Chapter 47 #2
His eyes are wild, a lighter blue than the sky outside and lighter still for the sun coming through the windows. There’s sweat on the bridge of his nose now, and I can see every cord of his throat as he fights against the restraints again.
I drag the cap along the top of his organ, around the blunt, flared head. And then he grunts like he’s been kicked in the stomach when I tilt my hand and use my knuckle to stroke the velvet underside instead.
My pulse is kicking fast in my veins, my clitoris swelling and aching between my legs, and I want more than anything to loosen his bonds so he can come down and fuck me like he’s been refusing to do since I came back.
At the same time, having Ryan Bell strapped to a cross and whimpering for me, sweating and thrashing…that is a wickedness I need no serpent to tempt me into.
Plus he deserves it.
“Please,” he groans after I don’t touch him again. He tries to move his hips into my touch, but he can’t, and he sags against the restraints. “It hurts, sweetheart. It hurts like this.”
I believe him. Moisture has slicked the head of his cock, and the veins on the side are swollen and pulsing. His testicles have already started pulling up to his body.
I pocket the pencil and then lightly dance my fingertips over the shape of him. I’m rewarded with another violent wriggle, a vain attempt to get more of his erection into my hands. I immediately lift my hands away.
“You are a demon,” he gasps.
“I could do worse,” I dare to say, reaching up to press my fingers to his lips. He snaps at me with his teeth—not hard, just enough to really try to nibble at me before I pull away—but he doesn’t succeed. I barely recognize myself as I prompt, “Would you like me to do worse?”
I drop my hands back to his cock and give him a firm, two-handed stroke. His eyes flutter closed.
“I’d like to see you try,” he says in a mumble.
Me too, I almost say, having no idea what I’m really doing but also too on fire to care.
I have him snapping like a rabid dog that’s been leashed to a tree.
My cunt nearly hurts for how much attention it needs.
With him, there is an acceptance, an unconditional greed that excuses any inexperience or clumsiness or hesitation.
I let go and climb down the ladder, ignoring his rasped demands and pleas as I do. I untie my apron, unwind the ties from my waist, and set the apron on the floor next to the base of the cross before walking over to the nearby chair and facing him.
He watches me with a sulky expression—or at least as sulky as he can be while he’s hard and sweating on a cross—and then his expression grows grim as I start unbuttoning my shirt and toeing off my unlaced boots.
“I’m not God, Birdie,” warns Bell in a jagged voice. “I won’t forgive you so easily when this is over.”
I smile at him as I leave the unbuttoned shirt on but unbutton and then unzip my trousers. I take them off and then my underwear and socks.
And then I sit in the chair and open my thighs.
Bell makes a genuinely miserable sound as a string of clear fluid drips from his crown, gleaming in the light like gossamer. It takes forever to reach the floor.
I can feel immediately that I’m wet as the air of the studio kisses along my center.
I’m close enough that Bell can see every detail, far enough away that the angles line up perfectly.
He can see everything as I slide my own hand up the inside of my thigh and pause at the crease where thigh meets groin.
He can see when I cover my pussy with my hand and then use two fingers to part myself even more.
When I expose the slick channel he paid so much money to use.
He yanks again at the leather binding his arms to the patibulum, nearly growling.
It is the most animal I’ve ever seen him, the most out of control.
Even that first time in the studio, even the kiss before he left the warehouse for a week—the only time I can think of seeing its equal is when he pulled me away from the twister, but even then, his face had been that of a warring angel, full of a fierce and fervent arrogance that was almost holy in its clarity.
But this…this is nothing divine, nothing belonging to Heaven.
He’s dotted with sweat, and every muscle and tendon is etched in furious struggle.
His eyes are full of merciless, wordless hunger, his mouth is twisted in something like a snarl, and that angry, needy part of him juts out, throbbing and obscene.
“Let me down.” His voice is harsh, breathless. “Let me down right now.”
I’m almost giddy at my own daring, at the power of it.
The city’s darling, this man who’s so thoroughly masked his obsessive, uncivilized inner life, and I’ve stripped him of all his cleverness and charm and self-control merely by sitting in a chair.
It’s exciting, but I think it’s more than the novelty of inverted power between us—it’s getting to see him taken apart at the seams, getting to see him helpless and so aroused that his entire body is imprisoned by his own desire.
I shift my hand and lazily dip two fingers inside myself, just a bare half inch or so. His dick moves in response, and when I push my fingers all the way inside and then pull them free so he can see how much they glisten after, his whole body moves, surging toward me.
I smile at him again as I stroke lightly over the firm bud at the top of my cunt; my head falls back a little as I do it again.
Pleasure spreads through me like webbed lightning, and before I’m conscious of making the choice to, I’m rubbing my clit in earnest now, thighs spreading even wider, back arching, my free hand coming up to drag the open shirt to the side and palm at my breast through my bra.
“Birdie, I swear to God.”
He’s seething now, but I find I like it, like being able to coax this version of him to the surface.
I like how furious he is that he can’t touch me, how much he wants to—like it’s killing him not to.
His fingers twitch constantly, his sides heaving with hard-fought breaths, and more pre-cum has slipped loose from his dick, dripping down to the floor in slow, streaking tears.
“I’ll let you free when I’m done.” I start working myself a little faster, already feeling that deep, shivering knot in my groin. My feet have arched, balanced on the balls, my heels lifted in the air. “I like looking at this too much to stop now, though.”
Bell watches me fondle my own breast and drops his eyes to where I’m masturbating, and despair seems to fill him. The anger leaves him all at once, and he starts begging.
Desperately, shamelessly.
Pleading to lick my pussy, to fuck it, have it, because it’s his, isn’t it? Didn’t I say it was? Don’t I want it to be?
The pleading turns into a litany of apologies as I find myself rocking my hips, like I’m trying to fuck the seat of the chair.
I’m so close, I’m just about to lose myself to it, and he’s saying sorry for everything—for stalking me at Evelyn, for jerking off to videos of me eating pomegranate seeds, for what happened in the studio, to holding on to the NDAs—and even though he’s begging and babbling with an erection so rigid and thick that it’s a wonder he has enough blood flow to stay conscious, I think… I think he means these apologies.
To him, moral is what secures my well-being and immoral is anything that doesn’t, and I truly believe that he won’t ever repeat a transgression if he knows it wasn’t any good for me.
The transgressions that were actually good for me—the rough but thrilling sex, the forged trust, creating a little terrarium for me in his house where I can just make art and have orgasms—I don’t know that he’s capable of regret in those cases.
It’s strange to me, a woman who has been veiled in guilt since girlhood, to contemplate this.
He isn’t sorry out of guilt but out of love, not because he’s preoccupied with having done bad but because, when it comes to me, he’ll always want to do better.
“Ry,” I breathe. “I’m so close. I’m going to come.”
He looks devastated, avid. Reverent. “Then show me,” he begs. “If I can’t give it to you, then you have to show me.”