Chapter 7
LILY
Oh God. I’ve never done this.
Fuck.
I’m twisted into a weird position when he undoes my left hand. And as soon as my left hand is free he puts my right hand in that restraint.
Trepidation trickles down my spine.
He’s turning me over.
It’s not like I haven’t been vulnerable this entire time—blindfolded, restrained, spread-eagle—but something about this new position makes me feel even more so.
Anderson has never . . . never wanted to take me like this.
“I’ll loosen them in a momento,” he murmurs as he does the same to my legs until I’m completely turned around with my cheek turned and resting on the mattress.
“Hands and knees, bella,” he orders.
And then as he promised, once all four are fastened, he begins loosening them evenly so there’s ample slack.
Jesus. He wants my ass in the air. Just do what he says, Lily.
“Up one your elbows, bella,” he murmurs. “Up on your knees.” A hum of approval. “There you go.”
He helps slide my knees into the position he wants.
I can feel the cool air of the room against the now heated flesh between my thighs.
My breasts hang heavily. Their weight’s an odd sensation against my swollen nipples, almost as if releasing the clamps made more blood flow there.
Made them more sensitive than they’ve ever been before.
The blindfold remains in place, and yet I can’t help but dart my eyes against the blackness as the floor creaks near the end of the bed.
His groan says he’s studying me. I imagine the faceless man standing there and tracing the lines of my ass and my pussy and dreaming up what he’ll do next.
My body clenches at the thought.
This is so fucked up. I, especially, am fucked up.
He groans again. It sounds different this time. Deep. Guttural. Carnal.
He rests his palm on the curve of my ass and I no longer care about why his groan sounds different.
What I do care about is what that palm and those fingers plan on doing to me.
“Ah, Lily. This ass is perfection. I want it pink from your punishment. I want it fucked by my fingers. I want it filled, stuffed, wrecked, while I fuck you long and deep with my cock in that willing pussy of yours.”
My hips jerk forward before I can stop them, shame burning hotter than the wax ever did. My body trembles and arousal thickens. Fear and desire are a potent combination impossible to deny regardless of how hard I fight it.
His hand moves. Softly. Caressing.
Over my hips to my inner thighs, featherlight over my pussy.
A fast, flicking circle over my clit. I moan and my head lolls forward at his touch.
It’s constant. It’s firm. It’s not quite hard enough to provide the needed friction to bring me to climax but has the blood rushing there, creating that fine edge of being painful.
He’s forcing my body to want him. Not in spite of the pain, but because of it.
The slap to my ass takes me by surprise, fooled naively by the gentle nature of his caress.
“Fuck,” I cry, back arching, breasts jostling, pussy clenching as the leather strips, of what I can assume is a flogger, whips sharp pain into my bare flesh.
My punishment. It’s here.
I steel myself for the next whip when he pushes into me in one, slick thrust.
Oh my God.
He presses deep into me. He’s hard and long and I can’t fit him all. My body bucks in response as I stretch and burn to accommodate him. I clench around him—I can’t help it—and my grip causes him to drag over every goddamn nerve within.
I’d like to say my strangled moan is a protest.
It’s not.
There’s no place for shame right now. No room for thought.
If I thought there’d been enough foreplay to warm me up to accept his size, I was far off base. And he must know that because he stays there, seated deep inside me so I’m forced to adjust to him. To let the burn yield.
It’s like being split open and branded all at once.
Pleasure and pain.
I never quite understood the magnitude of that phrase. Until now. Until he starts to move within me, filling me, stretching me, taking me without asking.
He pulls out, taps his cock against my entrance once or twice and then thrusts back in again, giving me no room for air. He’s buried to the hilt. My body convulses with the sensation, while he grips my hip with one hand, forcing me to ride out the assault on my senses.
And just when I do, right when I come back up for air, he whips me again with the flogger.
“No,” I cry out.
Yes.
Please.
