Chapter 6 #2
She swallows hard, her eyes locked on mine.
“Yes, sir,” she whispers.
The triumph of her surrender is pumping in my blood. My cock is hard, aching against the strain of my trousers. I want her. More than I've wanted anything in a long time.
But not yet.
I want her to feel this. To feel the slow burn of her own surrender.
Instead of continuing down, I glide my hand back up, over her stomach, and cup her breast. Her breath hitches as I test its weight in my palm, my thumb brushing over the hard peak of her nipple.
Her back arches slightly, a silent plea for more.
I smile, a slow, predatory curve of my lips. I lean down, my breath warm against her ear.
“You want this,” I murmur.
“No,” she says, breathless. "I don't."
It’s a weak denial. It’s the last gasp of her pride. I almost admire it.
I roll her nipple between my fingers. Her gasp is sharp this time, her body arching into my touch.
“I warned you not to lie to me,” I say, my voice a low rumble against her ear.
I tug gently, just enough to make it sting.
A soft whimper escapes her lips.
My head dips to hers. I don't kiss her. Not yet. I just let my lips hover over hers, so close I can feel the warmth of her breath, the frantic beat of her pulse in her lips.
She's waiting for it. Anticipating it.
I pull back.
Her eyes open, confused, dazed. A faint flush of pink stains her cheeks, a mixture of shame and frustration.
“Get on the bed,” I command.
She hesitates for a fraction of a second, her gaze flicking toward the bed, then back to me.
“Now,” I add, my voice leaving no room for argument.
She moves, her steps slow and unsteady. She walks to the bed, her back ramrod straight, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. It’s a futile, and beautiful, effort.
She sits on the edge of the bed, then looks at me, her eyes questioning, waiting.
“Lie down.”
She does, her movements stiff and awkward. She lies on her back, her arms crossed over her breasts, her legs pressed together. She looks like an offering on an altar.
My gaze sweeps over her, from the wild cascade of her blonde hair on the white pillows to the soles of her feet. She’s a canvas, and I’m the artist. And I’m about to paint her in shades of pleasure and pain, of submission and surrender.
“Hands above your head,” I say. “Grip the headboard.”
Her eyes widen slightly. She looks at the ornate, dark wood of the headboard, then back at me.
“Why?”
“Because I told you not to hide yourself from me, and you did,” I say simply.
Her arms tremble as she lifts them, her hands finding the smooth spindles of the headboard. Her fingers curl around them, her knuckles white.
Her position stretches her body, lifting her breasts, accentuating the narrowness of her waist, the gentle curve of her hips. She’s completely exposed. Utterly vulnerable.
I shrug my blazer off and toss it over the couch then start to unbutton my shirt. Her gaze is fixed on my hands, on the slow, deliberate reveal of my chest, my stomach.
My body is a map of a life lived hard. A faint scar on my ribs from a knife fight that went wrong. Another, older one on my shoulder from a bullet that grazed me. These are marks of my world. Marks only ever glimpsed beneath my expensive suits.
Her breath catches as my shirt falls open. I shrug it off, letting it join the blazer.
Her eyes are wide, taking me in.
I move to the bed, sitting on the edge, not touching her. The mattress dips with my weight, her body shifting slightly towards me.
My gaze drops to her breasts, to the hard, rosy peaks. I reach out, my fingers tracing the soft curve of the underside. Her breath hitches, her back arching slightly.
I lean down, my breath warm against her skin, but I don’t touch her with my lips. I let the anticipation build, let her feel the ghost of a kiss before it comes.
Then I flick my tongue against her nipple.
A soft gasp escapes her. Her body bows off the bed, her hands tightening on the headboard. I do it again, a slow, deliberate circle. Her breath comes out in a ragged rush.
I close my lips around her, sucking gently, my tongue swirling over the sensitive peak. Her whimper is soft, broken. Her hips shift restlessly on the bed.
I lavish attention on one breast, then the other, learning her responses, cataloging every gasp, every shiver, every involuntary arch of her back. Her body is a language I’m beginning to understand, and I’m a fast learner.
I press a soft kiss in the valley between her breasts, my lips tracing a path up her sternum, to the hollow of her throat. I can feel the frantic, fluttering beat of her pulse against my lips. Her skin is soft, fragrant, tasting of her own fear and something else, something sweeter.
My hands explore her body, tracing the curve of her waist, the soft swell of her hips. Her skin is smooth, warm. Goosebumps rise in the wake of my touch. She’s shivering, a constant, fine tremor that runs through her entire body.
My lips find hers.
This isn’t a soft, tentative kiss. This is a claim, claiming what I paid for. I slant my mouth over hers, my tongue tracing the seam of her lips. She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then opens for me with a soft sigh.
My tongue delves inside, tasting her, exploring her. Her tongue meets mine, hesitant at first, then with a growing urgency that surprises me. She’s kissing me back, her body arching into mine, a soft, needy sound escaping her lips.
My hand slides up her thigh, my fingers tracing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Her legs part slightly; a silent invitation I have no intention of refusing.
My fingers brush against her wet folds. She’s soaked. Her arousal is a slick, undeniable proof of her surrender.
