8. Cora
Chapter eight
Cora
W e step into one of the bedrooms off the long hallway. The room is bathed in soft light, an intimate warmth that softens every edge. I’m suddenly very grateful for mood lighting. Jonathon drops the leash without a word and strides to the bar on the opposite side. The sound of liquid splashing into a crystal tumbler slices through the air. Unsure of what’s expected of me, I remain by the door, my eyes flicking around the lavish space.
The room is luxurious, designed for pleasure. Plush couches in deep red and black fill a cozy sitting area, while a massive bed dominates the center, elevated on a platform that feels almost like a throne. A floor-to-ceiling mirror spans the wall opposite the bed, reflecting every angle of the room. It exudes a sophisticated, almost regal feel—fancier than any five-star hotel I’ve ever seen.
Jonathon brings the tumbler to his lips, eyes locking onto mine with a gaze that’s unhurried, piercing—like a hawk watching its target. Physically he hasn’t changed much in the five years since I last saw him. His black hair, tousled yet somehow perfect, only enhances his features—high cheekbones, a straight nose, a strong jaw dusted with light stubble. He’s more than handsome—he’s captivating.
Standing with his legs spread wide, he shrugs off his jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair near the bed. He rolls up his sleeves, revealing veined, muscular forearms, and my eyes eagerly trace the lines of his body, snagging on the hard planes of his chest. His hands slide into his pockets with the easy confidence of a man who’s always in control, accustomed to having the world yield to his command.
But it’s his eyes—dark, fierce—that draw me in. They see everything. Every wave of emotion, every shift in my stance. He catches the shiver that runs through me, the heat that rises to my cheeks, and the way my breath stills in my throat. His smirk says it all. He knows exactly the effect he’s having on me.
“Come here,” he commands. The deep rasp of his words sends a jolt straight to my core, making my knees wobble.
God, was his voice always this hot?
I lower my eyes, breaking the connection, and pad toward him. Each step is measured, careful, one bare foot in front of the other, as though I’m walking a tightrope. I stop just short of touching him, close enough to share the same breath but not quite close enough to bridge the distance.
He unclasps the leash from my wrist and his fingers glide up my arm. My breath stutters, each inhale shallow and uneven. He’s barely touched me and already I’m coming undone, my composure slipping through my fingers like sand.
He chuckles, a low, rich sound that vibrates in the space between us. Of course he finds this amusing. Heat flushes my cheeks, but any embarrassment is quickly doused by the hypnotic pull of his dominance.
Why can’t I fight this?
My body responds to him instinctively, but my mind races. This isn’t just lust; it’s a deeper need, one I know I shouldn’t crave. But I do. God help me, I do.
His hand circles my throat—not squeezing, just resting there—a promise of power held in check. It’s a warning, a reminder that control is his to give or take. But even in that grip, I find a strange comfort. His dominance is a weight I can lean into, if only for a moment.
His tilts my chin up with his other hand, forcing me to meet his gaze. Those dark, intense eyes hold me captive, and I’m trapped—caught in the current of his will.
“Kneel,” he commands. The thrum of my pulse beats loud in my ears. He releases my throat and I sink to the floor as if I were nothing more than a puppet on his strings. My fingers reach for his belt buckle, but he’s quicker.
“No… hands by your side,” he snaps.
I obey, letting my hands fall as he undoes his belt. He lowers his suit pants just enough for his cock to spring free, thick and rigid. I never imagined a man’s cock could be beautiful, but his is—hard, long, with a perfect mushroom head and a strong vein running along the underside. A bead of pre-cum glistens at the tip, and my mouth waters. I raise my hand to touch him, but he swats it away.
“Ask permission.”
Swallowing my pride, I meet his eyes and whisper, “May I?”
He nods, and I wrap my hand around him—velvet over steel. My tongue darts out to taste the salty drop at the tip.
“Mmm, delicious,” I murmur, holding his gaze. His groan vibrates through me, spurring me on as I lavish his length with attention, teasing with my tongue and lips.
But my teasing doesn’t last long. His patience wears thin.
“Playtime is over, my sweet slut,” he says with a smirk.
That word should repulse me, but instead, it lights my body up. I hate that I crave this. The way he reduces me to nothing more than a trembling mess—and yet, I’ve never felt more alive, more aware of every inch of my skin, every breath I take.
With a rough tug, he fists my hair, pulling me closer, demanding more.
