19. Elizabeth #2
“Okay,” I say. “You may only speak in the event you need to say ‘box’. Understood?” He nods and my heart thumps harder. “Good. Then I’ll continue.”
I lift the back of my nightgown so that I can take my panties off while ensuring the front of the garment continues to cover me. I move onto the bed, my knees on either side of Wes’s thighs. Though I’ve been with some truly handsome men, none of them have been as physically appealing as Wes.
My sister is right. He very much is my type.
Suddenly, panic grips me.
I usually don’t know the men I fuck. I meet them on an app specifically designed for these sorts of preferences and vet them thoroughly before initiating a chat.
If we both want to move forward, we review tests, go over rules, and then, if we’re still both amenable, we meet at a hotel.
We don’t get dinner or a drink. We don’t talk.
They get there first, and leave a key for me at reception.
By the time I arrive, they’re in bed, naked, and waiting for me.
And though Wes is in bed, naked, and waiting for me, everything else about this scenario is different.
I could call it all off now. I don’t have to go through with it.
But. I need this.
Before I can remind myself of all the reasons why this is a truly terrible idea that could end in complete disaster, I grip the base of Wes’s cock.
He sucks in a breath, but otherwise doesn’t make a sound.
I squeeze a little harder, watching Wes’s head tip back, arching against the pillow, his mouth opening but no sound coming out.
I stroke him slowly once, twice. A shuddering breath escapes him, and I give him another squeeze before releasing my hold.
He lets out a hoarse laugh that’s more breath than anything.
Since he is still technically playing by the rules, I let it slide.
I make quick work of sliding the condom down his shaft and positioning myself.
But then his fingers skim the skin of my thighs, grasping the hem of my nightgown. I stop moving. “No touching.”
Wes looks at me in confusion, but I shake my head. “No speaking. No touching.”
He frowns. But it’s not up to him. He’s not in control here. If he decides to test that, then I’ll be more than happy to remind him who’s in charge.
He slowly lays his hands palm down on the comforter and I give it another two breaths before I continue.
As I sink down, down, down his length, I relish the stretch.
When we’re flush, I close my eyes and let my body adjust, laughing a little because he feels incredible.
“Goddamn, Grant. That woman from Macau was incredibly detailed in her descriptions, but she still didn’t do your cock justice. ”
A laugh bursts out of Wes, and I raise an eyebrow.
“You said no speaking, not no laughing,” he says, and I smile.
I lean forward, enjoying the change in angle very much but focusing on what else I’m about to enjoy.
I reach for his nipple, pinching it hard between my fingers.
Wes hisses and I twist my wrist. “I told you not to speak. When you disobey me, there are consequences.” I don’t let up the pressure until he nods silently.
“I’m glad you understand. To be completely clear, you may make sounds within reason—but you may not speak unless it is to say ‘box.’ And you may not touch.”
I wait for him to end this. But when there is no objection, I say, “Nod if you understand.”
He nods immediately.
“Nod if you want to continue.”
He gives me a wry look that communicates I’m already inside of you, obviously I want to continue, but I don’t move a muscle until he nods.
Once he does, I rock my hips against him slowly, enjoying the sensation as well as the sight of his fingers digging into the comforter. I roll my hips more aggressively, taking pleasure in the drag and pull of our bodies, marveling at how well we fit together.
When Wes begins moving his hips without me instructing him to do it, I consider punishing him. One of my usual rules is that I control everything my partner does and does not do. But I didn’t tell Wes that. It wouldn’t be fair to punish him for this—especially not when it feels like this.
I never openly express the enjoyment I get from fucking someone. I remain distant, never showering them in praise or letting on that they are making me feel good. I’m the one in control, after all. Really, I’m making myself feel good and using them to do it.
But nothing about this situation is usual.
And since I rushed into this, since I didn’t lay my usual ground rules, since everything about this is so different, I tell myself to go with it.
As Wes moves his hips with mine, I relinquish a little bit of the control I keep on myself, letting my head fall back and a small moan escape my mouth.
I hear a low “Fuck yes,” and I freeze. I slowly lean forward over Wes’s body, planting my hands on either side of his neck as I consider what punishment he’ll receive this time.
He probably expects me to pinch his nipple again—but I would hate to be predictable.
Grinning, I lay my forearm across his thick throat, pressing lightly.
Wes’s eyes widen in true alarm for the first time, and I wonder if this is his limit.
I’m not strong enough to constrict his windpipe—F1 drivers have incredibly muscular necks so they can withstand the G-force in the car.
Plus, it’s not like I actually want him to stop breathing.
He isn’t in any real danger here. But still, I wait, watching his lips in case he wants to stop.
But he doesn’t. So I say, “You know what happens when you break a rule.”
His eyes flare, the amber color deepening.
I start moving again. The strokes are shallow at this angle and I have to use my left hand to help me move, but as I rock my weight back and forth against his cock and throat, Wes moans and closes his eyes, taking obvious pleasure in this.
“Seems like you enjoy this particular punishment,” I say. “Can’t have that.”
I move quickly, taking his other nipple between my teeth and giving it a decisive bite that makes Wes yelp, before I sit up.
I ride him fast and hard, until both of us are gasping and groaning.
The moment I lean forward, I know this angle will get me off—especially when Wes matches my movements.
I close my eyes and let myself get lost in the feeling, focusing on nothing but the sensations in my body as I come closer to falling off the cliff.
“I’m close.” Usually, I tell partners as a warning because I don’t wait for them to finish. Once I’m done, I’m done. If they didn’t come, then that’s their problem. But I didn’t tell Wes that condition either.
I don’t have time to panic about that because Wes then moves underneath me, digging his heels into the mattress so that he can thrust up into me with more force. I shouldn’t allow this. I shouldn’t give him this sort of control.
But it feels amazing. So instead of punishing him, I roll my hips once, twice, three times and then let myself fall into the abyss of my orgasm as it hits so hard I cry out in surprise.
Moments later, I hear Wes let out a moan that has no business being as hot as it is, and his back arches off the bed.
I take a deep breath and then another. I need to get up, clean up, and leave. That’s what I usually do. But right now, what I want is to collapse on Wes’s chest. I want to tell him how well he did as I run my hands through his hair and feel his stubble against my cheek.
I blink hard. I never want those things.
What the hell has Wes Grant’s big dick done to me?
After another breath, I extricate myself from him and move to the edge of the bed, sitting there until I’m certain my legs remember how to work.
“No speaking,” I remind him. Honestly, I’m shocked Wes hasn’t said anything before now. “Don’t speak or move until I leave.”
I finally stand, gather my things, and go to the door. As I grab the handle, I pause briefly, wondering if I should say thank you.
But then I blink hard and remember who the hell I am.
After showering in my own room, I slide under the covers, this time feeling the pull of sleep. That was exactly what I needed.
But I can’t fuck Wes Grant ever again.