Lovegame

by Tracy Wolff

  I reach out, slap her ass once, then a second and third time because I can. And because I love the way her skin turns pink and hot beneath my hand, the way she cries out with each smack, low and hoarse because her voice is shot all to hell from deep throating me.

  The sound makes my blood hot and my dick rock hard. It’s only been a couple minutes since I came, but as I stretch her out on the bed, it’s like that orgasm never even happened. All I can think about is getting inside of her once more, of fucking her cunt and mouth, her tits and ass, of fucking every single part of her I can until she never thinks to hold out on me again.

  I have just enough rational thought left to reach for my jeans—and the wallet in the back pocket. I pull out the condom I placed there just this morning, rip it open with my teeth. Roll it on. But as I go to drop my jeans back on the floor, my eyes fall on my belt.

  I yank it out of the loops before I even think about what I’m doing. I reach for her hands, pull them above her head. Then I interlace her fingers and press her forearms together so I can wrap the belt tightly around her wrists.

  Before I do anything else, I glance down at her face, just to make sure she’s still with me. She is. Her eyes are wide and glassy—the pupils huge and dilated—but she nods slightly, telling me that she’s okay. It’s all the reassurance I need before looping the belt around one of the flourishes on the iron headboard and pulling it tight.

  Her whole upper body is stretched taut now and she cries out, her shoulders dipping and flexing at the restraint. She doesn’t struggle, though. Instead, she seems to relax into it after a few seconds, her breath sighing out in a slow, sexy stream that sends my arousal soaring another notch.

  I shift until I’m behind her on the bed, kneeling between her spread thighs. Once there, I stroke a hand down the line of her ass, relishing the fucked-out sound she makes as I rub over her anus. “Before we’re done, I’m going to fuck you here,” I tell her even as I press my thumb inside, slow and sure.

  She gasps, squirms a little, though I can’t tell if she’s trying to get away or if she’s trying to get more of me inside of her. Either way, I grab her hip with my free hand and hold her in place before leaning down and biting the soft, sweet curve where her ass meets the top of her thigh.

  My name is a broken sound on her lips as her knees go out from under her. She collapses on the bed, her legs spread-eagled on either side of me as her breath comes in jagged, uneven pulls and her hips fuck down into the bed.

  She’s hot as fuck, the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, even before she starts pulling and twisting at the belt in an effort to get her hands free. It doesn’t work—the belt is made of the most supple Italian leather—but watching her move snaps the last thin strand of restraint holding me back. I bring my hand down on her ass, hard.

  “Ian!” she half-screams, half-whimpers, her body rocking hard against me now.

  “I’ve got you, Veronica,” I tell her as I reach beneath her and flip her over, making sure as I do that it’s the belt that twists and not her wrists. “I’ve got you, baby.”

  Then I’m throwing her legs over my shoulders, lifting her hips off the bed and burying my face in her soft, slick pussy. Thrusting my tongue over her clit, along her slit, inside her sex again and again and again until she calls my name as her body clamps down around me in her third orgasm of the night.

  And still I’m not done, still it’s not enough. I use my hands and mouth and body to take her higher. To drive her to the edge over and over again until she’s sobbing and pleading and nearly incoherent with the need to get off one more time. Only then, when she’s desperate, when she’s chanting my name like a mantra—like a prayer—do I line myself up and plunge into the wet, welcoming depths of her.

  She comes instantly, her body milking mine with a thousand powerful contractions that seem to go on forever. I’m close, so close, but I’m not ready to follow her over. Not yet, when the pleasure is consuming me, pulling me under. Not yet, when the darkness calls to me like a siren.

  Her legs are still over my shoulders and I turn my head, bite softly at the inside of her knee before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. She rocks her head back and forth on the bed as even more color floods her cheeks and in that moment—with her pink cheeks and kiss-swollen lips and fucked out eyes—she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  I open my mouth to tell her so, but something tells me that doing so will ruin everything. And so I bite my tongue, hold the words back, and fuck her like she’s the most beautiful, most important woman in the world.

