Chapter 7 #2
"I—" But I can't make myself finish the sentence
He leans down; his lips close to my ear. "Tell me you want me to fuck you, Erica."
My breath hitches. My body trembles.
"Please, sir," I say instead, getting desperate.
"That's not what I asked," he says, his voice low, patient. He's going to make me say it. He's going to make me beg for it in the most explicit terms.
He's going to make me own my own desire, own my own degradation.
His thumb is still rubbing gentle circles on my clit, just enough to keep me on the edge, but not enough to push me over.
I take a shaky breath, the words a lump in my throat. I close my eyes, a futile attempt to hide from him, from myself.
"I want you to... to fuck me, sir," I say, the words quiet.
"Good. Now open your eyes and say it to me," he commands.
My lids flutter open, and I force my gaze to meet his. His eyes are dark, possessive, a deep, endless ocean of lust.
"I want you to fuck me, sir," I say, my voice stronger this time, clearer.
"Beg me to take your virginity." His voice is still that calm, silky voice as he takes me apart little by little.
My stomach drops. Beg him. He's not just going to take it; he wants me to ask him to. To plead with him to rip away the last shred of my innocence.
He waits, a predator patiently stalking its prey. He knows I'll break. He knows I want it.
My gaze drops to his lips. I want him to kiss me. I want him to do something to make the ache between my legs go away. I'll do anything to make the ache go away.
But I can't make myself say the words. It's too much.
He chuckles again, the sound a low, dark purr of satisfaction. "Looks like we're not quite ready yet."
He moves his mouth back down my body. His lips and tongue continue their slow, torturous exploration, tasting me, teasing me, pushing me closer and closer to the edge, only to pull back at the last second.
I don't know how many times he does it. Time loses all meaning. My world narrows to this bed, to this man, and the things he's making me feel.
I'm a mess of need and frustration, my body a taut bowstring of pleasure poised on the edge of release. I'm sobbing, tears of desperation streaming down my face as my hips buck, seeking more of the pleasure he's giving me.
He's turned me into a creature of pure, unadulterated need.
"Please," I beg, raw and broken. "Please, sir."
"Please what?" he murmurs against my skin.
"Please, take my virginity!" The words tumble out in a desperate sob.
His head lifts, and his smile is slow and predatory. "With pleasure." He leans forward, and his lips crash down on mine, claiming, possessing, marking me as his.
I taste myself on his lips, a musky, salty tang that is both horrifying and intoxicating. I kiss him back, a desperate, hungry kiss, my bound body arching into him helplessly.
He pulls back, and I chase him, a needy, desperate movement.
"Stay still," he commands, and the authority in his voice stills me.
I lie there, panting, my body trembling with a need so strong it's a physical ache. I watch as he positions himself over me, the thick head of him nudging against my slick entrance.
He braces himself on one arm, his other hand wrapping around his cock, stroking it slowly, teasingly. He’s not rushing this. He’s savoring every second of my surrender.
My gaze is locked on him, on the impressive length and thickness of him. A sliver of fear cuts through the haze of lust. He’s going to put that inside me.
He’s going to ruin me for anyone else.
And God help me; I want him to.
"My arms, sir. Please," I whisper, the plea small and something I don't expect him to answer.
His eyes meet mine, and for a split second, I see something other than raw lust there. Something softer. He reaches up and touches the belt. "If I take it off, are you going to be obedient?"
"I will," I breathe. "I'll be good. I promise."
The belt loosens, then falls away. The cool air rushes over my skin, a strange, unwelcome sensation. I’m free, but I don't feel free. I feel more trapped than ever.
He leans down, braced on his forearms, his body covering mine. His skin is hot against mine, a hard, heavy weight that pins me to the bed. He's a blanket of muscle and power, and I'm completely and utterly at his mercy.
My hands are free, but I don't move them. I can't. The command is too strong, the memory of the leather too fresh.
"Can I move?" I whisper, my words brushing against his lips.
"You can touch me, Erica," he says, a permission and a command rolled into one.
He's right.
I am learning.
The thought should terrify me, shame me.
Instead, it sends a flush of pride through me.
