Chapter 11
LILY
“I’m going to kiss you now. I’m going to see if this mouth of yours tastes just as sweet as your pussy does.
You will not bite me. You will kiss me back.
Show Marco what a good girl you are.” He leans forward and presses a pseudo kiss to my lips, slightly hindered by the placement of his fingers.
His breath feathers over my lips as he pulls back.
“And then I’m going to prepare you for what you want but refuse to admit. ”
Oh. God.
He removes his fingers ever so slowly, drawing them down so my bottom lip tugs down as he does.
Now that my mouth is free, his lips meets mine, firm and demanding with a soft tongue pressing between.
I hesitate allowing him access, giving him something that for some reason seems so much more intimate than everything else he’s done to me.
A kiss feels like surrender in a way that sex doesn’t. It’s a choice, not a reaction . . . and my choice terrifies me. Because I haven’t been kissed like this in years.
I weaken. Each press of his lips, each delve of his tongue, I weaken and give in to that inherent need that wants to be kissed like this.
I kiss him back.
I crave the connection. The need to feel like there is something more.
The need to feel like there is a justification for all of these unexpected emotions and my unequivocal acceptance of the situation I’m in.
I turn myself over to it—to him—because it’s easier to focus on him and the tenderness he’s showing me than to focus on my captivity or the voyeur watching us, waiting to stake his claim someway, somehow.
Scrape.
My heart skips.
My captor loosens his grip from my chin, his rough fingertips rasping across the line of my jaw. I moan softly into the kiss, tears welling in my closed eyes at the ironic reverence of his touch for just a moment before the guilt starts to eat at me.
How I can turn myself over so easily to another man—regardless of circumstances, regardless of the bindings holding me hostage—when Anderson has been it for me for two decades? I drown in the thought when I feel a finger trace the swollen flesh between my thighs.
The touch is a shock to my system, burning away my husband’s name before I can fully hold on to it.
My yelp is frantic. Marco’s touching me.
I try to scoot closer to the man in front of me—my captor.
It’s almost as if I’m looking toward the man who brought me here to protect me from the threat I feel of Marco at my back.
A hand lands sharply on my ass in reprimand.
The force is much harder than before and the sting is sharp and distinct beneath Marco’s now resting palm.
The ache blooms, throbbing outward until it curls low in my belly.
Hands suddenly frame my face as my captor kisses me again, but this time with a commanding desperation. His tongue delves, teeth nip, and his mouth takes more from me.
And while one kisses me from the front, Marco continues to rub his hands back and forth over my bare ass with thumbs just barely grazing my pussy.
It’s hard to concentrate fully on either—the kiss that’s consuming me or the hands that are enticing me.
One doesn’t beat out the other. Both are erotic. Both are sensual. Both are things I want.
My body can’t decide which touch to respond to, so it responds to all of it, trembling under the erotic assault.
Marco’s hands move—two fingers paralleling each other—sliding down the curve of my ass to the tops of my thighs. They stop and slide inward until I can feel them trace over the wetness of my pussy. My body tenses.
My captor releases his hold on my face and his lips leave mine. For a split second, I suck in a breath and try to gain some semblance of balance.
And seconds are all I get before the head of my captor’s dick presses between my parted lips at the same time Marco slides his fingers into me. My gasp allows my captor’s cock to slip farther into my mouth.
Their groans fill the room as the push-pull action leaves me breathless. My body jerks between the two points of contact.
My mind flashes to the thoughts I had previously of biting my captor if he tried this. How he taunted me, told me I’d beg for this. His taste fills my mouth as he presses deeper into me, hitting the back of my throat before pulling slowly back out.
My captor’s hand fists my hair, holding my head still as he fucks my mouth while Marco’s hand grips the flesh on my hip and fingers me in a matching rhythm. My body rides this immoral high as I’m worked into a frenzy.
Sounds fill the room—their groans, the slick sounds of my body being worked, that damn classical music that seems to be on repeat.
Every thrust, every curl of fingers, falls into an obscene harmony.
I’m breathless, overwhelmed, and underequipped to process the onslaught of sensations wracking through my body. My thighs tremble above where my knees are pressed into the bed, and my hands are desperate for the freedom to grip my captor’s shaft.
Oblivious to my thoughts, the men continue, pleasure increasing and my body falling under the spell of unwanted desire. My captor swells and hardens in my mouth, but seconds before I think he’s going to climax, he withdraws, the bed dipping as he drops down so his mouth can meet mine again.
As if taking direction from my captor, Marco’s fingers stop moving but remain idly inside of me.
I thought Marco was in charge though . . .
The stillness is almost worse. It allows the anticipation to sink its claws into me.
My captor pulls back again as I adjust my hips to try and ease the need anchoring me.
I can feel his breath on my face as if he’s staring at me, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s trying to tell me something even though I can’t see his eyes.
The darkness is its own language. Every exhale, every shift of weight, is a sentence I can’t fully translate.
My captor moves again. The bed sways as he moves away from the head of the bed and dismounts off the mattress. But as he walks toward the foot of the bed, he trails a finger from my shoulder and down my spine in that way he did when we first started this.
I suck in a breath, my conflicting emotions raging inside me. I tuck my hips forward as anticipation suffocates the air around me. His fingertip stops and presses at the top of my tailbone the same time he emits a low hum of approval. Feet shuffle and Marco’s fingers withdraw from my pussy.
They murmur to each other. I can’t make out words as it’s soft and muted.
Familiar but not.
I’m exhausted.
Hands grip either side of my hips. My breath quickens and possibilities flicker through my mind.
I don’t know who it is but he spreads me apart and cool air commingles with the pooling moisture.
