From Bestselling Erotica and Erotic Romance Author Erika Masten
Sweet Resistance: The Dom Next Door #2 An Explicit Erotic Short Story
Rina’s fantasies about her next door neighbor, personal trainer Sam Kettler, have driven her past the point of exasperation. All she can think about is Sam using his perfect body to hold her down and take her while she struggles and vents months of sexual frustration. When Rina overhears Sam talking about BDSM and force play, the fulfillment of her fantasy is too close to resist.
Bonus Material: Includes excerpts from Public Display Of Submission: The Dom Next Door #1 and Bad Boys’ Submissive: Hot Hard Menage #2 by Erika Masten.
Warning: Explicit sexual content, including elements of light domination and resistance/force play. Intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted in this story are 18 years of age or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.
I curse the well-known fact that Sam makes the best cocktails in Los Angeles, having been a bartender before picking up enough clients to earn his living as a personal trainer. Drink requests from his guests draw him away from me and keep him busy a good part of the night. Without being asked, and despite feeling a bit presumptuous, I appoint myself a sort of co-hostess. Keeping drinks filled with fresh ice, cutting more cheese and fruit for the snack table, and asking after everyone’s needs give me the distraction I need to control the excited nausea churning in my belly and the anxious worries bleeding into the outer edges of my thoughts.
It’s after one in the morning before the last stranglers start wandering toward the door. As Sam wishes them off, I’m stacking glasses in the dishwasher, with the overflow arranged neatly on the counter for the next load.
“Stop it,” Sam tells me when he finds me putting bottles away in the cupboards, catching my hand and nodding toward my half-full drink before tugging me into the living room. “You’re not the maid. Relax and finish your drink.”
My thoughts have never left our encounter in the kitchen at the beginning of the evening, but I’ve nearly exhausted my bravery. Sitting on a sleek beige loveseat while he drops wearily onto the matching sofa across from me, I take a deep draught of the sugary cocktail and sigh out a giggle a little more freely than I should. If he’s about to break my heart by telling me his flirtations were innocent fun and his interest in me is purely friendly, I want to be able to claim I was tipsy earlier in the kitchen—still am, in fact. Yes, that’s what I’ll say.
Sam shakes his head at me, a slow smile spreading along his lips like honey, gleaming and lickable. “You’ve had exactly one and a half drinks all night, Rina.” His focus grows harder, more serious, tightening in on my face. “I’ve been keeping track.”
Embarrassment flows through me like ice water down my spine. Sour over being called on my little ploy and stripped of its defense, however small, I defiantly knock back the rest of the drink. “Why would you do that?” I ask as the alcohol warms my throat and chest. Too bad there really wasn’t enough of it to fog my head now that I’m getting scared.
“Because if you really were even a little tipsy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.” Sam leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You started something in the kitchen, but we’re only going to continue it if you’re absolutely sober. Understood?”
I’m not used to the stern edge to his voice or the hard stare in place of the boyish gleam in his eyes, but I nod and put the drink down on the low glass coffee table separating us.
“Good,” Sam says, though he doesn’t relax at all with the pronouncement. He is still pitched forward like he’s going to come to his feet any second. Is he anxious as well, I wonder. Angry at my ploy? Frustrated with me for pushing the issue of whether he’s interested in me or not? “You didn’t challenge me for once, Rina. I’m surprised. In certain circles, people might call you a brat.” He raises one hand when I stiffen defensively at the remark. “And before you get mouthy with me, that’s a specific term in BDSM. Fairly self-explanatory, but it basically means you like to push until someone pushes back.”
Unable to argue with that based on…well…any of my behavior in the two years I’ve known Sam, I fold my arms and try not to look like I’m pouting. It’s a struggle. Cautiously, watching my tone if for no other reason than to avoid proving Sam so utterly right, I mutter, “So you never did tell me exactly what you’re into…on the scene.” Is it just me or did that emphasis come out sounding a tad snotty?
He rubs his hand over his mouth, almost certainly to hide a smile and muffle a chuckle. After a moment, Sam grows still again and watches my face. “I’m dominant, if that’s what you’d like to know. Nothing very extreme, no blood or knife play, no flat-out sadism.”
“How did you get interested in it?” Please don’t say it was your girlfriend, unless there’s an ex- in front of the word.
“A client,” he admits with a grin bordering on bashful. “You’ve worked with me, Rina. You know I push. Some women like that. Some women like being pushed hard. After a workout session that went, well, about the same way ours do, it became pretty clear that resisting me was arousing my client. As inadvisable as it is to mix business with pleasure, I let her introduce me to BDSM and resistance play.”
“Resistance play?” The word resistance rolling off Sam’s tongue tightens the back of my neck with anticipation. The mention of play, however, leaves me uneasy, my fingers fidgeting and twisting the hem of my dress.
Sam nods as I repeat the term. “It’s also called force play.” There is a heartbeat’s worth of pause. “Or rape play, if it gets a little more hardcore.”
My voice doesn’t sound like my own—distant, guttural, hungry—as I ask, “Can we try that? You and I?”
Sam’s reaction confuses me. He swallows hard, like the thought leaves his mouth as dry as mine is right now, but he uncoils and sits back on the couch. A very calm, controlled demeanor passes over his face like a cloud over the sun, and sweet, playful Sam is suddenly completely unreadable to me.
“That’s an advanced form of play, Rina. It usually involves partners who have been intimate for a long time, a lot of conversation beforehand, even a contract setting limits. Because once the play starts, nothing stops it. The adrenaline is pumping, and blood is pounding in your skull, and safe words are just a whisper in the distance.” Sam shakes his head at some private thought. “And if I knew better,” he starts to say. Then he mutters under his breath. “And I obviously do, goddamnit.” After a rough-edged breath he continues. “We shouldn’t even be considering something so dangerous this late at night after a long party with just enough alcohol and flirtation to warp our better judgment.”
The urge to argue with Sam wars with the desire to plead with him to force me, to take me, to play with me, if that’s what he must call it. I don’t have play acting in mind so much as I want to be the prey this predator plays with before pouncing. “Are we?” I finally find the breath to ask. “Are we considering it?”
I watch enrapt as Sam thoughtfully sucks on the sinfully plump bow of his lower lip for a moment, before he slides it out of his mouth, teeth lightly scraping the luscious flesh. Though his hands are resting loose, one on the sofa cushion, one on his upper thigh, there’s a sense of tension in the subtle twitch of a finger, the way his thumb slides along the denim. Too late to hide my reaction, I realize I’m staring at Sam’s groin, at the pronounced bulge running just to one side of the zipper. If he’s half as thick as his erection appears…
“Lift your dress, Rina.”