  Chapter 14

  He’s trying to kill me.

  There’s no other explanation for what Ian is doing, no other reason for the way he’s pushing his body, pushing mine, to the brink. He’s close. I know he’s close—I can see it in the darkness of his eyes, hear it in the harsh wildness of his breaths, feel it in the urgency of his hips as they slam against mine over and over again. And still he fucks me. Still he refuses to just let go and come.

  I should be exhausted, should be completely fucked out after the four orgasms he’s already given me, especially considering the day I’ve had—and the fact that this is only the second time in my life that a man has ever made me feel like this.

  But I’m not fucked out, not yet. I’ve only just come and still I can feel my body responding to his, still I can feel the tension building deep inside of me yet again. I don’t know how this is happening—don’t know why it’s Ian Sharpe of all people who can make me feel like this—and right now¸ I don’t care. All that matters is that he keeps doing it for just a little bit longer.

  Because as long as he’s fucking me, as long as he’s turning me inside out, then I’m not thinking about what happened in my bathroom tonight. I’m not thinking about Belladonna or my mother’s concerns or the fact that I’m terrified by my strange memory lapse from earlier.

  All I’m thinking about is Ian and the pleasure he sends crashing along my every nerve ending, the pleasure he uses to turn my whole body to flame.

  Right now, one of his hands is around my ankle, holding my leg up while the other is on my breast, his fingers tweaking my nipple hard enough to hurt. It’s nowhere near hard enough to have me asking him to stop though, not when every deliberate twinge of pain brings with it an avalanche of pleasure.

  I moan at the sensation, arching my back to press even closer to him. To get even more from him than he’s already given. He groans in response, flicks a fingernail back and forth across my nipple. It feels good, too good. I’d wanted to hold on for a little while this time, to watch his face as my body—as I—make him come. But with every thrust, every flick, every touch of him against me, I get closer to the edge and I know if I don’t do something soon, he’s going to send me soaring alone again.

  Instinctively, I buck my hips, tighten around him. He responds with a low snarl and a slap on the side of my hip that has pleasure—crazy, overwhelming, insane—streaking along my every nerve ending. My head is thrashing back and forth on the pillow now, words I can barely comprehend falling from my lips and I’m begging for more, pleading with him to take me up and over. It’s disconcerting, terrifying even, considering I’ve built my entire adult life on the premise that I don’t beg anyone for anything. Ever.

  The thought is enough to give me pause, to pull me out of the sensual, sexual stupor Ian has had me in from the moment he first touched me. But then he slams his hips against mine, pounding into me hard enough to have my head spinning and the good kind of stars dancing in front of my eyes. At the same time, he bites down on the sensitive curve where my neck meets my shoulder.

  My misgivings get buried in the avalanche of pleasure that cascades through me. It all feels so good—he feels so good—that I can feel yet another climax looming. Ian tenses against me, his whole body burning hot and rigid and I figure this must finally be it. He’s held on so long I swear it’s practically inhuman, but every instinct I have tells me he’s about to go over.

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nbsp; The thought takes me even higher and I turn my head, sink my teeth into the warm, resilient muscle of his biceps even as I stroke a hand down his chest to help ease his final slip into orgasm. He growls, a dark and wicked sound against the quiet backdrop of the room, then pulls out of me in a rush.

  I gasp at the unexpectedness of the move, cry out in protest as I reach for him, try to pull him back. “Why did you stop?” I demand as he shoves off the bed, and this time there’s no disguising the plea in my voice. Not that I’m trying to hide it—I’m too empty and confused right now to even attempt to pretend otherwise. “Where are you going? What are—”

  “I’m not going anywhere, baby,” he interrupts, his hand stroking down the center of my body from my throat to my sex. He pauses there for a moment, gently rubs my clit. Then he gets a little bit rougher, presses a little bit harder, and I cry out, high and wild. My whole body starts to shake and I don’t know whether to beg him to stop or beg him to continue.

