Earning Her Trust: Braxton Arcade Book One Read online

  Damian: You want me, babe. Quit torturing us both.

  Damian: I’ve been hard for you all night. And now I know that pretty pussy is drippin’ for me, I gotta get it in my mouth.

  Marrin: Where, Sir?

  Damian: Second floor. Last bathroom. I’ll leave first.

  She nods from across the dance floor, and I can see the lust addling her senses. Jesus, she isn’t wearing underwear. Maybe I should’ve let her go first so I could follow her up the stairs?

  My cock twitches. Bad idea.

  I close my tab, say goodbye, then make up some excuse about having to piss and how the bathrooms on the second floor are the cleanest and least crowded (which is true).

  I take the stairs two at a time then make my way to the far end of the building where the bathroom the club reserves for VIPs and guest DJs is located. It’s a one-stall deal with mood lighting, a large marble countertop and a floor-length mirror. It’s completely empty when I walk in. I wash my hands (because I want to give Marrin an orgasm not an infection) and pull out her panties. They’re red silk.

  Of course they are.

  I bring them to my nose and inhale deeply. Fuck, they smell good. Like something sweet, the tang of sweat, and whatever detergent she uses to wash her clothes.

  The door pushes open and I give myself one second to devour the sight of Marrin before I pounce.

  I shove her panties into my pocket, and in two strides, I have her pinned against the door, legs around my waist. She locks us in as I force my tongue past her lips, taking her mouth. God, she tastes better than anything I’ve ever had in my life. Like Christmas morning, a snow day in school, New Year’s Eve. It’s visceral and all consuming.

  Her skin is smooth and slightly sweaty as I run my hands over her thighs, pushing up her dress to grip her generous backside. “This ass has been driving me crazy all night.”

  She responds by slipping her tongue into my mouth, and I retaliate by sliding my fingers between her legs. I brush along her opening, finding it drenched and throbbing.

  “Please, Sir,” she gasps, biting my lip incredibly hard.

  Regardless of where we’re playing on the dom/sub spectrum, I love it when she calls me Sir. So I reward her by sinking a fingertip into her core then circling the rim. Her head tilts back and she moves on me as best she can. We do this for a bit then in one swift motion, I drop her legs to the floor, grab the shoulders of her dress—bra straps included—and pull both down to her waist.

  Surprise, arousal, and protest flash across her face as her breasts spill into the room.

  I bend down and suck a perfect, swollen nipple into my mouth, pinching the opposite one hard, then pulling.

  “Oh God,” she moans, trying to free her arms of the straps and sleeves trapping them at her sides. She wriggles out of her jacket, but I grip her wrists, pinning them to her sides before she can be free of her sleeves.

  I don’t move.

  Just brazenly watch her bare breasts rise and fall in front of me. She’s completely at my mercy.

  I force a knee between her legs and claim her mouth. My kiss is brutal and objectifying and owning—just how I know she likes it.

  She whimpers and rubs herself against me, desperate for my attention. I know she needs more. Know she’s lost to her lust and drunk off my touch. This is how I like Marrin best: pliable, compliant, and wanting.

  So I give her the Damian she likes best.

  “You don’t get to have your hands,” I say into her mouth, grinding myself against her. “You’ve had enough fun torturing me tonight.” She bites my lip hard. I growl, pinning her harder with my body. “Do you think I liked watching you grind your ass on some other guy? Think I liked it when you stuffed your soaking wet panties into my pocket? Did you think I wouldn’t come to get what’s mine?” I thrust a proprietary finger into her pussy and she groans so loud I’m surprised no one bangs on the door in response.

  “Oh God, keep talking.”

  I chuckle darkly.

  “This,” I curl my finger and rub it over the spot that drives her crazy, “is mine.”

  Her whole body shivers and she nods, meeting my eyes as if to say, Yes, this is yours.

  I pull back and kneel before her.

