Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Fran
I've never had an orgy.
I've never had a threesome.
I've honestly only ever been with a handful of guys, and they were really, really bad in bed.
Maybe that's why I started imagining and fantasizing.
I wanted to give women really good orgasms, and lots of them.
I tell myself it's because I enjoy writing about happily ever afters.
I tell myself it's for a lot of reasons.
But I think deep down the truth is, I know that real men aren't always that good in bed.
But whatever Tate is doing right now… Whatever magical manipulation he has over my body? It feels the way it might feel if I had a threesome, an orgy, or even a man that knew what the fuck he was doing.
Because this is brilliant. It feels as if he's touching every inch of my body. Between the spanking he gave me, the way he’s worshipped my breasts, and the way he’s fingering me now, it feels as if Tate has six hands, and they’re all bent on giving me pleasure.
I can't think beyond the need for him to relieve the building pressure between my thighs. The harder I try to get a grasp on reality, the harder it becomes. My whole world is centered on that bundle of nerves between my legs.
“You’re stunning, Fran. Fucking gorgeous, love.”
“Thank you,” I gasp, while the pressure builds, and I feel like I'm going to lose my mind. When I finally climax, it's going to be epic. I know it. Nothing like what I do to myself, because he pushed me beyond where I'm comfortable, to a place where indescribable pleasure lies.
I wonder if this is part of his grand plan, if he’s specifically intending on bending me to his will so he can have his way with me.
But as soon as the thought comes into my mind, I can't hold it anymore, it flies right out again because, again, all I can think about is the need to climax. Now. Hard.
But he doesn't give it to me right away. He's decided, apparently, that my punishment isn't over.
I can’t breathe—I’m right on the edge, the pressure insanely intense between my legs, my clit throbbing, when he suddenly stops.
“What are you doing?” I gasp.
He folds himself up next to me on the bed, and I go to move my hand.
“Ah-ah,” he warns, shaking his head as if he’s scolding a child whose hand was caught in the cookie jar. He’s taking way too much pleasure in this.
Jerk!
Arse!
But at least I have enough sense not to say that out loud.
“Remember, I told you that if you moved your hands, I’d punish you again. Do you really need to have another taste of my belt? "
Why does that turn me on? Am I literally out of my mind? Did he drug me?
“Of course not,” I say, but my voice is strange, strangled and garbled like it's affected by my arousal.
Is that a thing? I have no idea. All I know is that my entire body is under his command right now.
I don't like that it is, but I also can't seem to do anything or turn away from it.
Seems like my best bet is to go along with it.
“So… what are you doing then?”
“Exactly what I want.”
“Oh my God, are you going to do that orgasm denial thing?”
“That orgasm denial thing?” He frowns. “What the fuck are you talking about? Is that a romance thing?”
“There’s nothing romantic about it!”
He doesn’t respond.
“Taaaattttte.” My voice is an unrecognizable whine.
“I don’t know what the bloody hell that orgasm denial thing is, but I do know that you’ll climax when I’m good and ready to let you come. That you won’t be allowed to bring yourself to climax, that you won’t be given orgasms whenever you feel like it.”
“You’re sick!”
He shrugs. “Maybe I am. But I also know that the body’s trained in a variety of ways. Pain is one. Denial another. And since we’re under the wire here, and our circumstances are pretty precarious, I’ll use whatever means I need to.”
I feel like I'm going to cry again, but I hate that I want to, and furthermore I won't allow myself to. I've already become more vulnerable than I ever wanted. I turn away, unable to hide the need to cry again.
“Suit yourself, then,” I say, forcing myself to look casual when every nerve ending’s on fire. “I’m going to get some sleep anyway. Unless you plan on denying me that too?"
By some miracle, I'm actually able to keep the venom out of my voice.
I'm suddenly exhausted. It's been such a long few days. Everything exhausts me, and I feel like I've been put through an emotional wringer. What will I do when his sisters find out that I'm the writer? Will I lose the only family I have? Will anyone understand?
And then he’s behind me, spooning me, his flank pressed up against my body, and his heavy arm’s draped over me.
“You know you want to come,” he whispers in my ear.
Tosser, bugger, prick!
I shrug. “It would be nice, but since you’re not inclined…”
“Who said I’m not inclined?”
“You, clearly, since you decided to torture me.”
His chuckle makes my nipples harden again, goddammit.
His hand flattens on my belly, and I feel so self-conscious.
