Chapter Nine
Victoria
I let out a very undignified shriek as Mario throws me over his shoulder. For a second, all the blood rushes to my head. I get an up-close view of the fine wool of his trousers and the way they stretch over his perfect ass as he takes the stairs two at a time.
My hair swings forward, damp strands falling around my face. I should be indignant. I am indignant. I am also staring at the way his back moves beneath his shirt, at the hard line of his shoulders, at the strength in the arm locked over the backs of my thighs.
This man is carrying me up the stairs.
After kissing me like that.
After hearing me confess the most humiliating, obscene thing I have ever said out loud in my entire life.
I should move out of the state.
Possibly the country.
Instead, I am trying not to press my face into his back and breathe him in like a lunatic.
He reaches the top of the stairs and turns toward my bedroom without asking which door.
I am no longer surprised that he knows. He probably knows which floorboard creaks and which window leaks when it rains.
The world is a dizzying blur of motion, then I'm being lowered slowly to the ground. My breasts drag against his chest. My hips brush his. My feet touch the rug, but he does not let me go.
For one second, we stand there, chest to chest, breathing hard.
His hands are on my waist.
Mine are gripping his shirt.
Neither of us moves.
I try not to think about the state of my room.
My bed is unmade because I have not had a single coherent morning all week. My discarded work clothes are folded over the chair by the window. A book is lying facedown on my nightstand. There is a glass of water beside it, half-empty.
My room feels too personal with him in it.
And too small.
His eyes move over my face, and the hunger in them is no longer hidden. It is not polished or careful. Not the kind of contained desire I have seen across desks and conference tables.
This is different.
This is alive and dangerous.
The thing I felt from the beginning and told myself I was imagining.
“You are certain,” he says.
It is one final line drawn between us.
I could step back.
I could say no.
He would let me.
I know that now, and somehow that knowledge reassures me. It also makes it hotter.
“Yes,” I say.
His grip tightens.
“Say it again.”
I lift my chin, though my voice is not as steady as I want it to be. “I am certain.”
He takes a step back, and I want to protest, but then he nods at my sweater and says, "Take that off."
My breath hitches.
His tone is not a question. It is an instruction.
And it is the single hottest thing anyone has ever said to me.
My hands shake as I reach for the hem of my sweater. I pull it over my head in one slow movement, my arms lifting, my hair tumbling back down.
I let the sweater drop to the floor.
I am not wearing the simple bra I usually put on in the mornings. After my shower, knowing he was downstairs... knowing what we were going to do tonight... I put on something else.
Lace in a deep wine color.
It is definitely not practical.
It barely covers anything.
His eyes darken as they drop from my face to my breasts. The air in the room cools my skin, and I see the muscles in his throat work as he swallows.
He says nothing.
But the look on his face tells me everything.
He reaches out, but he does not touch my breasts.
His fingers trace the lace strap where it rests on my shoulder.
Then he follows it down, over the curve of my breast, until he reaches the small satin bow nestled between them.
His thumb brushes my nipple through the lace, and I gasp as a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shoots straight to my core.
“Sensitive,” he rumbles.
I am.
I am so sensitive I feel like I am on fire.
“Mario,” I whisper.
He does not stop.
His thumb circles my nipple again, slower this time, a deliberate torture. I bite my lip to stop the sounds from escaping, but it is useless. A small whimper breaks free.
He likes it.
I can see it in the way his own breathing has changed, in the way he shifts his weight.
Then he stops.
He steps back, and the loss is immediate, a hollow ache.
His gaze meets mine again. It is intense, focused, a predator who has just found my weak spot.
“The pants,” he orders.
My fingers are clumsy on the button of my pants. My hands are shaking so badly that it takes me two tries to get it undone, but he does nothing to help. He just watches the movement of my hands with his dark, unreadable eyes.
I slide them down my legs and step out of them, kicking them aside.
I am standing in front of him in a scrap of lace and matching panties that are just as impractical as the bra.
His gaze sweeps over me.