“You want this don’t you, bella? Look at your pussy quiver and ass pucker in anticipation. Fuck, that’s sexy. Makes us want to claim every single part of you,” he says as one hand releases my hip and his finger trails back down to my clit and then back up.
Us?
There’s a click. A bottle? A . . . I don’t get time to think as one of them pours a cool liquid over my lower back and ass.
It runs down the center of my ass and to my pussy beneath. It’s cold. Thick. Oil? Lube?
I bow my head and wait. Every nerve braces, unsure whether the next touch will soothe or shatter. Fingers spread the lubricant up and down the seam of my slit and then stops. My breath shudders and my nipples tighten instantly when I feel the tip of his finger press against the tight rim of my ass.
And then he pushes it ever so slowly into me.
My muscles reject the intrusion at first. He works his finger in a slow, deliberate circle to relax the muscles. The initial slight discomfort eases as he lets me adjust before pushing up to the first knuckle.
“Ahhh,” he sighs as my lungs burn. “Bellisima.” His other hand soothes over the side of my hip. “We begin.”
With that he starts to move his finger slowly in and out, soft noises of appreciation emanating from behind me as I talk myself into relaxing.
“Preparation is key, bella. I need to loosen these muscles of yours. Open you up. And then you’re going to take us both at the same time. Have you ever been filled? Have you ever felt two cocks moving inside of you? Rubbing against one another in that space between to make you come?”
I moan out at the dark promise of his words and at the slight sting as he pulls out and pushes two fingers into me to stretch me farther.
I’m just about used to the feeling when the head of his dick rests against the entrance to my pussy, taunting me with possibilities of what’s to come.
He leaves it just so—a tantalizing torture for me to crave—before he begins to move his fingers again at a faster pace.
Still on my hands and knees, my head hangs down, my hair tickling my cheeks as it falls over the blindfold.
I absorb everything this is awakening within me. My mind claws for control even as my body folds into the pleasure like it’s been waiting for this exact erotic experience.
I’m not sure what I expected, but I don’t feel much, and then when he thrusts his cock into my pussy and his fingers begin to move again, two worlds of sensations crash together.
His forward movements push his fingers in farther and the hum in the back of my throat involuntarily comes out as my muscles begin to loosen and accept.
He rides me in a slow and steady cadence that allows me to feel every ridge of his crest as he slides in and back against my slick walls.
I lose myself—my thoughts, my guilt, my resistance—in the calming rhythm of his body owning mine.
My breasts jostle forward each time his hips connect with the backs of my thighs and urges the ache to burn a little stronger, a little deeper.
His other hand smooths across my ass, but it’s the feel of a pointed tip of an object firm yet soft that pulls my mind from the haze of mounting pleasure.
He runs the object slowly over one side of my buttocks and then rolls it across my lower back so I can feel the unmistakable shape of the plug.
He then glides the point slowly up between my legs and around his cock and fingers buried within me, a taunting foreplay of what comes next.
My captor continues to trace imaginary lines with the plug over and over, my mind becoming so used to the feeling, the heightened awareness of its course, that I begin to fall back under the rhythm of my building orgasm.
And it’s when I do this, when I allow myself to succumb to the barrage of sensation caused by his skillful cock, that he pulls his fingers out and pushes the plug inside me.
Because it’s a little larger, a little harder, it causes the abundance of nerves there to sing in resistance for a moment.
My body tenses at the lasting burn, earning me a tsk from him.
“Relax. Don’t fight it, bella.” He stills his hips and presses the plug in even farther until it fits within my rim and my muscles flex around it.
My eyes sting from the quick sear of pain, but before I can wriggle my hips away from him, his hands dig into the curves of my ass and squeeze possessively as he slams into me.
The slap of skin on skin mixes with his guttural groan.
I forget that there’s someone else in the room, forget the threat to find pleasure and enjoy, because that option was a forgone conclusion the minute he thrust inside me.
And this time as he works my pussy over and over, my muscles begin to clench around him and the overabundance of nerves stretched around the plug light everything on fire a little stronger, a lot more intense. Every thrust is gasoline, and I’m already a lit match.
The warmth begins to surge through my body—desires and pleasure—colliding in a perfect storm of sensation that I’ve lost the fight to resist. My shoulders sag, my elbows give way, and my chest and shoulders press into the mattress beneath me, giving him one hundred percent control to manipulate my body.
And even though I’d felt the buildup of my orgasm, when it hits me, when my body seizes with the catastrophic depths of pleasure that pulse through my core and reverberate through my every fiber, I’m stunned speechless at the unfettered intensity.
My body writhes uncontrollably, my lips part with a moan, and goosebumps blanket my body despite the heat holding me hostage.
“So beautiful, so responsive,” he murmurs as he stills within me and caresses the curve of my ass. His praise drags me halfway back to consciousness, enough to remember this is still horribly dangerous ground.
I slowly reawaken from my post-orgasmic coma and recognize the unmistakable sounds of Marco stroking himself beside me.
I’m immediately on alert, my synapses firing despite still being drugged from the orgasm’s intoxication.
The awareness of his presence, of the knowledge that he is here getting off watching us, leaves me feeling vulnerable, ashamed.
The slick rhythm of his hand is louder than it should be, a sound that crawls along my skin and makes me want to curl away.
“Are you ready?” my captor asks.
My head whips up. Who is he speaking to? Me or Marco? I exhale slowly, waiting in silent impatience as my captor withdraws from me. The sudden emptiness is unwelcome and unexpected, but I bite back the groan of disapproval because I have a feeling he is no longer the one in control, Marco is.