Chapter Thirty-Five
Miranda
I obeyed.
He stood behind me, his presence commanding and unyielding.
I felt his hand drift slowly down my back, the roughness of his touch contrasting with the softness of my skin.
His fingers moved with purpose, tracing the delicate lace that separated us until his fingers found my sensitive bundle of nerves between my thighs.
The sudden jolt of sensation forced a gasp from my lips; my hips reacted involuntarily to the intimate contact.
I understood precisely what he was doing.
His intentions were unmistakable. Experience had taught me to recognize the warning signs, the subtle yet deliberate glances and gestures that revealed a man’s need for control.
I’d spent my life surrounded by dominant men, so Massimo’s gestures were familiar, almost instinctively anticipated.
Though I was unpracticed in his particular kind of dominance, I resolved to give him the benefit of the doubt, to trust in this exchange of power, if only for tonight.
He didn’t stop as he leaned over me, lightly kissing me between my shoulder blades as his fingers circled my clit with deliberate pressure, almost as if he knew what I needed before I even knew what I wanted. His lips found my neck again, kissing along the curve slowly, then deeper.
The pressure coiled, a serpent’s squeeze tightening with every desperate thrust. What began as yielding softness hardened into a predatory hunger, each touch a promise of a deeper, darker intent.
I choked on a gasp, my head thrown back, a silent, aching plea for more.
His fingers, still a searing brand between my thighs, teased and tormented, tracing the very core of me through the whisper-thin lace.
Then, his voice, a rumble of gravel and something far more dangerous, vibrated against my throat.
“How do you know Sinclair?” The question was a scalpel, sharp and precise, as his mouth descended, a brand of fire just beneath my jaw, his thumb now a relentless, exquisite torture against my clit through the delicate fabric.
“Lie to me,” he breathed, the words a silken threat, “and the punishment will be... memorable.”
A soft moan escaped me as my pelvis involuntarily arched into his touch.
His touch intensified, each stroke more deliberate, more charged with purpose.
Clutching the bedsheets, my breathing hitched, my body naturally yielding to his ministrations.
A charged tension vibrated through me, a desperate yearning for release teetering on the precipice.
“I—” I gasped, my voice breaking. “I can’t think with you doing that.” My words tumbled out before I could stop them, my voice trembling and raw with need.
He leaned closer, his tone fierce and unyielding as he snarled, “That’s the point.”
The intent behind his words made my pulse race, each syllable sharp and deliberate.
And then, without warning, he stopped.
The absence of his touch was abrupt—my body reeled from the loss, the room suddenly too quiet. I gasped, feeling as if the air had been sucked from my lungs, and my muscles clenched around nothing, desperate for sensation.
Confusion and longing twisted inside me—I whimpered, desperate, completely undone. He didn’t move away, didn’t speak, just remained close. His hand stayed between my thighs, warm and steady, a firm denial that left me aching for more.
“I asked you a question, wife,” he murmured in my ear, his voice low and commanding, sending a shiver down my spine.
A moan escaped me as I rolled my head forward onto the mattress, overwhelmed by the intensity of his control and my own helpless desire.
He was toying with me. Using me as a plaything for his own desires.
“I... I don’t know Sinclair,” I managed, my voice cracking as I fought the rising tide of arousal and gnawing fear.
The lie felt weak on my tongue, a flimsy shield against his predatory gaze.
His thumb returned to its relentless ministrations, and I gasped again, the carefully constructed walls of my composure crumbling with each agonizing caress.
He was a master of torment, drawing out my pleasure and my terror in equal measure, making my body betray me, forcing me to crave the very thing that held me captive.
His grip tightened, not cruelly, but with a possessive intensity that sent a jolt through me.
“You lie poorly, wife,” he purred, his breath hot against my ear.
“And I despise lies. Especially when they concern men who might dare to believe they hold a piece of what is mine.” He shifted, his body pressing against mine, and I felt the undeniable proof of his arousal against my thigh.
The scent of him, a heady mix of cologne, sweat, and something uniquely masculine, filled my senses, clouding my judgment, making me forget the rules, the fear, everything but the raw, demanding need he ignited within me.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes burning into mine.
“Tell me the truth, Miranda,” he commanded, his voice a low growl that vibrated through my very bones.
“Or this... conversation... will become significantly less pleasant.” His hand moved, a single, decisive stroke that sent tremors of pleasure and dread through me, a clear indication that my refusal to answer had consequences, and he was more than willing to deliver them.
The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air, a tangible thing that choked the air from my lungs and left me reeling on the brink of surrender.
“I don’t know him. I had met him only once before, when I was a child. He came to the clubhouse looking for his son. He looked sad. I swear. I didn’t know where Oliver was taking me. I didn’t even know Oliver knew Mr. Sinclair.”
My lips parted, but the words stalled, trembling on the edge of confession. Every nerve in my body was strung taut, anticipation and dread warring beneath my skin. I felt utterly exposed beneath his gaze, as if he could see every secret, every hesitation flickering in my eyes.
Kneeling over the bed, my body still vibrated from the intense situation he’d orchestrated. My breathing was shallow, my fingers clutching the rumpled sheets, searching for any indication that he accepted my truth.
With a silent, commanding gesture, he pushed me down onto the mattress.
My breath hitched as his legs parted mine, his powerful frame aligning with my own.
The undeniable warmth of his body radiated against me.
He lowered his head, his voice a low rumble in my ear, uttering a single, impactful phrase. “Good girl.”
A shiver traced my spine as his hand ascended the curve of my inner thigh, deliberate and unhurried.
His touch grazed the delicate lace before sliding beneath it, finding my slick core with unerring precision.
A sharp inhale escaped me, my hips involuntarily arching as he eased two fingers into my depths, the pressure firm and constant.