Slowly, hesitantly, I lift my hands, placing them on his chest. His skin is hot, the muscles hard and unyielding beneath my palms. I can feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart, a rhythm that seems to echo the frantic beat of my own.
My fingers trail over a scar on his ribs, a faint, silvery line against his tanned skin. A story I'll never know. A world I can only glimpse.
His gaze is on my face, watching me, reading my every expression.
He wants this. He wants my hands on him, my eyes on him. He wants my surrender to be active, not passive.
My hands continue their exploration, tracing the lines of his stomach, the hard planes of his chest. I’m memorizing him, learning the topography of his body.
He lowers his head, and I think he’s going to kiss me, but he surprises me. His lips trail down my jaw, over my throat, to the sensitive skin of my shoulder. His teeth graze my skin, a sharp, stinging nip that has me gasping, my back arching.
My hands fly to his shoulders, my fingers digging into his muscles, holding on for dear life.
His voice is a low, dark purr against my skin. "That's it. Let me feel you."
His hips press down on mine, the thick, hard length of that cock sliding through my folds, teasing me, tormenting me. A choked whimper escapes my lips, a desperate, needy sound.
He's taking his time, drawing this out, making me wait, making me want. He's a master of control, and my body is his instrument, and he's playing me with a skill that is both terrifying and exhilarating.
He shifts, and the head of him is at my entrance again, nudging, pressing. He’s not just teasing me now. This is happening. Now.
My body tenses, a flinch of primal fear.
"Relax," he murmurs again, his lips brushing against my ear. "I'll make it feel good."
His words are a soothing balm, a dark, hypnotic spell. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to unclench, to yield.
I’m giving him my body.
I’m giving him my trust.
He pushes forward, a slow, deliberate invasion.
The pressure is immense, a stretching, burning sensation that has me crying out, my nails digging into his shoulders. It’s a fine line between pleasure and pain, and he’s walking it with a master’s precision.
"Shh," he murmurs, his lips trailing over my face, kissing away the tears I didn't realize I was crying. "It's just a little pressure."
He pushes forward again, a slow, inexorable slide, and I realize he's right. It's not really pain that I'm feeling, just an overwhelming sensation, a feeling of being utterly, completely filled.
He stills, giving me a moment to adjust to his size, to the sheer, alien presence of him inside me.
He meets resistance. My body's last, desperate defense. He stills, his gaze locking with mine. His eyes are dark, intense, a swirling vortex of lust and something else, something deeper.
His fingers find my clit again, coaxing my body into accepting him, welcoming him. It's a distraction, a wave of sensation that washes away the last of my resistance.
My lids flutter.
"Eyes on me," he commands, his voice low and husky.
My gaze locks with his.
He pushes forward, a final, decisive thrust, then he's fully inside me, buried to the hilt.
His eyes fill my vision. Deep, dark pools that drown me.
"Erica," he breathes my name, his lips brushing against mine.
This is the moment.
The point of no return.
My innocence is gone.
My virginity is gone.
I'm no longer the girl I was when I walked into this room. I'm someone new. Someone changed. Someone who has been bought and paid for. Someone who has begged to be fucked.
A strange, hollow feeling spreads through my chest, a strange mix of grief and relief.
He stays there for a long moment, his body still, giving me a chance to adjust. He’s a strange, paradoxical mix of aggression and restraint.
He leans down, and I expect a punishing kiss, but it’s surprisingly gentle. A slow, languid exploration, a tasting, a learning. He’s not just taking, he’s giving.
My body relaxes around him, the tight, burning ache softening into a dull, heavy throb of pleasure.
My hands, which had been gripping his shoulders in a painful, desperate hold, relax. My fingers trail down his back, exploring the hard planes of muscle, the smooth, warm skin.
"This..." He presses his hips into mine. I cry out and cling to him. "Is mine."
It's dark and possessive, a claim.
Then he starts to move.
It’s a slow, shallow rhythm at first, a gentle rocking motion that has me gasping, my body moving with his. He's not just fucking me; he's making love to me. And that's almost more terrifying than the raw, aggressive act I was expecting.
Because it feels good.
So good.