Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
He reached for his tie and met my eyes in the glass again. “Do you want to watch me do bad things to you?”
I opened my mouth, unsure if I could speak.
“You can answer the question.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I want to watch you do bad things to me.” I saw him smile in the glass—a slow, satisfied smirk.
He took my arms and crossed my wrists at the small of my back. Then he wound the silk tie around them. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, binding my hands and pulling the knot tight. “So sweet. So polite. Like a princess. And you smell so good.” He buried his face in the curve of my neck and inhaled, then pressed his lips to my throat.
It was a struggle not to moan as his mouth moved over my skin, his tongue warm, his lips firm. He kissed his way down one shoulder, and across my upper back, sending chills rippling over my whole body. His hands roamed over my hips, up my ribs. He slid them across my stomach and sternum, and I arched my back slightly, wanting his hands on my breasts, trying to tempt him. But he continued to torment me, putting his hands everywhere but where I wanted them most. He pressed closer to me, his erection grazing my ass.
A little whimper escaped me, and I stepped out of the dress, spreading my legs.
“No.” His tone was sharp, and he backed away from me. “That’s breaking a rule, princess.” He began to unbuckle his belt. “You don’t move unless I tell you to. But I can help you remember to obey.”
He crouched down, grabbed the ankle with the dress around it, and lifted it up. After tossing the dress aside, he placed my feet side by side and wound his leather belt around my ankles, securing it tightly. When he was satisfied I couldn’t move either my arms or my legs, he straightened up.
Locked eyes with me again in the glass.
Removed his jacket.
Unbuttoned his cuffs. Rolled up his sleeves.
Picked up his glass and took a sip of his whiskey.
Every movement was masculine and deliberate, laced with unspoken power. Nothing rushed or frantic. It was as if he was letting me know by his sheer lack of haste how he relished the tease, that the kick wasn’t just in the bad things he wanted to do to me, but in the anticipation of them. In my helplessness to stop him.
And I was as feminist as anybody, but hot damn. My legs were trembling. My panties were wet. My nipples poked at the lace of my bra, hard and tingling. It wasn’t just being at his mercy that had me turned on, it was the way his eyes traveled over my body, like his desire was almost unbearable.
He set his glass down and pressed up behind me again, locking one forearm across my chest and sliding the other hand into my underwear. He rubbed my clit with slow, firm pressure so it swelled beneath his touch, then dipped his fingers inside me. “You’re wet already.”
“Yes,” I whimpered.
He pinched my nipple, hard. “That wasn’t a question. But since you’re having such a hard time staying quiet, I’ll give you permission to speak. Do you want to watch me make you come?”
I nodded, afraid that if I said something wrong, he’d stop touching me. I couldn’t take my eyes off our reflection.
“Say it,” he demanded.
“I want to watch you make me come,” I panted.
He pulled his fingers from me and brought them to his mouth. “The taste of you. That’s another thing that drives me crazy. I can’t stop thinking about it.” His hand edged beneath the lace again. “I want it all the time.”
He held me tightly against his body. At the small of my back, I felt his cock against my palm as he worked his fingers over my clit. I squirmed and writhed over his hand, frustrated at not being able to move freely. I tried to rub his hard length through his pants, hoping to get him worked up, but his arm around me kept my upper body completely immobile. Pretty soon it didn’t even matter that I couldn’t move—his fingers moved over my clit with the perfect rhythm, the ideal pace, the most sublime pressure. I was hot and sweaty and desperate, frantic little noises escaping my throat, so close, so agonizingly close—
And he slowed down, easing me back from the brink.
My eyes opened—I hadn’t even realized they’d closed—and I caught his knowing smile in the glass. “Not yet,” he said.
He did that two more times, taking me all the way to the edge, then cruelly yanking me away from it, seeming to enjoy it more every time. I understood then that he didn’t have to inflict pain to enjoy control—all he had to do was deny pleasure. I’d never even thought about it before. And at that point, I’d have begged him to hurt me if it meant relief from the tension.