This time when my body tenses from the tiny splinters of pain, my pussy clenches around him. He uses that moment to withdraw so he’s squeezed tight as he does. Sparks of pleasure ignite within me. The tightening, the fullness, the jerk of our bodies together. The pleasurable assault on my nerves.
“Oh God.” No. I’m full of awareness as my body welcomes the contrast of sensations.
It. Shouldn’t. Feel. This. Good.
He doesn’t stop. Not for a beat. Not for a breath. Not for anything. He moves in a distinct rhythm, his hips slapping against mine while the flogger—what feels like leather with rounded tips—trails slowly over my back.
A tease. A taunt. A foreshadowing of what’s to come.
I’m trying to focus but can’t because I’m too distracted, too—
The flogger lifts from my skin. I tense and prepare for the quick bite of pain.
And it comes. Quick and sharp and then lifts back up off my skin. The next time it’s a soft caress over my shoulders. The one after, a lick of heat on the side of my ass.
He keeps me in suspense with each brand of it. Switching it up. Always unexpected.
I am so preoccupied with the flogger, whether its next movement will bring me pleasure or pain, that I don’t realize my body vibrates on the cusp of my next orgasm.
My back burns with the little licks he’s inflicted while my muscles grip him so tightly that my body feels like a bomb about to detonate.
My head falls forward, and my arms buckle momentarily from holding me up. My mind spins in this pseudo-reality as my thighs tense and my back arches.
The orgasm hits me like a runaway freight train—hard, fast, and unrelenting. It’s so powerful—so everything—that I try to pull away from him, try to press my hips forward to relieve the depth he’s penetrated, but I can’t.
There’s no escape this time.
Not from sensations. Not from him. Not from the high.
He grips the sides of my ass harder, holding me still while he grinds his hips against me firmly.
I can’t take any more. The force of the orgasm. The merciless onslaught of sensations barraging my system. It’s all too—
“No. Stop. No.” Three words in broken gasps as I try to crawl away from him.
I get one knee forward, causing him to slip out of me.
“Bella.” It’s a gritted warning seconds before his hands grab my hips and yank me back to him. Back in me.
“Please.” It’s a pant. A plea.
He fists the back of my hair and tugs my head back, his mouth at my ear. “You don’t deny me. You take what I give you, bella, and right now, it’s me. Hard. Fast. For as long as I fucking want.”
He slams into me from behind, bottoming out in the best way. In the worst way. I can’t process which way because my climax continues to tremor through me. It’s the dominance in his voice and the ownership in his touch that reignites the climax I just had.
“Until I stop.” He reinforces his threat by tightening his grip on my hair as he continues his punishing rhythm, our bodies connecting with a jolt that reverberates through me and then back.
I squirm. My body’s on fire. Every part of me being pulled, dragged, seduced toward what feels like the never-ending precipice of ecstasy. My fingers grip the sheets. My toes curl. My breath falters as the sparks of pleasure turn into a full-blown wildfire.
Escaping the fallout is impossible.
Burned and bruised by the flames of desire, I have no option but to succumb to the heat pulsing within me. I shake my head in silent protest as an incoherent whimper slips out seconds before my elbows and knees buckle under the weight of release.
My cheek presses against the sheet, and it’s cool and welcome. A slight reprieve to his relentless pursuit as he continues to fuck me from behind.
His hips piston and hand tightens. The guttural groan he releases sounds nothing like the controlling man I’ve encountered.
He gives one last, violent thrust as his cock jerks inside of me. A litany of Italian words that I don’t understand fill the room.
His erratic thrusts to draw out the last of his release causes my shoulders to push into the mattress.
Exhausted. I’m so spent. So tired. My muscles loosen as he lowers my hips to the bed below. It’s the unexpected kiss he presses to the space above the swell of my ass that startles me. An oddly intimate action. One that’s overshadowed by the fatigue rioting through me.
For the first time, I welcome the darkness the blindfold provides, the cover it gives, as I use it to block out his confusing display of tenderness.