Chapter 11 #2
Elliot let out a low hiss as his fingers traveled along the lace then skirted up to my sensitive inner thighs, never reaching the soaking apex that was practically crying out for his attention.
Instead, his hands crept to my bare ass, palming it roughly, protectively before lifting me up.
My legs wrapped around his waist, a mewl of pleasure leaving me as my panties brushed against his hard cock, trying to escape the fabric of his jeans.
Our mouths stayed connected as he carried me, expertly navigating the tables even with his mouth plastered to mine. An impressive feat since we didn’t even bump into a chair.
Then again, we could’ve crashed through a wall, and I doubt I would’ve noticed since my mind and my body were wrapped up in Elliot so completely.
My ass hit the cold surface of what I deduced was the bar, Elliot detaching from me only to hoist my skirt upward so it bunched at my hips, revealing my garters, stockings, and lace underwear, which did little to hide anything.
The weight of Elliot’s gaze on my lace-covered pussy was a physical thing.
He let out a low groan that reverberated through my bones and was more animal than human.
Gone was the easygoing fisherman with the twinkling eyes. Those eyes were now smoldering pits of lust, swallowing me whole.
When his gaze focused on the apex of my thighs, I bit my lip, spreading myself wider for him, a brazen action that had me vibrating with feminine power.
The flare in his eyes, the clenching of his jaw… All signs that he was unraveling from desire at being presented with my pussy.
There was a glint in his eye that said he wanted to possess it, sure. But there was something more reverent too, like he wanted to worship me. It zapped my insides with a sensation that was more than just desire.
No man had looked at me like that.
He shifted his stare from where I’d spread for him, with a gesture that looked painful.
My eyes went from his to his cock, visibly straining in his jeans.
I hungrily reached forward for his belt, desperate to expose it, to have it plunging inside of me.
I’d wanted his mouth first, wanted to enshrine my power in this dynamic, to prioritize my pleasure, as I always did in sexual situations.
To assert my dominance. But foreplay suddenly seemed inconsequential—which was saying something since I knew firsthand how skilled he was in oral sex.
Suddenly, all I wanted was to be filled up with Elliot.
“Hands on the bar.” My arms freezing in their tracks at the rigidity in his tone.
My head tilted upward, finding that expression of control, power. That Dom energy from the first night shimmering between us.
Again, unexpectedly, a flood of desire pooled between my legs at the command, at the raw power in his tone.
And again, unexpectedly, my hands moved of their own accord, obeying his barked order.
“Palms flat,” he instructed, voice guttural.
He wasn’t hiding his hunger for me. The way the entire tenor of his voice changed with it again showed that though he was giving the orders, I had power over him too. A combination of roles I’d never experienced, and something I was a big fucking fan of.
My scalding-hot palms found the cool bar top.
I watched him with expectation, my legs spread wide on the bar which only an hour ago had been full of people drinking, chatting.
The large room was empty, and it should’ve felt overly exposing, but it felt like the entire world had shrunk to only me, Elliot and that bar.
His eyes crawled over me hungrily, like a predator, pausing for five seconds—I counted, breathing rapidly—on my lace-covered pussy before he progressed upward.
I expected the obvious—him to touch me where I was begging for it, where he was obviously desperate to. Maybe a kiss. Maybe ripping my clothes from my body like a caveman.
Any of the above would’ve been welcome right then, anything to relieve the pressure building inside me, reaching a bottleneck.
He stepped forward, in between my legs, and I reveled in his warmth, his scent, waiting for him to consume me. Either set of lips, I wasn’t picky at that point. Okay, I might’ve been a little picky since I was desperate for an orgasm.
Instead of laying his lips on me … anywhere, he reached behind me, mouth inches from mine as he did so, his hands going to the clip that fastened my hair to the nape of my neck.
To my surprise, he pulled it free, tossing it somewhere behind the bar where it landed with a clatter.
“That was a Prada hair clip.” I tried to sound scolding, but my voice was too thin and wispy.
His eyes kept mine prisoner as they lit up, amusement mingling with wanton hunger. “Don’t know what the fuck that means, and don’t care.”
My body tingled as his fingers ran through my hair, combing the strands, the sensation unexpected and somehow erotic.
I hadn’t thought I was into fucking hair play.