A choked sob escapes her, a sound of shame and pleasure and frustration. She turns her head, breaking the kiss, her face turned away from me.
“Don’t,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I murmur, my fingers still tracing her slick heat. “Don’t stop? Or don’t make you feel good?”
“Both,” she whispers, her voice raw with emotion. “Just… get it over with.”
My fingers pause. The plea hangs in the air between us, a fragile, desperate thing.
I lean down, my lips brushing against her ear.
“Oh, Erica,” I murmur, my voice a low, dark rumble. “Did you really think it would be that easy?" I chuckle in her ear, making her shiver. "You can't hide from me. I'm going to learn every one of your secrets."
I straighten, my gaze sweeping over her. She’s a mess of tangled limbs and raw emotion. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her knuckles white where she grips the headboard. She’s trying so hard to hold on to a piece of herself, to deny the pleasure that’s flooding her body.
It’s a battle I intend to win.
My fingers resume their exploration, tracing her slick folds, circling her clit without touching it directly. Her hips buck, a desperate, instinctual movement seeking more friction.
She can't know what she looks like. The innocent virgin laid out like a feast, all for me and me only. Tonight, I'll be the one going where no man has gone before.
Something that didn’t appeal to me this morning, but is now what I need.
What I have to have.
My finger slides inside her, a slow, deliberate invasion. Her gasp is sharp, her body clenching around me. I pause, letting her adjust, then begin to move, a slow, in-and-out rhythm that has her writhing on the bed.
She's so tight. Hot. Wet. I can feel the way she tightens around me, her body fighting off the intrusion.
Another finger joins the first, stretching her, preparing her.
My thumb finds her clit, pressing down, circling the sensitive nub. Her back arches off the bed, a strangled cry escaping her lips. Her hands tighten on the headboard, her knuckles white. She's so close. I can feel it in the way her body tenses, in the frantic, shallow gasps of her breath.
I speed up my rhythm, my fingers pumping into her, my thumb working her clit. Her head is thrown back, her lips parted, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Is this what you want?” I ask, my voice a low purr.
She doesn't answer. She can't. Her body is a taut bowstring, poised on the edge of release.
"Answer me," I demand, my thumb pressing down harder.
A sob escapes her lips, a raw, broken sound. "Yes, sir," she says, the words a surrender. "Oh God, yes."
The confession is a trigger. Her body convulses, her orgasm ripping through her. Her back arches off the bed, her inner walls clamping down on my fingers, a series of desperate, shuddering waves of pleasure.
I don't stop. I keep my fingers moving, my thumb working her clit, drawing out her orgasm, pushing her past the point of pleasure into a realm of overwhelming sensation. Tears stream down her cheeks; her body wracked with sobs of release.
It's beautiful.
She's beautiful.
And she's all mine.
I wait until her body goes limp, her breath coming in ragged, exhausted gasps. Then I slowly withdraw my fingers.
She’s a wreck. Her hair is a tangled mess, her face stained with tears, her body flushed and trembling. She’s never looked more beautiful.
I lick my fingers clean, tasting her thoroughly. Before the end of the night, I’ll have tasted directly from her.
I stand up, my movements unhurried. My gaze sweeps over her, a proprietary gleam in my eyes. I’ve claimed her, marked her, made her mine.
I unbuckle my belt, the metallic click a loud, ominous sound in the quiet room. Her eyes, dazed and confused, follow my movements. She knows what’s coming. The fear is back in her eyes, wild and desperate.
I unbutton my trousers, letting them pool around my ankles. My cock springs free, hard, heavy, and demanding.
Her eyes widen, her breath catching in her throat. She’s scared. I can see it in the way her body tenses, in the way her hands tighten on the headboard.
Good.
I kick my trousers aside, then position myself over her, my body covering hers. I’m braced on my elbows, my weight resting on her, but not crushing her. I want her to feel me, to be aware of my presence, of the power I hold over her.
I look down at her, at the wide, terrified blue of her eyes, at the trembling curve of her lips.
I lower my head, my lips claiming hers in a possessive kiss. I pour all of my frustration, my anger, and my lust into this one kiss, branding her with my need.
My hand slides down her body, exploring the soft curves of her waist, the gentle swell of her hips. I grip her thigh, lifting her leg, wrapping it around my waist. The position opens her to me, a vulnerable, trusting surrender.
I position my cock at her entrance, the slick head nudging against her wet folds. She flinches, a small, involuntary movement.
But I don't enter her, not yet. I move my hips against hers, sliding my length through her slick heat, coating myself in her arousal. Her breath hitches, her body arching into mine, seeking more.
I smile against her lips, a dark, triumphant smile.
She wants this. She wants me.
I feel her hands in my hair, over my shoulders, and I freeze all movement.
“Hands on the headboard, Erica,” I command, pulling back to look at her.
Her eyes are half-lidded, her lips parted. She’s lost in a haze of pleasure. But my command cuts through the fog. Her eyes widen, and she snatches her hands back, her fingers curling around the wood spindles again.
A surge of satisfaction, hot and potent, courses through me.
“Good girl,” I murmur, my lips brushing against her ear.