“Rule number four,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear, his tone a stark reminder. “Never lie to me.”
I pressed my face into the yielding fabric of the mattress, my jaw tightening as my hips instinctively responded to the rhythmic pace of his hand.
My body surrendered, ravenous, quaking, clenching around his fingers with each deepening stroke.
The addition of a third finger brought a sharp, broken moan, a raw sound escaping my throat.
His movements intensified, a relentless cadence that drew me inexorably closer to the precipice.
He couldn’t possibly miss the way my pussy tightened around his fingers, the way my breath hitched in a desperate attempt to maintain control.
“If you come now, your exquisite suffering will be prolonged indefinitely,” he purred into my ear, a predatory glint in his voice.
A choked sob tore from me as a wave of pleasure crashed, obliterating me in its wake. My cries mingled with the shudders that wracked my body, my release spilling unbidden around his fingers.
The dim light of the room cast long shadows as he chuckled, a low rumble that rippled through the air.
His fingers, rough against my skin, began a slow dance, the friction building heat.
I could feel the anticipation, a tightening coil in my stomach.
The air was thick with the scent of his cologne as he whispered, “Thank you, wife,” his voice a silken threat, right before his hand met my flesh with a stinging slap.
“One.”
His hand slammed down, a stinging blow to my left cheek, the air vibrating with the sharp crack. A gasp escaped me as my hips lurched, and my breath hitched in my chest.
“I warned you there’d be consequences if you broke the rules,” he said, his voice colder now, more deliberate. The flash of the first strike made me flinch, a searing fireball blooming on my skin. My breath hitched, the sharp sting a creeping vine, coiling heat simmering just beneath.
“Two.”
Another landed, the slap that was a sharp crack in the quiet.
My hips jerked again, fingers digging into the cool sheets.
His palm met my flesh, a fiery sting blooming with each strike, the heat of the spank fanning out.
By the third, my thighs quivered. My skin throbbed where he’d marked me, yet beneath the pain was a slow, pulsing ache, drawing me in.
The cool cotton of the mattress met my hot forehead, fingers clenching. Every nerve blazed, breath a harsh rasp in the close air. I craved more, didn’t want the searing heat to cease.
By seven, slick heat pulsed between my thighs—hips shuddering, a ragged gasp escaping my lips as each slap drove me further into yielding. Only the frantic drum of my heart and the searing ache of pleasure remained, vulnerable and exposed, utterly his. A desperate need consumed me.
The rasp of his zipper sliced through the quiet, a hushed whisper that stole my breath. A chill snaked down my spine as he ripped my offending panties from my body before his fingertips brushed against my clit, lingering, a brand of heat.
He didn’t hesitate. He drove into me—hard, deep, with no warning.
My body jolted, the sudden stretch ripping a cry from my throat.
One hand locked around my hip, holding me in place; the other slid between my legs, fingers finding my clit with practiced pressure.
He didn’t hold back—every thrust full of heat and intent—each thrust ruthless, unrelenting, his pace brutal in the best way.
I couldn’t breathe, caught between the relentless drive of his thick cock inside me and the circling drag of his fingers that lit me up from the inside out.
I fought the rising tide of pleasure, a desperate battle against my own biology.
This was the opposite of everything I believed, of who I was supposed to be, and the knowledge burned hotter than any sensation he inflicted.
I tried to keep myself upright, but my arms were shaking, barely holding me.
My mind screamed for me to pull away, to fight, but my body, a traitorous thing, clenched tight around him, too full, too much—and yet somehow, not enough.
The thought of him stopping, of this intense, forbidden sensation ceasing, sent a wave of panic through me.
It was a horrible, sickening realization that a part of me craved more, a part of me had already made a choice I would carry like a brand.
He showed no sign of relenting, not in the slightest. His intensity persisted; each forceful thrust elicited a raw, unrestrained sound from me. My body vibrated with an overwhelming sensation, a blush spreading across my skin, yet he remained unfazed.
With a deliberate motion, he slid his arm beneath my thigh, elevating my leg to rest on the mattress’s edge.
A choked sound, a blend of surprise and frustration, escaped me as he plunged into me with even greater force.
Stripped of stability and agency, I was consumed by the friction of his body and the searing intensity of his touch still caressing my most sensitive spot.
I was utterly undone, conquered. He held me captive in that vulnerable posture, my body yielding completely, and continued to possess me as if driven by an insatiable pursuit of an exclusive conquest.
His hold on my hip became a crushing pressure, a painful imprint, as his movements grew erratic, losing their cadence in a surge of his own desperate hunger.
I sensed the change within him, the choked gasp of his breath, the rigid tension of his frame pressing against mine, driving with an intensified force, relentlessly pushing us toward the precipice.
Then, he sank completely within me, a profound, unwavering immersion as his climax washed over him.
I experienced its arrival—the initial throbbing, dense and warm, then successive waves. He remained plunged within the deepest point of my soul, his grasp still a vise on my thigh, the other hand a firm anchor at my waist, securing me precisely as he desired.
There was no warning, no time to brace against the sensation of him pulsing inside me, the heat, the weight, the sheer possession of it, and I came undone again.
My body seized around him, tensing hard, a full-body quake that stole my breath and dragged me under.
My head dropped to the mattress, arms collapsing, a moan slipping from my lips as my orgasm tore through me, slow and overwhelming.
I lay there in the aftermath, every nerve raw and humming, unable to make sense of my own swirling emotions.
The room was thick with the scent of our joining, a tangible fog that clung to my skin.
Even as his weight lifted from me and his hands finally released their hold, I felt the imprint of him everywhere, inside and out—everywhere I would carry it, whether I wanted to or not.
Then I felt the bed dip, and he leaned over me, voice low against my ear, as he murmured devilishly, “Wicked girl. You came without permission.”