  After a few more seconds, he takes the choice away from me as he slides one hand under my hip. He flips me over onto my stomach and for a moment, just a moment, I lament the loss of being able to see his beautiful, beautiful face. But then he touches me, just a single finger to the small of my back, but it’s enough to remind me just how desperate I am to come.

  Besides, if this is the way he likes to have sex, with me facing away from him, who am I to blame him? I have too many of my own issues to ever judge someone else’s.

  “Come back,” I tell him as I push up to my knees. It’s no easy feat, with the way my arms are still bound and stretched tightly above my head, but I manage it. “I need—” My voice breaks and I stop, unable to say the last word. Unable to make myself that vulnerable.

  It’s crazy, especially considering how vulnerable I am at this very moment. It’s not my nakedness, or even the way I’m bound to the bed. Physical vulnerability I can take—I’m an actress, after all. I spend my life that way. But emotional vulnerability? No way am I doing that, especially when I’m already feeling so incredibly messed up inside.

  “What?” he demands, even as he runs a gentle hand over the curve of my ass. “What do you need?”

  “You know what I’m asking for,” I choke out, turning my head so that my hot cheek presses against the coolness of the sheet.

  “Maybe I do.” He continues stroking me—petting me—in a calm, steady rhythm despite the fact that I can hear in his voice just how much that restraint is costing him. “Maybe I need to hear you say it.”

  I wiggle my legs a little further apart, then arch into his touch just as his hand reaches the bottom curve of my ass. We both draw in a harsh breath as his fingers slide across my sex.

  I arch even further, shuddering as he strokes his thumb down my labia once, twice. But then he’s pulling back again and I’m crying out, desperate for some kind of relief. I strain against the belt, twisting my arms and my wrists back and forth in a desperate attempt to get close to him. In a desperate attempt to answer his question without having to say the words.

  But when has Ian ever let me off that easy? Instead of sliding his cock back inside me like I’m practically begging him to do, he pinches my clit between his thumb and forefinger. Squeezes hard enough to have me crying out. Then he brings the palm of his other hand down on my ass hard enough to make me scream.

  Then he does it again. And unlike last night, in my kitchen, he doesn’t go easy on me. Doesn’t ease me into it. Again and again he smacks me. Over and over he brings his hand down, hard, until every inch of my ass is on fire and my whole body feels like a firecracker seconds before it explodes.

  And still he doesn’t stop. Still he keeps it up until I can feel this spanking in my aching sex. In my rock-hard nipples. In the deepest, darkest part of me that I never let anyone touch.

  My head thrashes against the sheets and tears pour down my burning cheeks even as I arch my hips in a silent plea for more. More pleasure. More pain. More…everything.

  Ian gives it to me—of course he does—rubbing his thumb against my aching clit as he slides three fingers deep inside of me. I clench down around him, grateful for the sudden sense of fullness—and for the way he’s pressed right up against my G-spot. I wait for him to start stroking me, to start sliding his fingers in and out in the rhythm I’m so desperate for. In the rhythm that will finally release my body—me—from this agony of frustrated pleasure.

  He doesn’t do it though. Instead, he stops. Stops stroking my clit, stops moving his fingers. He holds himself completely still, waiting for me to break. Waiting for me to beg.

  I almost do.

  It would be so easy. He’s right there—right here—touching me, taunting me, tormenting me with the promise of more. The promise of what he can give me with just a few strokes of his fingers.

  But I can’t. The words are stuck in my throat, trapped there by ancient memories and a fear I just can’t shake. And so I start to move on my own, rocking and wiggling my hips against his hand in a frenzied attempt to get the friction I so desperately need.

  “Don’t,” he says harshly even as he brings his hand down on my ass yet again.

  The sharp sound echoes through the room and I bury my face in the bed, choke back a scream as heat pours through my body. I don’t stop, though. I can’t. I’m too needy, too desperate, too far gone now to do anything but whimper and push frantically against him. My body is on fire, the need to come so overwhelming that it’s a razor blade against my skin, scraping, slicing, peeling away at the layers of armor I keep between myself and the world around me.