Does my back fat look weird at this angle?
Slowly, torturously slowly, he drags his fingers down my belly. His fingertips graze the very bottom of my belly.
“Tate,” I whisper. “Please don’t. I can’t deal with more torture.”
“Sure you can.”
Without warning, he strokes between my legs, and I knife up in response, I’m that ready to climax.
He chuckles again, a manly sound that makes my nipples go hard again.
“Noooo,” I whisper. “I can’t hold off. Don’t, please—”
“Maybe I won’t let you hold off. Maybe this time I’ll let you come.”
He strokes again, and I’m on the verge of climax again, so quickly it feels like he’s lit a match beneath me.
“Oh, God,” I moan. “I’m super sex-deprived, you know.”
“I didn’t know. Why are you sex-deprived?”
“Because the last person I was with cheated on me, and I haven’t been able to trust anyone since. And contrary to popular belief, taking care of business yourself leaves a lot to be desired.”
He sighs. “I’d give fucking anything to watch you do it, though.”
“You’ve got the filthiest—Oh, God.”
He’s somehow touching me all over the place, my arse, my throbbing clit, my aching entrance. I need him in. I need to come. I need, I need.
“And what will I get if I let you come?" I don't know if he’s serious or teasing, but I answer without thinking.
"You get to watch me. "
He takes me seriously. "There's nothing in the world I’d rather fucking see,” he growls. “Come for me, Fran. Let yourself go. Show me how gorgeous you are when you climax.”
I’m so in my head, I can’t come at first, can’t let myself go, and when I don’t do exactly what he says the second he demands it, his voice coaxes me.
“Relax. Show me, gorgeous. Show me how you come, and I’ll forgive what you’ve done.”
And then I’m shattering into release, my mind a haze of utter bliss. I can’t breathe or think, my entire body engulfed in flames as he sends ripples of pleasure coursing through my body.
I come until I’m boneless. Until I can’t even open my mouth to speak, much less move. I can’t even think.
There's nothing but me, Tate, and bliss, all wrapped up in a bubble. I come until every drop of pleasure is rent from my very soul. Dramatic, maybe. But it sure feels that way.
"Now, are you going to do what I tell you? "
"I don't know.” I grin. “Maybe you ought to do that one more time just to be sure… ow!”
I squeal when he tweaks one of my nipples. He shakes his head from side to side. “You’re fuckin’ incorrigible.”
“Me? You’re the one who teased me on the edge of orgasm for days.”
“Dramatic much? It was like ten minutes.”
“Days!”
He reaches for a blanket and shakes his head, lifting it up and tucking it in over me.
“We’ve had an exhausting few days.”
“Tate… we don’t have to fuck, you know. I can… well, there are lots of things I can do to take care of you, too, you know.”
His eyes darken, and he sobers, all traces of humor gone. “Trust me, babe. I’m well aware.”
He pushes himself out of bed, and I can’t help but notice his rock-hard erection.
“But there will be time for all of that. Get some rest.” He strolls toward the bathroom, glorious and beautiful and utterly masculine wearing nothing but faded trousers and a massive erection. “We’ve got work to do tomorrow.”
He pads off into the bathroom and a few seconds later I hear the shower turn on. I want to stay awake until he comes back for me, but my eyes are so heavy. So, so heavy. The blankets are warm, and it’s cozy in here. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.
I wake the next day to the scent of coffee and woodsmoke. There’s a fire in the hearth, just a small one. It looks as if it’s dying down. Was I that tired that I never heard him build it?
I look beside me, and he isn't there. There's no sign that he ever spent the night in this bed last night, although I was so exhausted, I probably wouldn't even know.
It makes me a little sad that he didn't sleep beside me. I mean, this is his bed after all, and I saw no other beds in here. I can’t imagine it was comfortable with his huge body sleeping on a sofa.
That isn't what makes me sad though. I don't like that there's a distance between us. I don't like that there could be so much more, but that my choices and our statuses are the only things that are keeping us apart.
I yawn, surprisingly well rested, and go over the events of the day before.
I told him everything. I told him I’m the writer, that there's another book coming, and that we're gonna have to get it out of the hands of my publisher.
I told him I have spies, and that I have people that I work with, including the mob in Wales and another mob here in Scotland.
I don't know what today's going to bring, because I just revealed one hell of a lot of baggage.
I almost bloody forgot about my head injury, until I go to sit up and the room spins. It’s less pronounced than it was before, though.