A slow, thorough inspection that makes me feel more naked than I ever have in my life. He is not looking at me with appreciation or with kindness.
He is looking at me like I am his.
And he is deciding what to do with me.
“Turn around,” he says.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
But I turn.
My back is to him now. I am facing the full-length mirror propped against the wall. I see myself in the dim light of my bedroom—flushed skin, wide eyes, hair a mess around my shoulders.
And then I see him.
He moves behind me, a tall, powerful shadow.
His reflection shows me a man who has come to collect.
His hands come to rest on my hips, warm and strong, holding me in place.
I watch in the mirror as he leans down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just behind my ear.
“I have been thinking about this,” he murmurs, the words a vibration against my skin. “About you."
He leans in, his chest pressing against my back, and I feel the hard evidence of his desire against my ass.
His hands slide from my hips to my stomach, then slowly, torturously, upward.
I am holding my breath, my entire body tensed in anticipation.
His fingers close over my breasts.
He kneads them, his thumbs flicking over my nipples, and I cry out, my back arching, pushing myself further into his hands.
“Look at me,” he commands.
My eyes fly to the mirror.
I see his face, dark and intense, as he looks over my shoulder at our reflection.
I see and feel the heat of his lips at my ear. "Look at yourself. Look how badly you want this."
He is right. I do. I look desperate. My cheeks are flushed, my lips parted, my eyes heavy-lidded with desire. My hands are clenched at my sides, and I am trembling.
It is humiliating.
It's the most turned on I've ever been.
One of his hands leave my breast, and I whimper at the loss.
His fingers trace the line of my panties and make a slow journey from one hip to the other.
Then they dip lower.
Lower.
Until he is cupping me, the thin lace of my panties the only barrier between his hand and my bare, aching flesh.
I gasp, my hips bucking against his hand.
“Mmm,” he rumbles in approval. “So wet.”
I am.
So wet I can feel it soaking through the lace.
He rubs me through the lace and fire burns deep in my belly. I am panting, my head thrown back against his shoulder, my body writhing against him.
I can’t think. I can only feel.
"I didn't say you could look away," he warns. "Eyes up, Victoria."
I force my eyes open. I meet the gaze of the woman in the mirror, and she is a stranger. A stranger lost in pleasure, a stranger I barely recognize.
And I see him behind me, strong and in control, a dark god playing with the mortal he has captured. The sight is intoxicating, devastatingly erotic.
"Stay still," he commands.
One hand is still kneading my breast, teasing my nipple through the lace that I thought didn't cover anything but now covers way too damn much.
His other hand remains pressed against my core, his palm grinding in a slow circle that is stealing the very air from my lungs.
I try to obey.
I really do.
But my body has its own agenda. My hips rock against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him.
“Tsk, tsk,” he murmurs, and then he stops.
Both hands still.
The loss is so acute I almost cry.
“No,” I gasp.
“Did you hear me, Victoria?” he says, his voice dangerously calm. “I said, stay still.” He emphasizes the command with a light squeeze of my breast.
I bite my lip, nodding, my eyes locked on our reflection.
I will not move again.
His fingers return, but this time they slide beneath the lace of my panties.
I feel the rough calluses on his fingertips as they part my folds
The world narrows to the space between my legs, to the feel of his touch, to his complete and total take-over of my body.
His fingers find my clit.
They circle the sensitive bundle of nerves, once, twice, and a choked sob escapes my lips.
“Please,” I beg.
“Please what?” he breathes against my ear.
“Please don’t stop.”
“I have no intention of stopping,” he says. "As long as you behave."
His fingers slide lower, dipping into my slick heat. He pushes one finger inside me, and my inner walls clench around him, a greedy, involuntary spasm.
I moan.
He adds a second finger, stretching me, filling me. He starts to move them in a rhythm that mimics the act I am craving. His thumb returns to my clit, pressing down, rubbing in small, tight circles.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
The pleasure is building, a wave cresting inside me, threatening to break.
My knees buckle.
