Two
Amelia
“One scream,” I gasp against his grip, “and they’ll all come.”
He tilts his head, his gaze on my face, dropping to my mouth, and running on down my body.
“You’re flushed,” he murmurs.
“Of course I’m flushed,” I retort. “You’re pinning me to a fucking wall.”
“Your lips are parted, your breathing is light, and your nipples are hard.”
What the hell is he implying?
“It’s cold out here—”
“No, it isn’t.” His hand drops away from my throat. “Shall we see if you’re wet?”
“No!” Is he serious? I try to squirm away, but the wall gives me nowhere to go. Both my wrists are locked in one hand, and he’s not even straining. That body isn’t just for show. He’s so goddamn strong.
His hand doesn’t push between my legs like I braced for. Instead, he’s holding an object, matte-black and difficult to see in the gloom. A blade snaps out, curved and wickedly sharp, shaped like a claw, the metal gleaming dully.
I freeze, fear rushing through me like ice.
“Scream, if you like,” he murmurs. “I don’t mind an audience. Do you?”
An audience? To what? Him murdering me?
“Keep still, my raven-haired beauty,” he warns.
His? I’m so far from his, but I swallow my protests.
Keeping still isn’t difficult, not with fear locking every muscle in place.
That knife is far too goddamn real, and so close.
I do not want to be cut, but I can’t fight him off.
He has a hundred pounds on me, solid muscles with not an ounce of fat.
The tip of his blade hooks my right strap, pulling the fabric taut enough for him to slide it beneath. There’s a snip, and my dress falls loose. That damn knife is sharp, cutting through like it was a single thread, not two inches of medium-quality silk-and-polyester blend.
Why does he even carry a weapon like this?
It’s all too surreal. I can’t focus on anything but the proximity of that blade, and how methodically he’s stripping away my defenses.
He does the same on the other side, and that one parts just as easily. He tugs me a fraction clear of the wall, so my shoulders are no longer pinning the material, and the fabric slips to my waist, bunching there.
Humiliation floods through me, and now my fear isn’t of being cut, it’s more primal. My only hope is that Van Wyk isn’t acting out of hate or rage. He’s composed and deliberate. Will he listen to reason?
“That’s enough… please…”
“Nice bra,” he murmurs, ignoring my begging.
Yeah, it is—a black lacy balconette, and he should never have been able to see it. He hooks the tip of his blade beneath the middle part, between the cups. A faint snick, and it falls open too.
Three hundred dollars from Agent Provocateur, a treat to myself, and I’ve barely worn it. Bastard.
So not the concern right now, Amelia.
But I can’t help it. It’s all too distant and thin, like it’s happening to someone else. I can’t persuade myself it’s real.
He folds the blade away and slides the knife back into his pocket.
It’s only then that I realize I’ve stopped breathing, and take in air with a shudder.
Brushing my ruined bra aside, he palms my breast, squeezing slow, like he has all night to decide what he wants from me.
I whimper, and the sound comes out too close to the noises I make when I want this.
“Have you made a decision?” he asks, voice still eerily quiet.
About what?
Oh.
“I’ll… I’ll suck you,” I whisper. It’s the better option than the humiliation of being bent over a table and spanked.
No. There is no better option. They’re both awful.
“That’s happening anyway,” he promises. “But I meant on whether or not you were going to scream.” His thumb and finger find my nipple, rolling it, pulling it, and I hate the way sparks shoot straight down through me. “Do you want an audience before we begin?”
He’s taunting me, I know he is. I’m not going to scream.
What’s the goddamn point? I heard him myself, not long ago: ensure we’re not disturbed.
That man’s waiting at the other side of the door right now.
A room full of witnesses watched Serranto grab my wrist hard enough to bruise, and not one of them said a word.
No one cares. Out here, Van Wyk’s own man stands guard, and I already know how this ends.
He seems to be waiting for an answer. His fingers are still playing with my breast. My nipple is so tight, every touch is sending tingles through my whole damn body, making it difficult to think.
