Chapter Thirty-Eight
Isla
One second, I was the tacky, porno sexpot with very real need crawling all over my nerves. The next, I was on my back, arms pinned above my head, with over six feet of muscled SEAL between my legs.
“Free use,” he stated in the same maddeningly calm baritone as he gripped my wrists in one hand with those long fingers of his and grabbed my chin with the other. “Know the term?”
Oh God, why was his brand of danger so fucking intoxicating? How did he make his cologne smell so much better against his skin? “What?” I spread my legs wider, the effort straining.
“You heard me.”
“I did.” But I no longer cared. I just needed him to fuck me this second and put me out of my misery. “I’m asking why.” That was the sensible thing to do, right?
Except he didn’t answer my question. A thousand steps ahead, his own questions ready to fire, he waylaid me with my own weakness.
“Why do you think you’re here, Isla? In my suite?
” His gaze dropped to my breasts. “Why are your nipples hard?” His glance dipped even lower, but it was dismissive, almost cold.
“Why are your thighs shaking so prettily as you hold them away from my hips? Your needy little cunt so wet.” His lethally disruptive green-eyed gaze cut back to mine and made a mockery of my tangled emotions.
“Why do you think you submit every time I put a hand on you?” Presiding over his battlefield, his dominance as looming as his control, he wasn’t asking something he didn’t know the answer to.
And I didn’t give a shit why I was here anymore.
I just was. “You want me to think those are rhetorical questions.” I couldn’t think anymore, period.
I was a pulsing, empty cunt stamped with his markings of insult, aggression, and danger.
Not pussy, not vagina, not some other flowery feminine word that had dignity or class.
No, I was exactly as he’d said. A needy little cunt.
He laid the demand on me with a steeled command but soft delivery. “Acknowledge who you are.”
What kind of fucking game was this? And how was he so masterful at it? “I’m Isla Sennan.”
“No.”
The firmness of his tone, the authoritative dominance, the resolute proclamation almost sounding like veneration, I stared up at him and stilled. Truly stilled. And truly looked at him.
My God, he was going to ruin me.
My mouth watered, my soul reached for exactly what I’d asked for, and my voice changed. Soft, quiet. Childlike. “No?”
He provided. “You’re a submissive who’s been adrift.”
Yes.
“You want my dominance.”
So much yes. I breathed.
“You want to be at my mercy.”
Beyond speaking, my body floated.
“You want to feel that loss of control.”
Paresthesia spread as if I were finally, finally free.
He lowered his already potently deep voice. “You want what I’m offering.” His mouth hovering, his heated breath beckoned. “Say yes.”
A whispering traitor tiptoed across the back of my mind, pulling away the heavy drapes of lust from the bright windows of reality. This isn’t real. This is too good to be true. Ask. “To?”
“Me.” A warfighter’s chest rose with an inhale that was calculating, but I missed it. “For your agency.” He came closer still. “For forty-eight hours.”
Freedom. I wanted to beg. Unravel. Feel. But he had qualified. “And then?”
He leaned. Lips touched. Breaths mingled. And then he removed the obstacle I’d wanted gone from the very beginning—he stripped the decision away from me. “Then I decide where we go from there.”
I begged. “Please.”
He asked. “Yes?”
I answered. “Yes.”
The grip on my hair was instant, but the yank of my body to the floor was metamorphic. In less than a blink, I went from being pinned on the bed in suspended heat to a quivering mess of anticipation on all fours, ready to kiss his dress shoes.
“On your knees.” Thunderous and hard, his order was a defining, awakening slap to my free will.
I surrender.
My hair was jerked, but I willingly rose to my knees and looked up—right at his erection.
Trapped and straining against his wet pants coated in my musk, his huge, broad cock angled from the seam of his crotch to the sleek, designer metal of his belt buckle.
My mouth watered.
His hand tightened.
Pins and needles spread across my scalp.
He barked faraway words. “Is the ten grand from your brother?”
My brain made my lips move. “Yes.” I reached for his zipper.
His harsh voice reprimanded. “Hands on your thighs.”
My arms dropped. My fingers dug into my flesh. His cock in my face, and the desire dripping out of me, made me beg. “I want to taste.”
With two quick, forceful movements, he unbuckled his belt and whipped it out of the loops. One twist, and a length of the leather was wrapped around his hand. “Was your brother on the Teams?”
Oh God, a belt. “Yes.”
“Why is he hunting me?”
What was he going to do with that belt? “What?”
He stepped back.
NO. No, no, no. “Wait.”
“WHY IS YOUR brOTHER HUNTING ME?” The punitive accusation exploded as loud as his voice, and everything crashed.
I crashed. “He’s not!” I yelled. “I told him not to.” I told him not to.
“Not good enough.” The demanding dominant or expert interrogator—I no longer knew which—jerked the hand still gripping my hair.
Prickling sting spread, and it happened in an instant. Guttural and ugly and pathetic, fear crawled from my throat. “D-Don’t let go of me! He’s protective.” I am little. “That’s all.” So, so little. “I’m sorry.” Do not let go. “Come back.” Come back, come back, come back. “I can’t breathe.”
He stepped forward.
Wet relief hit my cheeks. “Thank you.”
“Do you want my cock?”
Oh God. “Yes.” My cunt pulsed, and my hips gyrated.
With a sudden twist of his wrist, the leather of his belt snapped against his thigh. “Are you lying about who you are?”
No! “NO.” I was need. I was his. I was whispering. “I’m submissive.”
The belt hit the floor, and his voice turned to darkly sensual flowing water. “You may undo my pants, ma petite intruse.”