Chapter Fourteen
Bailey’s eyes all but popped out of her head. “What?”
“You heard me.”
It took her a full five seconds to find her voice. “You expect me to have sex with three people—”
“Four,” he corrected.
“Four people, and not come? At all?”
“Of course not,” he said, and he looked so offended that she blinked. “You can have as many orgasms as you like while we’re fucking you.”
While we’re fucking you. The words shot heat straight to her core, and she wanted to savor it. But he still had that look in his eyes, and she needed to get to the bottom of this. “You just said no orgasms.”
“I meant until next Sunday. No orgasm until then. Starting, oh, let’s say, now.”
She just stared at him. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“That’s what this is. Murder by celibacy.”
His shoulders were shaking with laughter. “You won’t die.”
“You might,” she muttered darkly.
“Ah, but if you kill me, you won’t get your gang bang.”
“I can make it work with three people. We’ll hardly miss you.”
“You don’t know who they are,” he reminded her.
Well, that was a fly in the ointment. “Shit.”
“I’m not doing this to torture you.”
She snorted in disbelief.
“I just want the experience to be everything you’ve hoped for,” he continued, clearly unmoved by the death glare she was giving him.
“So?”
“So, I want you to be extra…”
“Mad?” she suggested. “Angry? Pissed the fuck off?”
“Aroused,” he decided. “By the time next Sunday rolls around, I want you to be so worked up, so on edge, you’ll do anything to come.”
She gaped at him.
“Within the limits already discussed, of course.” He smiled, wicked and smug. “It’s one week, Bailey. You can go without for that long, can’t you?”
She shut her mouth with a snap. “No. And it’s more than a week.”
He shrugged. “Close enough.”
“And you sprung this on me,” she continued, sexual frustration and righteous indignation making her shrill. “With no warning. Which is just mean.”
“You’re right.”
The deep breath she’d taken so she could keep telling him how horrible he was burst out of her lungs in a woosh. “Huh?”
“You’re right,” he repeated. “It was wrong of me to just spring this on you.”
Suspicion narrowed her eyes. There was a catch somewhere, but she couldn’t see it. “Yes, it was.”
“So instead of starting now, the no-orgasm clock will start in…” He dug his phone out of his pocket and tapped at the screen before setting it down on the table, face up. “Seven minutes.”
It took her a solid five seconds to find her voice. “That’s not enough time!”
“It is if you get busy.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed across his chest, and arched one imperious eyebrow. “Come on, Bailey. I know how fast you get off when you masturbate.”
Her cheeks flamed with heat, remembering how he watched her the other night. She had gotten off fast, the orgasm slamming into her so quickly she could barely breathe. But seven minutes? It wasn’t even enough time to go upstairs for a vibrator.
He glanced down at the phone. “Six minutes, thirty-eight seconds. “Come on, Bailey. I dare you.”
She stared at him, torn. Because she didn’t have to do this.
It was just a game, an echo of that first night when he’d all but dared her to give him control.
He wasn’t actually in charge of her, he couldn’t make her do—or not do—anything.
All she had to do was tell him no—or Bananarama—and that was that.
But the game was fun. She wanted to play it.
And she wanted to win.
So she scraped her chair back, prepared to run upstairs and rub one out at speed, when he froze her with one word.
“Here.”
She stared, sure she’d heard him wrong. “What?”
“You have to do it here.” He wore a smug smile, that familiar wicked gleam in his eyes. “Just in case you think about cheating.”
“I would never.” She would always.
He glanced down at the timer on his phone. “Five minutes, fifty-nine seconds. What’s it going to be, Bailey?”
“My God, you’re a dick,” she breathed.
“Sticks and stones,” he said mildly. “Your window is closing.”
“Fine.” Defiant, she shoved to her feet. Her dress came to mid-thigh, and was thin enough that she could do this with it and her panties in the way. But if he was going to watch her, she was going to make it hurt.
Lifting her dress to her waist, she shoved her panties down, wiggling her legs so they shimmied down her thighs. When they hit the floor, she stepped one foot out, and planted the other on the seat of her chair.
His eyes flared wide with surprise, his lips parting as he stared at the shadowed cleft between her thighs. He wouldn’t be able to see much yet—pubic hair for the win—but she’d bet every last dollar in her bank account that he could smell her.
The scent of her arousal rose thick in the air, sweet and ripe, as familiar to her as her own face. Nash sucked in air through his nose, breathing her in, but her triumph was tempered by the almost unbearable arousal of being spread bare in front of him.