“No…” I force out, hating that it’s pointless.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and releases me, stepping away.
I slump in relief against the wall, breathing coming too fast, brain short-circuiting.
Good girl? Good-fucking-girl?
But at least he’s let me go.
He collects the jacket from the table. I can’t exactly walk back in there wearing a dress that’s only useful from the waist down and a bra that has been rendered nothing more than an accessory.
I’m half relieved the rest of it was only an empty threat, but I’m still going to look like a used hooker as I walk out of here.
That fucker.
But he doesn’t give me the jacket to wear. He folds it in two, then in half again, laying it on the ground between us.
“On your knees.”
I stare at him in disbelief. Then down at the jacket, a cushion for me to kneel on.
That’s almost fucking thoughtful, and I hate him a little more for it.
He’s stripping off his own jacket, laying it carefully over the table—his, apparently, doesn’t touch the ground. He watches me expectantly, but I can’t bring myself to move. Is this really happening?
“Now,” he says, hand flying out, catching my throat again. He moves so goddamn fast, like a panther pouncing.
His grip pulls me down, and I have no option but to sink to the ground. My legs are trembling, my knees hit the jacket. His other hand goes to his belt, right before my eyes. I can’t look away.
It takes him only seconds to unfasten his pants, shoving them and his boxers down to mid-thigh. His cock is hard, thick, and impossibly long, straining up toward my face, the end glistening in the dim light.
“Open,” he prompts, like I’ve forgotten what to do. The head of his cock presses against my lips. “And you don’t want to know what will happen if I feel your teeth.”
In truth, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Perhaps it should’ve, I realize, as my lips part and his cock slides in over my tongue. Yet I don’t know if it’s the speed of events, or that I’m simply too damn terrified, but I’ve given no thought to fighting him.
He drives into my mouth. I try to pull away, whimpering my protest. His hand clenches on my braid, holding my head for him.
“Yes,” he hisses. “That is how you say sorry.”
Utter. Bastard.
Tears prickle at my eyes. The taste of him spreads across my tongue. He’s so damn thick that my jaw is already aching. I close a hand around his shaft to stop him going too deep.
“No touching,” he says quickly, jerking my braid to emphasize his command. “Mouth and throat only.”
I’m bracing my palms against his thighs before I even realize I’ve obeyed. Then his words sink in. Mouth and throat? Is that even possible? He’s bigger than anyone I’ve ever been with, and not by a small margin.
He pulls his shirt up and out of the way with his free hand, and his abdominals are ridges and bumps in the light.
Even forced to my knees before him, I can’t deny his body is incredible, and the muscles of his thighs are cords beneath my hands.
I’m no longer convinced he maintains that body just for narcissistic indulgence. Not when he has that knife.
My mouth is being fucked by a man who redefines predator.
He pushes in slow, the girth of his cock stretching my lips.
I don’t have any control, not with my hands on his thighs, and that feeds the whole submission of this audacious act.
I’m hyper-aware of everything; the heady scent of his arousal, the faint breeze of the night on my bare, exposed breasts.
The way his grip pulls on my braid, bringing a tingle to my scalp. The taste of his sweet-salty precum.
And the growing ache between my legs, my pussy throbbing in time to my pulse.
Why is this turning me on? That’s just wrong.
Van Wyk draws back before he’s gone too deep, then pushes in again, using my mouth as he pleases. He hasn’t made a sound yet, his breathing steady and even, like he’s controlling everything—himself as much as me.
I’m on my knees, my dress and bra ruined, having my mouth fucked by a man whose first name I can’t remember.
Lukas. That’s what it is.
I don’t want this. I don’t deserve this. I said I’m sorry; isn’t that enough?
He draws back, every move still deliberate and excruciatingly slow, like he’s drawing out his pleasure and my humiliation. He’s punishing me, because I called a man I don’t know an asshole, a bastard, and… impotent.
Evidently so very, very wrong.
I meant it for Serranto, that fucker. Lukas caught the brunt of it, because it pissed me off that he stood there and did nothing.
Regardless, he’s doing something now.