  “Oh fuck,” she breathes, watching through heavy eyelids as I lift the hem of her dress and press my nose into her curls. I inhale deeply.

  “I’ve been thinking about this wet little pussy all night. If I don’t get it in my mouth, I’m gonna go crazy.”

  I order her to hold up the hem of her dress. She obeys. I lick once then spread her flesh with my thumbs, getting a good look at her engorged clit before sucking it into my mouth.

  She gasps—the song of the instrument I’m playing.

  I suck her soft, swollen clit like it’s the tip of a chocolate covered strawberry. It’s smooth and velvety, and when I gently pull it through my teeth, Marrin’s knees buckle so badly she nearly falls onto my face.

  That’s it, baby. Feel good for me.

  I suck and kiss and massage that aching bundle of nerves until she goes off like a rocket. She curses, grinding on me as she comes into my mouth. I lick her clean, careful not to penetrate her, then stand. As I do, I pick her up, hooking her knees over my elbows. She’s boneless and limp in my arms, but when I press her into the door, grinding my cock against her center, she comes alive again.

  She shimmies her arms free of her dress and reaches between us to unzip my pants. A warm hand wraps my cock as she pulls me out and strokes.

  Now it’s my turn to moan.

  “Back pocket, baby,” I rasp. She reaches around, grabbing the condom I keep in my wallet. She rolls it on and lines us up.

  I take over, pushing into her.

  “Fuck,” I exhale into her neck. “This pussy is hungry for me.”

  It’s true. My cock is above average in size, usually I have to use lube to make sure my partners are comfortable during sex. But right now, Marrin is so turned on, I slide right in without having to worry about hurting her. Not that she’d mind if I did hurt her because, as I’ve learned, she’s sort of into that.

  But I’m not an asshole, so I ask if she’s comfortable and if she needs anything. To which she responds, “Just fuck me.”

  One order of ‘just fuck me’ coming right up.

  I thrust to hilt then slide out before thrusting deep again. “God this pussy is tight, Mar.”

  She groans into my mouth and starts sucking on my tongue. I don’t know what it is, but being inside her in two places does wicked things to my inner alpha male and he comes out in full force, compelling me to take what she’s offering.

  I push off the door, stepping into the room. “Sit back,” I command. She obeys, hands locked behind my neck. I lean back too and start pumping into her, watching her tits bounce with the movement.

  “I’ve been thinking about you all day, Sir,” she moans, silver-white hair swinging behind her.

  “Yeah? What’d you think about?” I slow my thrusts.

  “You. Your big cock. This.” She wiggles her hips, trying to get me to speed up.

  “Did you touch yourself?”

  She nods and I almost come right then.

  “How many times, Mar? How many times did you stroke this sweet little pussy thinking about my big cock?” I brace her against the door and hook one of her legs up on my shoulder so I can bring a hand between her legs. I brush my thumb over her clit, still thrusting into her entirely too slowly.

  “Oh God,” she moans. “Twice. Damian. Twice.” She grinds into my thumb. I take it away.

  I’m not sure why, but I say, “I didn’t like seeing that guy’s hands all over you. I don’t want you sleeping with other guys. I won’t fuck other women.” I punctuate the words with the hard thrusts we’re both dying for while simultaneously pinching her clit. She cries out in want and frustration, but somewhere in the haze of her pleasure, I see my words strike home. See her understand this isn’t part of the scene.

 
“You’re not my boyfriend,” she breathes. “But we can be exclusive until one of us gets bored.”

  Fuck, yeah.

  I give her what she wants—I fuck her hard, fast and to the hilt. Her inner muscles clench, contracting around my cock. I bite the inside of one of her breasts, leaving a mark.

  She gasps. “So good.”

  My own pleasure builds and builds.

  “Oh fuck, I’m gonna come.” She’s staring at the floor length mirror beside us—watching me take her. For a moment, I watch too. Watch her bouncing breasts, my thrusting hips, her hand rubbing her clit.