  “Fuck!” Ian wraps one big hand around my hip and squeezes tight enough to hold me in place, balanced on his fingers. Balanced on the edge of madness.

  It’s almost enough—just the feel of his hand digging into my flesh—and I tighten around him, my body milking his fingers over and over again. I’m so close, so fucking close. My head is fuzzy, my body light, and all I need is—

  He pulls out in a rush and I do scream then, a hoarse, harsh sound that rips along my vocal cords without my permission.

  The tears are coming faster now, blinding me, soaking the bedsheets beneath my face. “Why are you doing this to me?” I choke out, shuddering. “What do you want?”

  He leans forward, grabs my chin. Twists my face to the side until I’m staring directly into his eyes. “What do you want?” he shoots back. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you. I swear.”

  I can’t do this. I can’t take it. It’s too much. It’s all just too much. “Untie me,” I whisper. “I want you to let me go.”

  It’s a lie—letting me go is the last thing I want him to do right now. But I’m totally overwhelmed, completely vulnerable and I can’t take any more.

  Ian freezes. He lets go of my chin, sits back on his heels. And though I know he’s talking to me, for a moment all I can do is stare. He’s so beautiful like this—eyes dark, jaw rigid, body tensed so that every perfect muscle is starkly defined—that all I want to do is touch. I want it so bad that my fingers flex, my wrists twisting and twisting against the belt.

  “Damn it, Veronica! Answer me,” Ian snarls.

  I would, but I don’t know the question. I’m too far gone to focus. I’m sinking, drowning, everything around me going soft and out of focus.

  Ian curses again, low and vicious. And then he’s shifting on the bed, his hands sliding over mine as he starts to fumble with the belt.

  It’s what I asked for but as I feel the give as the first knot unravels, I know it’s not what I want. “Please.” I force the words past my too tight throat, past my swollen lips. “Please, Ian. Fuck me. I want you to fuck me. I need—” My voice breaks. It’s all too much.

  And then he’s there, his hand tangling in my hair as he pulls my head back so he can see my face. I’ve never felt so vulnerable, so wide open, and I start to close my eyes in an effort to hide.

  But Ian stops me, his voice both sharp and impossibly tender as he says, “Don’t.
I want to see.”

  And when he asks like that, when he looks at me like that, I can’t do anything but give in to him. And so I stay just where I am, eyes open, body soft, all that I am laid bare for him in that one moment.

  He knows it, too. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the sudden tenderness of his touch. He cups my cheek in his palm, rubs his thumb back and forth across my lips. “I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs as he replaces his thumb with his lips. “I’ll take care of you.”

  He kisses me then, long and slow and languid, and I feel the last of my reservations slip away. I slide deeper and deeper until all I can feel, all I can think about, is him.

  His hand skims over my cheek, down my throat, over the side of my breast to my hip. Everything is soft now, fuzzy, my body thrumming with desire. I press into his touch, craving it, needing it the same way I need his cock deep inside of me.

  And then he’s flipping me over once more, fitting himself between my thighs, pressing himself inside of me. He’s huge and hot and hard, so hard, that it feels like an invasion as he buries himself balls deep inside of me.

  I start to tremble the second he sinks home, my body so primed for his that the slightest movement will send me over. My eyes flutter closed, but then his hand is there around my throat, his fingers stroking the sensitive skin on the underside of my jaw.

  “Look at me,” he says and I do. Of course I do. Right here, right now, it feels like I’d do anything—everything—that he asks of me. That’s how far gone I am. That’s how much I need what only he can give me.

  The thought should terrify me, and maybe somewhere deep down, it does. But before I can focus on it—before I can let it in my head—he’s moving. And though his eyes are gentle, his touch tender, the way he moves against me is anything but.

  He fucks into me like he means it, like he’s dying for it. His hips pistoning against me, harder, faster, deeper than he’s ever been before. It hurts a little but it feels so good that all I can do is gasp and arch against him. All I can do is take it as he slams his cock inside of me again and again and again.