Part of me wonders if he just wanted an excuse.
“Sweet fucking mouth,” he mutters, holding my head to him by means of my braid, his hips pushing forward until his cock is so deep in my throat that I can’t breathe.
I’m fighting not to gag. The seconds tick by, then he pulls back, and I gratefully suck in a lungful of air, looking up at him with tears in my eyes.
“Fuck,” he says on a breath. “Yes, look at me like that when I use you. I love the vulnerability and heat in your eyes.”
My vulnerability? Fuck. But he’s controlled me every step of the way, and I’ve responded. Heat? He’s fucking delusional. I’m not liking this.
But it’s the other bit that hits hardest. When I use you… like this won’t be the last time.
It most certainly will. I’m not gatecrashing any more parties, ever. And I’m sure as hell running a mile if I see this man again. Or going to the cops.
Yeah, like that’ll do any good. His word against mine, with Serranto backing him.
He starts fucking my mouth harder than before, his arousal growing, his need to come driving his pace.
His cock is slick with my saliva, each thrust pushing deep, the obscene wet choking noise loud with every drive, my throat aching. I’m ready for him to come, if only so this will end.
On sore knees despite the jacket, my breasts exposed, my nipples tight and aching for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold, I don’t have a choice. I’d be better off ending this quickly.
I start sucking him for real, using my tongue and lips as he moves, becoming an active participant, not merely a hole for him to fuck.
His grip tightens on my braid. “That’s my good girl.”
His? Never.
A stranger, taking me on a terrace, exposed to every building around us. I said no and he ignored me. Did he expect me to want this? Good girls don’t drop to their knees before men they’ve only just met.
Except I did. So what do I know?
It’ll be over in a minute, when he finally comes. Then I can say sorry again, pull together the shreds of my clothes and dignity, and escape him. Somehow figure out how to get home.
His strokes are getting shorter, faster. His grip is so tight on my braid, it’s almost painful on my scalp. He’s holding me steady, not going so deep, not letting me move, and I think that means he’s close. I lick him as best I can, desperate for this to be over, the taste of his precum stronger.
Then his thighs tense beneath my palms, his breathing ragged.
His body goes still, his cock just inside my lips, and with an explosive grunt, the first spurt of his cum shoots forcefully over my tongue.
I shudder as I feel it, my eyes closing in revulsion, but that only makes it easier to taste him, so salty and thick.
I catch the next jet and the next, then I have to swallow, there’s so much of it.
It slides down my throat, inside my body, and he groans low, a sound of pure satisfaction.
“Lick me clean,” he breathes.
I haven’t spilled any, my lips tight around him.
But at his words, my tongue plays over the head of him like it’s instinctive, licking every last drop.
He jerks like he’s sensitive, pushes forward into my throat one last time, then slips out.
He tucks himself away, pulls up his boxers and pants, but doesn’t bother to refasten his belt.
I look up at him, still swallowing, wishing I had a drink.
Am I expecting another ‘good girl’ now? Just let him dare.
But it doesn’t come. He simply takes a hold of my braid and pulls me to my feet, dragging me forward. “Over the table.”
“Wait!” I protest feebly, even as the edge of the wood bites into my thighs, and he pushes me forward. “I did what you wanted. No more. Please.”
I hate that I sound like I’m begging, but I don’t want to be spanked. Sucking him is one thing. Making him come is strangely empowering, even forced. But being punished like this? It’s degrading and humiliating. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman, not a child.
“I gave you the choice, and you opted for both,” he reminds me.
“I never fucking opted for any of it.”
He chuckles, unbothered. “But you’re not hating it, are you?”
Is that what he thinks? I really am, just not as much as I hate him.
One hand is still using my braid like a handle, forcing me down against the wood that’s cold against my breasts. His other pulls the back of my dress up to my waist.
Van Wyk leans over me, his mouth so close I can feel his breath on my ear. “Here’s another choice: you can apologize and beg for me to spank you, and then I’ll fuck your pussy. Or you can be recalcitrant, in which case I’ll take your ass.”