“Hands behind your back, and take a deep breath,” he orders.
I obey, placing my hands behind me as he begins thrusting into my mouth. The rhythm is slow at first, giving me time to adjust, but it quickly builds, each movement pushing me closer to the edge of control. Tears prick my eyes and saliva drips down my chin, but I don’t care. The pleasure–pain of submission burns through me, and I revel in the power I hold—his pleasure is mine to give, mine to take away. I relax my jaw, opening as wide as I can to take him deeper. His size is too big to slide completely down my throat, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.
His breath quickens, and his grip tightens. “Fuck, I’m going to come… make sure you swallow every drop,” he rasps.
He thinks he’s in control, but the power shifts every time I make him groan, every time I swallow around his length, making him twitch. I’m not just following orders; I’m bending them to my will.
My body shudders, and if my hands weren’t behind my back, I’d be reaching between my legs, circling my clit.
When he releases, the force of it hits the back of my throat, and I fight the urge to gag, swallowing him down. He lets go of my hair and I pull back, licking the last of him from my lips. I sit back on my heels, watching him recover, my own breath coming fast—not from exertion, but from the realization that I was on the brink of coming myself.
He looks down at me, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. Tucking himself back into his pants, he offers me a hand. I take it, rising unsteadily to my feet. He leads me over to the mirror opposite the bed, positioning me in front of it with his chest pressed against my back. One arm wraps around my waist, his hand cupping my breast as he whispers in my ear.
“Look,” he says.
In the mirror, the power dynamic is stark. He towers over me, still fully dressed except for his unbuckled suit pants, while I’m completely naked, disheveled, small in his arms. My hair is a tangled mess, my cheeks smudged with mascara, my lips swollen. Yet, the reflection is raw and real, making me catch my breath. The mirror doesn’t simply reflect us—it magnifies. In that surface, I’m not just a woman; I’m his possession, his plaything, shaped by his touch. But I also glimpse a flicker of the power I still hold, even in my submission.
“No, really look,” he murmurs, wiping a smear of cum from my chin with his thumb. “You’ve never been more beautiful than in this moment.”
When I try to glance away, he stops me. “Keep looking,” he insists. “This is what an epic blow job looks like. It’s messy, but it’s beautiful.”
His thumb lingers near my lips, and without hesitation I part them, sucking it into my mouth. He groans softly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Good girl,” he praises, his voice like a caress.
Arousal surges inside me and he motions to our reflection again. “Remember this,” he commands, his voice rough and deep. “You hold the power.”
The moment his words sink in, he spins me around to face him. His hands cradle my face as he crashes his lips against mine, the kiss fierce and consuming. I gasp into his mouth, trying to match his fervor as his tongue invades, tasting himself on me. His kiss grows more urgent, and I feel him stiffen against me, ready for more.
He pulls back, but only for a breath, just long enough for his lips to brush against my ear. “We’re not done yet.” I feel those words. God, I feel it everywhere, anticipation winding tighter and tighter, like a spring ready to snap. Then, with a swift motion, he picks me up, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist, clinging to him as he carries me to the bed.
He drops me on the mattress, and before I can catch my breath, he’s there, pulling me to the edge of the bed. Kneeling between my legs, he locks eyes with me, a smirk playing on his lips as he lets a string of spit fall directly onto my clit. The wet warmth makes me moan, my hips arching involuntarily as he dives in, his tongue flat against my slit. The obscene slurping sounds only heighten my pleasure, my body trembling so close to release.
He teases and tastes, pushing his tongue inside me and pulling back, driving me wild with need. Just as I’m about to come, he rumbles, “Not yet,” and flips me onto my hands and knees. He buries his face between my legs again, but this time from behind, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me closer to his mouth.
The sensation is overwhelming, his tongue sliding over my back hole while two fingers plunge into my core, hitting that perfect spot inside me. My body tightens, teetering on the brink of orgasm, the pleasure almost too much to bear.
“Now you can come,” he orders, the low rasp of his words betraying his own need. The command pushes me over the line, my body tensing, spine curving as I cry out.
When I finally come back to myself, I’m sprawled on the bed, panting, every muscle trembling. He’s beside me, propped up on one elbow, watching me with a self-satisfied grin.
“Welcome back, my sweet slut,” he murmurs. “We’re just getting started.” He rises from the bed, reaching for a condom.
I can’t help but laugh, a low, breathless sound.
Bring it on.