But it seemed I was into anything as long as Elliot Shaw was involved.Elliot leaned back slightly, a handful of hair locked around his finger as he twirled it, watching it with wonder.
“Been wanting to see you like this.” His gaze roved over the rest of my head then my face. “Unraveled,” he added. “I want to unravel you, Calliope Derrick.”
I didn’t understand the depth of the meaning behind his words, but at that moment, that’s all I wanted from Elliot, not understanding how dangerous it was.
Before I could spend too long digesting the words, Elliot grabbed the hair and yanked backward.
I gasped at the explosion of pain—not unbearable, not even uncomfortable—as he exposed my neck, leaning in to graze it with his lips, pausing for a long, audible inhale.
My hands stayed planted on the bar, my head back, the most exposed I’d been to a man in my life, and somehow, I still had all my clothes on.
Elliot didn’t linger for long, the pressure at my scalp letting up as his fingers skated downward to the buttons on my blouse.
“Only reason I’m not decorating this floor with these buttons is that I don’t want you leaving here shirtless.” I stifled a moan as his large fingers deftly undid the first delicate button.
“Do it,” I whispered, reason leaving my body as I skimmed his tee shirt with my eyes. A plan formed. A juvenile, reckless one, but a plan, nonetheless.
Without a second thought, his fingers grasped the sides of the handmade silk blouse, ripping it apart.
As he had promised, buttons went flying, clattering softly onto the floor.
As though magnetized, Elliot’s palms took possession of my peaked nipples, straining through the fabric of my bra.
I gasped at the perfect pressure he used, hand slipping between the lace so I could feel his rough palm against my electrified skin.
He leaned forward to suck through the lace, my sensitive nipples exploding with sensation. I threw my head back in pleasure as he worked one then the other, his hand traveling down to the edge of my panties, teasing me there, brushing against the entrance to my core.
I wriggled against him, my palms still flat on the bar, desperate to tear through his hair, to push his head downward to where I needed him most.
I wasn’t handcuffed. I had agency, was well within my rights to move should I want to. But Elliot had told me not to. And he’d tell me when to move my hands. I wasn’t in control of that. I didn’t have to worry about making choices.
The thought made me sink farther onto the bar, into the moment. What a relief. To be free of choices.
With devastating slowness, Elliot moved down my body, his fingers tracing over every inch of my garters, mimicking the designs in the lace.
It was torture.
It was devastating. Erotic.
He looked up at me. “You have a lot of things like this?” he asked, voice hoarse. His eyes returned to the lace.
I nodded. French lingerie was a guilty pleasure of mine. Among a lot of other things.
“Gonna need to see them. Every single one.”
That was probably when I should’ve clarified that he wouldn’t see them because this was the last time we’d be having sex, but the thought of that caused me physical pain, so I just nodded, desperate to please him.
“I didn’t think I much cared for the finer things in life,” he continued, hands hooking around my panties before lifting my hips upward so he could roll them down. He let out an appreciative grunt once he’d hurled my panties off to some corner of the restaurant.
“But you are the finest thing I’ve ever tasted, and I fear I’ve developed a taste for you.” Before I could process his words, he hooked my legs upward and bent down so he could taste.
Not just taste but feast.
My body curled backward, hips instinctively lifting up toward him as his mouth centered on the perfect spot, coaxing me to the peak of pleasure.
Time and space meant nothing. Only Elliot’s fingers pressing into the backs of my thighs, only the cool bar against my palms and the explosive pleasure of his mouth working my pussy.
My climax came intense and fast, with me crying out in abandon. But Elliot didn’t stop. Didn’t give me a second of reprieve, he just kept going mercilessly. A second climax met my first before I could even get my fractured breathing under control.
Elliot took his time to coax me downward, mouth working almost lazily toward the end, the stroke of his tongue against my sensitive flesh making my entire body quiver with aftershocks.
He looked up at me, a blond curl across his head, smoky eyes dancing with unmasked arousal.
“The finest thing in life.” His pink tongue snuck out to lick his plump bottom lip. “This cunt.”
He didn’t give me a second to recover from the statement, from the unyielding pleasure. His grip was firm on my hips as he set me down, kicking bar stools out of the way in order to turn me around.
“Palms on the bar, ass up, legs spread,” he ordered hoarsely.
My ankles ached from the task of keeping myself upright, my limbs like jelly but my body finding it impossible not to heed his command.