  I grip her chin. “Eyes on me, Mar. I wanna see the face you make when you come for me.” Heat floods her eyes and slicks her pussy. I groan.

  She likes me like this. In control. Bossy. She told me the first time we had sex that she got off on being dominated in the bedroom, on feeling owned, used. It’s her kink and it’s why we make good fuck buddies. I like being in control in the bedroom. (That’s been my kink ever since I accidentally stumbled upon a late night porn channel when I was eleven years old.) But it also gives me confidence, makes me feel powerful, respected.

  Shocker, right? Why would a guy like me need a confidence boost?

  You know what they say, if you have to advertise…

  I’m still gripping her chin when I demand, “Say my name when you come. I wanna hear it.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Her moans fill the room, my senses. I’m not gonna last. Not as her inner muscles start clamping down on my cock.

  “Come for me, Marrin. Right now.”

  She does.

  Spasming and writhing and half screaming as pleasure sweeps her away. The feel of her body squeezing around me, milking my cock—oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—is my undoing. I come hard and hot and thickly inside her, thrusting to new depths and groaning her name as I fuck to completion.

  When it’s over, I set her down on the counter and close my lips over hers sweetly. We’re both breathless and spent, but I’m smiling like an idiot. I want nothing more than to take her home and tuck her into my bed. But I know she’ll never go for that. So I steal what affection I can while she’s pliant and delirious, basking in the remnants of her orgasm.

  Then I slip out of her.

  Once the connection is broken, that’s it. We clean ourselves up, she makes sure to pee then asks for her panties back.

  She shimmies into them and I deposit the memory into my spank bank for a rainy day.

  I pause at the door. “I meant what I said. I won’t sleep with other women if you don’t sleep with other guys.”

  She glares. “I meant what I said, too. Just because we’re exclusively sleeping together doesn’t make you my boyfriend.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  I open the door and we go our separate ways.

  Until we reach the parking lot of our apartment complex.

  Where we both happen to be getting out of our vehicles at the same time.

  I key in the building code and hold open the door for her. We pass the security guard in the lobby and share the elevator. When the door slides open on our floor, she goes left and I go right.

  I watch her slip into her apartment alone, waiting until I hear the slide of locks before entering my own.

  I have no idea why I feel so possessive, so protective over her.

  The feeling follows me all the way to the bathroom where I strip down and jump into the shower. I hate that I’m washing her off me, but I stink like bad techno club.

  I soap up thinking about what Jayce said. Thinking about why Mar would move in the middle of the night, and why she might choose to live in this particular complex. It’s one of the most expensive in the area and has very few university students living in it. It mostly houses young professionals who commute into the city each day.

  It’s also one of the safest.

  I climb into bed and decide I’ll just have to find out who Marrin Braxton really is.

  And that starts with earning her trust.

  2

  Damian

  By the third knock, I’m ninety-five percent sure she’s not going to answer.

  I knock again anyway.

  There’s a scrape of sliding locks then Marrin hauls open her apartment door wearing an oversized T-shirt and looking about ready to murder me.

  “Damian Wane, it’s eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. Why the hell are you banging on my door?”

  I smile, holding up a grocery bag. “I brought breakfast.”

  “I’m sleeping.”

  “You look pretty awake to me.” She opens her mouth, but I add, “You also look pretty hungry and wouldn’t it be nice if the handsome man you’re exclusively sleeping with made you breakfast?”

  “You don’t have to buy me, Damian. I already agreed to only smash you.”

  I frown. “This isn’t about buying you, it’s about taking care of you.”

  “I don’t need or want you to take care of me.” But she steps aside.

  She follows me into her kitchen where I set down the grocery bag. I face her, leaning against the oven. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with me taking care of you last night.”

  She narrows her whiskey-gold eyes but a lovely, distracting blush blooms over her chest and neck.

  I turn back to the stove. “That’s what I thought.”