The cool air against her pussy made her feel even wetter, pushed her arousal even higher, and she would’ve have liked to spend the next few minutes teasing him. But she was all too aware of the time ticking down, so without ceremony, she shoved a hand between her legs.
The first touch made her jerk, rattling the chair against the floor. Her pussy was so wet, her clit so swollen. She wasn’t close, but she could get there. And with that single thought in mind, she went to work.
Dipping her fingers down to wet them in the slick, sticky mess that dripped from her ripe hole, she slid them back up to her clit. She went soft at first, testing, teasing, then harder, working in tight circles over and around the little bundle of nerves, and watched Nash watch her.
He hadn’t moved, hadn’t changed position, but his cheeks had flushed and his breathing had deepened. His eyes were narrowed to slits and glued to her hand.
It was so fucking hot that she moaned out loud, the sound ripped from her throat, and his gaze darted up to capture hers.
And that was even hotter.
Over and around her hand worked, rubbing and pinching and pushing at her engorged flesh. When her fingers grew too dry, she dipped back down into that flowing pool to wet them again, and the sound—the squelch—brought the fiery heat of shame to her cheeks and a jolt of heavy arousal to her body.
“You filthy slut,” he murmured, his eyes burning into hers. “Who does this? Who just spreads their legs and fucks themselves at the goddamn kitchen table?”
“I do,” she panted, her hand a frantic blur now as arousal built, as that heavy weight in her core grew.
“Why is that, Bailey?” he asked, voice low, body tense.
“Because I’m a slut,” she managed, jerking when her pussy spasmed.
“What kind of a slut?” he urged.
She moaned again, her hand jerking. “A filthy one.”
“That’s right,” he crooned, almost soothing. “You’re a filthy slut. Finger that little fuck hole for me, Bailey. Show me how you get yourself off.”
She obeyed blindly, shoving her fingers in deep, and the slap of her hand against her wet, hot, pussy was so noisy, so embarrassingly loud, shame heated her cheeks once again.
“I can hear it,” he said, piling on the delicious disgrace, and she fucked herself faster, grinding the heel of her hand against her clit.
The sounds of sex filled the room, the lewd, wet, slap when she thrust her fingers in, the soft, obscene squelch when she dragged them out.
It was a debauched symphony, a depraved song, and it was going to make her come.
Eager for the orgasm she could feel rising inside her, she grabbed the chair with her free hand and bent her knees, squatting to get her fingers deeper, fuck herself harder.
“I should be filming this,” he muttered, though he made no move to pick up his phone. “Film it, put it online, show everyone what a needy, greedy hole you’ve got.”
The words were harsh, judging her, shaming her. But his voice was full of awe and wonder, admiration and lust. She whimpered, feeling those first subtle tugs inside her.
“Better step it up,” he warned, glancing down at the phone. “Less than a minute left.”
Panic flared, had her redoubling her efforts. She was so close, the orgasm right there, she just needed a few more moments…
“Down to thirty seconds. Come on, Bay, show me what that pretty cunt can do.”
She bent forward, curling in on herself as she raced for the finish.
She could see herself now, the ripe, swollen lips of her cunt pushing through the shield of hair, the spattered fluid on her thighs.
Grunting, she pulled her fingers free with a final slurp and shoved them against her clit.
It was huge, hard as a walnut, and so sensitive now she knew that a few quick, scrubbing strokes would finish it.
“Ten…nine…eight…”
“No no no no,” she chanted, her hand a blur, eyes burning with focus. Almost…almost…
“Seven…six…”
It gathered, tightening, the pressure and the weight so huge, so overwhelming, she wondered it didn’t tear her apart. Tears sprang to her eyes, falling unheeded down her cheeks while her clit burned, her pussy grasped at nothing.
“Five…four…three…”
On two the world went white, and she came with a wail that ripped through her throat like razor blades.
Her body jerked, spasming uncontrollably, and she realized with a dim sort of panic that the chair she was holding onto for balance was falling.
She heard the crash of it hitting the floor, felt the world tilt as her body began to fall, and was helpless to stop it.
But strong arms wrapped around her from behind, holding her up while the orgasm continued to tear through her.
When it was over she sagged, limp as an overcooked noddle in his grip, and croaked, “Water.”
He laughed, his breath dancing across her cheek. “Say please.”
She swung an arm back, her hand fisted, but only caught air. “Water, you bastard, or I’ll tie your dick in a knot and shove it in your ear.”
“Close enough,” he decided. “You want me to carry you to the sofa?”