His arm wraps around my waist, holding me up against him, his body a solid wall of strength behind me. He never stops the movement of his fingers. He keeps going, relentless, driving me higher and higher.
“Mario,” I gasp, my hands flying back to grip his thighs. “I’m going to…”
“No,” he says, his voice firm.
He slows his movements, gentling his touch, pulling me back from the brink.
I cry out in frustration, a desperate, needy sound. “You said you wouldn't stop!"
“I haven't,” he says, and I can hear the amusement in his voice. “But you will not come until I say you can.”
His words are a shock, a jolt of electricity that is both infuriating and intensely arousing.
“You can’t be serious,” I pant.
He laughs. A wicked sound that vibrates through my entire body.
“Oh, I am very serious.”
I look at him in the mirror, at the dark, dominant look in his eyes, and I know he is not bluffing.
He is going to make me wait.
He is going to make me beg.
The thought of it is so potent, so overwhelming, that it brings me closer to the edge than his fingers ever could.
The idea of him controlling my pleasure, of him being the one to decide when I can fall apart, is a drug. A powerful, addictive drug.
I've never been with a man who would do this. I've never been with a man I would let do this.
With Mario, it feels right.
It feels inevitable.
“You’re a bastard,” I breathe, but there is no heat in my words.
All he says is: “You are going to come so hard for me.” He kisses the tender spot behind my ear. “When I am good and ready.”
He starts the rhythm again. The stroke of his fingers on my sensitive skin. He builds me up again, higher and higher, until I am a trembling, whimpering mess, my body strung so tight I feel like I might shatter.
I am so close.
Just a little more.
Just a little…
“Not yet,” he says, and again, he slows down, pulling me back from the edge.
I sob, a raw, broken sound.
“Please, Mario,” I beg. “Please.”
“No.”
He does it again.
And again.
He brings me to the brink of ecstasy three more times, only to deny me the release I so desperately crave. Each denial makes the pleasure more intense, the need more desperate.
I am no longer thinking. I am no longer aware of anything but the feel of his hands on my body, the sound of his voice in my ear, the all-consuming pleasure that he is controlling.
He changes the rhythm again. This time, it is different. Faster. Harder. His fingers piston into me, his thumb rubbing my clit with a relentless pressure that steals my breath.
The wave is building again, bigger and more powerful than before. I can feel it in my toes, in my fingers, in the very core of my being.
“Mario,” I gasp. “I can’t… I can’t…”
"Look up," he commands.
My eyes are blurry with tears of pleasure, but I force them to focus on the mirror.
I see myself, flushed and wanton, my body arching against him. I see him, dark and dominant, his expression one of intense concentration, of fierce possession.
"See what you look like," he growls, his breath hot against my ear. "See how much you want this."
I lock my eyes onto myself in the mirror.
And I see what he sees.
A woman who has completely lost control.
A woman who is at the mercy of this man.
A woman who is about to have the most intense orgasm of her life.
And I have never seen myself look more beautiful.
The sight of it is my undoing.
I scream as the orgasm finally hits me as I go flying. My body convulses, my muscles clenching around his fingers, my back arching in a bow that is painful.
He holds me through it, his arm a steel band around my waist, never ceasing the movement of his fingers, prolonging the pleasure, drawing it out until I am a limp, quivering mass in his arms.
I collapse against him, my legs no longer able to support me.
He slowly withdraws his fingers, and I whimper at the loss.
He lifts me into his arms and carries me the few steps to the bed. He lays me down gently, a surprising tenderness in his touch after the ferocity of what just happened.
I watch, dazed, as he straightens up.
He looks down at me, his eyes dark with a hunger that is not satisfied.
His suit jacket is gone. His sleeves are rolled up. His hair is disheveled from my hands. He looks less like a CEO and more like a pirate who has just come to plunder.
Plunder me.
The thought sends a fresh wave of desire through me.
I thought I would be satisfied. I thought the intense orgasm would be enough.
It is not.
It is just the beginning.