  I make myself at home in her kitchen. She disappears onto her bedroom, which I note has a lock on it, returning a moment later wearing pajama pants. She slumps into a barstool across the counter from me.

  “Why are you awake this early?” she says.

  “I have to work.”

  “You have a job?” she says incredulously.

  “Of course I have a job, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but aren’t you rich? I mean you can afford to live here.” She motions to the building.

  “You live here.” I hand her a cup of coffee. “And you still have a job.”

  “Because I’m not rich. I have several jobs so I can make rent on time.”

  I crack a few eggs and pour them into a frying pan. “Why not just live someplace cheaper?” I don’t miss the wary look that flashes across her face.

  She covers it up with a shrug. “I like it here.”

  “What about this place do you like?” I ask as casually as possible. What I really want to know is why she moves around so much, but something about the way Jayce brought it up last night makes me think it’s not something I should ask.

  Another shrug. “It’s fancy.”

  “Ah, so you’re a woman who likes fancy things.”

  “Not really.”

  Not really, indeed.

  Her apartment is nice, but it lacks any real personal touches. There’s a couch and a rug and a TV, but that’s it. No pictures on the walls, no posters, no funny refrigerator magnets. It’s not minimalist. It’s just… empty.

  “I can tell.” I flip the first omelet, feeling her watching me.

  “What do you really want to know, Damian?”

  “You. Your likes, dislikes. Friend stuff.”

  “Are we friends?”

  I give her a bedroom smile. “With benefits.” I wink.

  She snorts into her coffee.

  I don’t press for any more information. Clearly, she’s private. The last thing I want to do is scare her off. We spend the rest of the morning eating and talking about classes and TV shows. A quarter till ten, I get up and leave for work.

  Technically, I have a job. That wasn’t a lie. The thing is, I don’t get paid. I volunteer, helping teach a self-defense class.

  At the campus rec, I change in the locker room then head to the small gymnasium where we hold class. Holly is already there setting up the mats.

  Holly is a master’s student at the university but started teaching self-defense on campus her freshman year. She’s kind of my hero. She’s a strong Black woman with a mountain of dark curls atop her head, and a fierce love of all things s
elf-defense.

  “Mornin’, Hollywood,” I say, calling her by her nickname. I help her with the mat she’s laying down. “What’s up?”

  “Not a lot. You get my email about Jessica?”

  “Yeah. Honestly, I’m not surprised. She had all the signs.”

  The women who show up for the self-defense class range from workout enthusiasts to victims of muggings and assaults. As instructors, we get training on how to identify behaviors and deal with people who’ve been assaulted. The last thing we want to do is retraumatize someone. After helping teach this class a few years, I’ve gotten good at spotting the warning signs.

  Regardless of whether or not a student shows any outward indicators of anxiety or discomfort, we treat everyone with the same respect and mindfulness. Everything we do as instructors starts with a conversation about boundaries before we touch a student and that conversation continues throughout our contact with them.

  Consent is a big part of this course. Holly designed it that way. We spend a chunk of each class roleplaying consent in various situations because, as Holly says, “We need to stop thinking about consent as a one time yes-or-no agreement that happens before sexual activity. Consent is an ongoing, active conversation that applies anywhere at any time.”

  It can also change at any time and relies on all parties to be aware of themselves and others. Holly’s a big believer in roleplaying consent and so am I. Two people can have two wildly different ideas about what it means, and if they’re not on the same page, it can have devastating, life-altering consequences.

  “I’m going to pair her with me and Jada today,” Holly says. Jada Marks is the Chief of Campus Police and the official sponsor of Holly’s program. “If she wants to try anything with you or Vinny, I’m gonna suggest letting Vinny work with her first.”

  “Roger that.”

  Vinny is the other student instructor. He’s built long and lean, so he’s less physically intimidating than I am. He’s also funny as hell and that helps put people at ease.

  The students start trickling in, and by the time we get the room set up, class is ready to start.

  We split into groups and go over everything we learned last week. Then Holly starts talking about new material.