Chapter 14 Addison #2
“I told you that I get off on telling another man what to do with my lover, but tonight we’re going to reverse things.
Our friend Rowdy is going to be the one directing.
We do what he says. Again,” he continues, “this is to give you a taste of what it’s like when someone else is involved.
Everything physical is just between us, but mentally… ”
“He’s just as much a part of this as we are,” I finish for him.
He smiles indulgently, almost as though he’s proud that I understand, or maybe that I haven’t run away screaming yet.
And I’m a little impressed by that myself.
I can talk a good game—hello, I’m a lawyer for chrissake—but not many of my bluffs actually get called, so I don’t always have to “walk the walk,” so to speak.
But Roman is calling my bluff hard. I’m not a prude by any stretch of the imagination.
I like things wild and crazy and a little kinky.
However, sex has still always been a two-player game for me.
The combo voyeur-exhibition thing that happened with Roman that night was my first and only time involving others, but they were strangers and on the other end of a darkened alley.
It wasn’t hard to put things into a lust-blurred perspective that took it from shocking to alluring.
This is nothing like that, though. This is interacting with the other person, inviting him into my head, which is perhaps a more intimate place than he could enter me physically.
And yet…I’m so fucking turned on right now it’s all I can do to not hike my skirt up, work open Roman’s pants, and straddle him where he sits.
“Roman, tell me what she’s wearing.”
He peruses me as though committing everything to memory before he speaks. “Thin, white blouse that doesn’t do a damn thing to hide the stiff peaks of her nipples. A purple skirt—”
“Plum.” I don’t know why I blurted that out, but I’m not about to backpedal now. “It’s not purple, it’s plum. If you’re going to be the man’s eyes, you should do it right.”
Austin sounds like he’s trying to smother a laugh, and Roman’s mouth quirks up. “I stand corrected. She’s wearing a plum skirt that has silhouettes of large flowers on it. It flows loosely, the hem flirting with her knees. Black stockings with black-and-white heels.”
“Nice,” Austin says, his voice sounding raspier than it was a few seconds ago. “Addie, sweetheart, unbutton your blouse and show us what you have underneath. Roman, while she’s doing that, I want to know what she has under that plum skirt of hers.”
With shaky fingers, I do as I’m told, but I’m too focused on Roman.
He leans forward and smooths his hands up the outside of my thighs, pushing up my skirt and dress slip as he goes.
When he reaches the tops of my thigh-highs, he mutters a curse then rucks all the material around my waist in one quick shove.
His eyes are glued to my undergarments, and I’ve never been so glad for my sexy lingerie addiction than I am right now.
“The little minx is wearing garters, brother.” Austin groans, and I hear the sound a man’s stubble makes when he drags a hand over it come through the line. Roman lifts his eyes to mine. “Garters are one of Rowdy’s weaknesses.”
“Color,” he demands.
“Black with black lace panties,” Roman answers. “Really fucking tiny ones.”
“Jesus. What’s up top?”
By now my shirt is open and pulled out from my waistband, and I’ve clamped my hands on the edge of his desk to keep them from visibly shaking.
“An ivory slip with lace trim. No bra.” He grinds out the last two words like they’re causing him physical pain. “She’s been torturing me all damn day with thoughts of what she had on underneath.”
“And?” Austin asks.
“So fucking worth it,” he rasps.
“Show her,” Austin says. “Suck those pretty tits through the fabric of her slip.”
My mouth goes dry, and my heart races like a galloping horse as Roman’s large hands wrap around my ribs and pull me in closer to stand between his spread legs.
As soon as his mouth fits over one of my nipples, my breath catches, then I moan as he suckles, laving my peak with his tongue and nipping lightly with his teeth.
I thread my fingers into his hair, ruining his carefully styled “Roman” look by mussing it to the point of “Ruthless.”
Every suck, lick, and pull tightens inside my belly, the pleasure shooting straight to my clit and making it thrum in time with my pulse.
His eyes never leave mine, and I barely hear Austin in the background as he says things like, “fuck, yeah,” and, “that sounds hot,” and my personal favorite, “suck ’em like she pays you for it. ”
When I have two huge wet spots over painfully sensitive nipples, he finally gives me a reprieve and sits back. Somehow Austin can tell that he’s stopped—probably from my sudden lack of noises—and asks me, “How’d that feel, sweetheart? Roman do a good job?”
“Yes,” I sigh. “It felt amazing.”
“Good,” he says, his tone pleased. “Now, I want you to strip. Get rid of the shirt, skirt, and the slip. Everything else stays.”
As I shrug my shoulders to let the blouse slide from my arms to the desk behind me, I watch Roman watch me with a hunger like I’ve never seen.
I’ve had plenty of sexual partners leer at me, lust and desire evident on their faces as they stare at my body, which, thanks to my mother’s judgmental influence, I take great pains to keep tight and toned.
But what I see in Roman is more than mere sexual want.
It’s an all-encompassing need. To have me, take me, claim me.
The level of restraint required for him to sit back and let someone else call the shots is etched in the set of his jaw and the steel in his eyes, and I shiver at the thought of all that wildness being unleashed as he takes control of my body and my mind.
Roman palms his erection, rubbing it through his dress pants as he uses his other hand to move his tie out of the way and then starts to unbutton his black shirt.
I step out of my skirt and reach back without looking to drop it on the desk.
