Page 57 of Salt Kiss
Mark’s hands are on me now; I’m back on my stomach, his fingers on my intimate skin. The wax falls away easily, with a single brush of fingertips, and that was what the oil was really for, I think. Not for the added pleasure of slippery skin to massage, but for the ease of removing the wax later.
Except it’s notlateryet; there’s more oil drizzled into the small of my back and rubbed farther down, and then I feel Mark on top of me, his trousers gone, his erect penis nestled into the place where my backside splits. Not to penetrate me, but to rock and slide against the hot, thin skin there. To rut against the slick space hard enough to make both of us grunt.
Mark comes fast, faster than I’ve ever known him to, his arms sliding under me to hold me close as his hips churn and his cock gives a thick swell against me. He starts pumping between us, his seed nearly as hot as the wax he used to burn my skin.
His forehead comes down on the nape of my neck, and his breath is warm and fast against my back.
“Perfect,” he says breathlessly. “You are perfect.”
And then he kisses the nape of my neck with so much tenderness that I start to cry.
The sole other time I’ve cried during a scene was when he used the binder clips on me, and even then, it was only when he’d taken them off. But I’m crying now.
It is a stunning thing, to be covered in wax and semen and with someone heavy and panting on top of you and to realize that you really are in love. But there it is.
The fall that I’ve been fighting, the snare I’ve been slowly cinched in—it’s done now. I’m here. I’m lost.
“Oh, sweet Tristan,” Mark says softly. He moves to kiss a tear off my cheek. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Thank you for my birthday not-a-gift,” I whisper, and he kisses my cheek again.
“You need only ask, and I’ll give you everything. Everything I can.”
Nineteen
A Slovakian businessmanis coming to the club this weekend, and we meet with the head of his private security on Wednesday in Mark’s office. Mark is there, along with myself, Goran, Nat, and Dinah. It’s ten in the morning, the mood is tense, and Mark is already drinking his customary gin on the rocks, which I can tell is irritating the Slovakian security lead.
The lead glances over to Mark, who’s sprawled in his office chair, swirling his glass so that the ice clinks along the sides. It’s the lazy persona he normally adopts in the club at night, and I don’t understand why he’s adopting it right now. This serves nothing except to ruffle Mr. Kulov’s feathers.
“I need more assurances that thisopen housewill be safe for my client,” Kulov says, his eyes narrowed on Mark before he looks back to Goran and Nat. “We were not aware that the club opened itself to nonmembers.”
“Once a year, members are allowed to invite up to three guests of their choosing,” Dinah cuts in smoothly. “All the guests are background-checked by us and screened as they come in. Of course, it is unfortunate that Mr. Drobny is visiting on the same weekend—we couldn’t possibly tempt him to move his visit?”
“He will only be in the States for the next week,” Kulov says. “His business requires him elsewhere before and after. It must be this weekend.”
“Then let me assure you that we will endeavor to make his visit flawless,” promises Dinah. “His favorite room will be ready, and any club submissive of his choosing along with it, and we will make sure every security precaution is in place.”
“You are bringing in additional security for this open house, yes?” Kulov asks. “For the number of people? We will be with Mr. Drobny, of course, but even with three of us, I worry about the sufficiency of your resources.”
Goran nods, opening his mouth to explain, but Mark interrupts, leaning forward in his chair.
“There are a lot of Carpathian resistance sympathizers who are associated with your client, are there not, Mr. Kulov?”
It’s so unexpected—and Mark’s voice, with the slow, casual drawl of the drunk, is so incongruous with the pointed nature of the question—that the room falls silent.
Kulov’s hands flex over his knees and then curl into fists. “It is no business of yours who my client associates with.”
“Oh, I think it is,” Mark says sadly. “See, we have other guests to look out for, members who’d be very uncomfortable knowing Mr. Drobny brought in a security team that may or may not have a bone to pick with allies of Carpathia’s legitimate government.”
Kulov’s hands are still in fists, but I notice that the pulse at the base of his neck is steady. Almost as if he’s actually unbothered by this line of questioning. “Are you suggesting that Mr. Drobny’s team might behave unprofessionally?”
“I’m suggesting nothing of the sort,” Mark says and drains the last of his glass. He puts it on his desk clumsily, crookedly, so that it clunks and rattles. Goran winces. “I’m just saying that of course Mr. Drobny will understand we’ll need to be just as thorough with his team as we are with our open-house guests.”
“I will get you the names so you can do your checks, although you’ll find nothing.” He stands quickly, his posture hostile, although again, there’s a certain calm underneath it. It unnerves me more than outright aggression. “If that’s all you need, then I’ll be on my way.”
“See you Saturday, Mr. Kulov,” says Mark lightly. “Give Mr. Drobny my love.”
That evening,Mark is having dinner with his twin sister in his apartment, and he gives me the rest of the night off. Tacitly dismissed, I rattle around my own apartment for an hour or so and then decide to finally make use of some of the club’s non-sex amenities.
