Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
To be held down and force-pleased is one of my secret fantasies. He’s peeling away my secrets, revealing my fantasies one by one, and he’s doing so at an alarmingly fast rate. It only took him one night to find out something I’ve never admitted to anyone. One more night, and he owns another fantasy. He’s dangerous, succeeding where other men didn’t because he’s not ashamed to do dirty things to me. He has no issues with sex. He’s sure of himself and his body, and it shows in the way he drags his tongue down my throat and lower, breathing hot air through my T-shirt before flicking my nipple with his nail.
I dig my nails into his shoulders, finding purchase on fabric instead of skin. Wrapping one hand around my neck, he holds me in place while dragging the other over my stomach and between my legs. I gasp when he gives my clit the same treatment as my nipple, flicking it through the thick denim of my jeans. My need is fierce. My desire knows no limits. It feels no shame when he grips my waist and roughly spins me around.
Grabbing my hands, he places them on the table. I don’t let go as he wraps his arms around me from behind and pops the button of my jeans. His actions are urgent but controlled. With a single motion, he yanks my jeans and underwear down to my knees, exposing my lower body. The air leaves my lungs with an oomph as he wraps his fingers around my nape and pushes my upper body on the table. Taking my arms, he stretches them above my head.
“Grip the edge of the table,” he orders in a gruff voice.
I wrap my fingers around the edge, not sure what I’m holding on for and no longer caring.
He drags a palm up my inner thigh, making me jerk when he brushes his fingers over my folds. Reversing the path, he draws invisible letters on the inside of my leg.
“I’m going to put my initials right here,” he says. “Just under your pussy so you remember who owns this hole.”
My inner walls clench at the crude threat.
Instead of asking anything of me, he arranges me like he wants me, pushing my legs as far apart as the constraint of my jeans and underwear allow. I’m open to him like when he spanked me, and it turns me so wet I can feel the slickness dripping down my thigh.
Anticipation speeds up my breathing. I expect him to spank me again, but he places a palm on my lower back and pushes his thigh between my legs.
“Do you want to come, Violet?”
I make a needy sound.
His order is dirty. “Ride my leg.”
I can’t do it, no matter how badly I need release.
Gripping my hips, he drags me backward and forward over his thigh, rubbing my clit on his jeans. My hold on the edge of the table slips. My nipples are pulled over the smooth surface of the wood as he rubs me in just the right way. I can feel his powerful muscles under the fabric, how they flex when he bends his knee and pushes up, causing more friction.
My lower body tightens. My muscles clench.
“You’re going to come on my leg like the dirty little slut you are,” he says with satisfaction.
That does it. Knowing he’s watching, my orgasm explodes. My inner walls contract around nothing, the emptiness not by accident but by Leon’s design. He turns rougher still, flattening my upper body with a hand on my nape.
“I said hold on to the table.” He accentuates the reprimand with a shove.
His touch lifts from my nape, and his thigh disappears from between my legs. The sound of him tearing down his zipper cuts scratchily through the space. A moment later, he fastens one hand on my hip. Something smooth and hot nudges my entrance. I don’t look. It makes the anticipation more exhilarating. He parts my folds, dragging the crest of his cock up and down my slit once before thrusting inside to the hilt.
The stretch makes me go on tiptoes. He yanks me back, impaling me on him without allowing my escape. I hold on to the table as he fucks me with long, deep strokes, the breath leaving my lungs every time he slams his groin against my ass.
It’s happening too fast. The slap of his skin against mine is loud and sharp, executed like a punishment. He grunts and stills, finding his release. That’s the only sound he gives me. For the rest of the time he pumps himself dry, he’s quiet. Detached. Coming is merely a technical end to the game. He achieved his goal of finding more of my weaknesses and bringing me to pleasure. The rest doesn’t matter.