He pulls his shirttails out and takes care of the last few buttons, and my breath catches when the sides of his shirt fall apart to reveal male beauty that almost hurts to look at.
Ropes and cords of muscle are bunched beneath smooth, tanned skin.
Tribal tattoos cover each of his pecs and bleed into the ones I know are on his rounded shoulders and all the way down to both wrists.
I don’t have a lick of artistic talent, but I have a sudden urge to paint him, needing to capture his male perfection so I can treasure it even after this comes to an end.
I’m so lost in admiring him, the sound of Austin’s voice startles me. “It’s awfully quiet over there. What’s going on, Roman?”
“She’s taking her sweet-ass time, man. Still has the slip on.”
“If you want me to be efficient, you should stop distracting me,” I say, defiance in my tone. Then, because a tiny, prideful part of me refuses to roll over and submit, I add, “If I’m not doing a good enough job for you, maybe I should just leave the slip on.”
Austin laughs, but Roman remains stoic as he arches a challenging brow. A true testament to the differences in their personalities. Though, with what Austin says next, I suspect he’s got a side to him I haven’t seen. One that isn’t always the jovial jokester he shows the world.
“Roman, put that noose of yours to good use.”
A devilish gleam lights up Roman’s eyes. “Behind or in front?”
“Behind,” Austin answers.
He pulls the knot of his tie free and yanks it off, the whistle of silk singing from the friction, sounding like a whip flying through the air. He leans forward, reaches around me, and expertly binds my wrists, one crossed over the other, checking that it’s tight but not painful.
“How barbaric of you boys.” I know needling them will only get me in more “trouble,” but I can’t help it. The more comfortable I become with this strange situation, the more my sassy side shows, albeit a tamer version of her. “Now that I’m bound, what’s next? Gagged?”
Austin says, “All in good time, darlin’. Roman, you got any scissors in that desk?”
“Of course,” he says smugly. “Never know when you’ll need a good pair of scissors.”
I gasp then narrow my eyes at him. “You wouldn’t.”
But he’s already retrieving them from a drawer, and they’re a hell of a lot more intimidating than the typical pair you get at Office Depot.
These are large and silver and look sharp as hell.
When he holds them up and opens them they literally make the sound of metal glancing metal.
It’s a scene straight out of Edward Scissorhands.
“Hold still, baby,” he says, his gentle tone belying his wicked intentions. “The last thing I want to do is cut you.”
I freeze, not even daring to breathe, and watch with butterflies in my belly as Roman holds the lacey hem in one hand and slips the blades up the center of my lingerie.
He’s careful to keep the sharp tip angled away, but the cold metal of the handle grazes my heated skin.
The contrast makes me shiver, or maybe it’s the simple fact that Roman Reeves is removing my last piece of clothing with a pair of sheers at his friend’s command before he does only Austin-knows-what with me. Yeah, it’s definitely that.
When he completely cuts through the front, Roman makes two more snips, severing the spaghetti straps, and tugs the ruined garment away from my body. “Jesus Christ,” he grinds out.
“How’s she look, bro?”
Roman’s gaze devours me, eating me up inch by inch, from my feet all the way to my face. “Like a fucking wet dream in heels.” His voice drops an octave. “Like she’s mine.”
Fluttery things kick up in my belly to hear him say that, even as my head is warning me that claims made in the heat of the moment are about as solid as the fog that rolls in off Lake Michigan in the morning.
Austin makes a grunting sound of approval. “So then reciprocate, my man. Show your girl what she gets in return.”
My eyes are transfixed on Roman’s hands as they begin to unfasten his belt.
It’s obvious what Austin is going to want me to do next.
Weeks’ worth of anticipation, of wondering what he looks like, how it would feel to have Roman filling my mouth, my lips stretching around his girth, the balls on his piercing running over my tongue…
When he finally has his pants open and pulls himself free, I’m reminded that I’ve never really seen his cock before.
A quick flash in a darkened alley and covered by a condom is nothing to go on, so I’ve been solely dependent on my mind to come up with the details other than size.
But now that I see it completely unfettered and at my visual disposal, I realize just how pathetic my imagination truly is.
His. Cock. Is. Glorious. You know in the movies, when a wide shaft of light pierces through parting clouds like a spotlight from God to illuminate the Magnificently Monumental Thing that everyone should be looking at?
That’s what should happen every time Roman Reeves takes his dick out. It’s that amazing.
It’s long and thick and tan, like he sunbathes in the nude, and ridged with a thick vein on its underside.
And lord have mercy, his piercing. After that night together, I did some research.
He has an apadravya—a barbell that goes down through the center of the head, and its silver balls rub along a woman’s walls, including the G-spot. Halle-frickin-lujah.
I watch greedily as his strong hand strokes up the shaft. A drop of pre-cum beads from the tiny slit just before he swipes his thumb across the tip, making it shiny with his lubrication, and my mouth instantly waters.
As he starts jerking himself off with agonizingly slow pumps inside his fist, he says, “I wish you could see how hungry she is, man. She can’t tear her eyes away. Pupils are dilated, lids at half mast, and she just fucking licked her lips.”
I don’t remember doing that, but to be fair, I’m not very focused on me right now.
“Fuck, we should have thought of doing a video conference,” Austin says almost to himself as Roman arches a thoughtful brow. “Addie, you with me, girl?”
“With you.”
“Good. Now bend at the waist, keep that tight ass high in the air, and suck his big dick.”