to the crown of her head, she made a sweet noise of contentment, her fingers sliding along the small of his back, resting limply against the upper rise of his buttocks.

He liked that noise, liked the way she felt in his arms. She’d given his dungeon equipment a workout tonight, and it was about time. When he bought the townhouse, he’d liked the way it felt, except it never seemed right when he was there by himself. He’d cooked dinner for some of the guys and their wives a couple times, hosted a few business parties, but when he was alone, he preferred the Warehouse District apartment, which was really just