by Tracy Wolff
I don’t do it, though. I can’t.
Because the truth is, it’s too late. Too late for me to run, too late for me to hide. I may not know much about this lifestyle, about this kink, but I do know that. My whole body is already attuned to his—my blood pounds with my need for him. My skin burns for his touch. And my sex, my sex aches with emptiness, with the need to feel him inside of me.
No, running away isn’t an option, for so many, many reasons.
And then even the idea of freedom is gone, because he’s right here in front of me, his big body practically vibrating with anger. Or need. I don’t know him well enough yet to tell the difference.
“So, that’s how it’s going to be, is it?” he asks softly.
“I’m not very good at taking orders,” I tell him, trying my best to ignore the fact that my mouth has suddenly gone desert dry.
“I don’t remember issuing any orders.” He lifts a hand toward my face and instinctively I flinch away. He freezes mid-reach, his eyes going wary, watchful.
Damn it. Just that easily, I’m furious with myself. I left that all behind a long time ago and I won’t go back there. Not now, not ever. No matter how much pleasure Sebastian can bring me. For the first time since this began I think seriously of walking out and never looking back.
“I don’t respond well to punishment, either,” I tell him, forcing myself to sound cocky and unconcerned when all I really want to do is curl myself into a ball and lick wounds I didn’t even know I still had.
Sebastian watches me for long seconds, his eyes practically hypnotic as they roam my face, my body. Looking for clues, I figure, to my odd behavior. But there are none on my body—I don’t wear the marks of a man anymore, and I never will again. No, the clues he’s looking for are buried so deep inside of me that no one will ever get the chance to see them again.
Still, I’m embarrassed at my loss of control, at the tell I just couldn’t hide. I wait for the sympathy, or worse—so much worse—the excitement, but Sebastian gives me neither. Instead, all he does is watch me with a steadiness that belies my own abrupt shakiness.
“Then it’s a good thing that I don’t punish, isn’t it?”
He reaches his hand out again, slower now, and this time I don’t flinch away. Partly because I know now that he isn’t going to hit me. And partly because I want to see what he is going to do.
He cups my cheek in his large, calloused hand, strokes his thumb along my jaw. Over my lips. For a second, just a second, I wonder how and why a high-powered businessman has hands like a blue collar workman, but then even that thought vanishes in the strange lassitude that starts creeping through me again.
I don’t know what it is, don’t understand why everything is going a little blurry at the edges, a little out of focus. Don’t understand why, even as it is, I crave nothing so much as Sebastian’s touch. His mouth. The feel of his body against my own.
And then he’s pressing his thumb against my chin, pushing down until my lips part and my mouth opens for him. Only for him.
“Control isn’t about punishment, Aria,” he tells me so softly that I’m not sure I’m not imagining the whole thing. “It’s not about proving who has the bigger dick.”
His thumb presses into my mouth before I can answer, strokes gently against the tip of my tongue. I think about biting him, or at least yanking my head away.
I do neither.
“Especially in this case,” he continues. “Since I think it’s fairly obvious that only one of us can enter that competition.”
He pushes deeper into my mouth, twists his hand around so that now he’s stroking the roof of my mouth with the pad of his thumb. Slowly, gently, carefully.
It feels good, strangely, shockingly good, and I can’t stop myself from responding. My eyes close, my head falls back against the window and then I’m sucking him deeper, pulling him all the way in even as my tongue circles his thumb, stroking along the top and bottom and sides of it in the same manner I would treat his cock if it was in my mouth.
He pulls out then, his thumb wet and hot as it rubs across my lips, smearing my lipstick to hell and back. Normally I’d freak out—red lipstick is a real bitch to get out of skin like mine and I do have to go back to work when this interlude is over—but right now I can’t bring myself to care. Not when his thumb—his wet, lipstick-stained thumb, is trailing over my chin and down my neck to the hollow of my throat.
He keeps it there for a minute, fingers curled into a fist, thumb rubbing against my collarbone. And then he opens his hand, spreads it wide, until he’s actually collaring my throat with it.
My eyes fly open then, a high, distressed sound escapes from my captured throat. Sebastian doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull back, doesn’t so much as hesitate. Instead, he starts to stroke, to press, to massage my throat and nothing in my life has ever felt this good and this frightening all at the same time.
The fuzziness gets worse, the languor setting in completely so that I feel weak, disembodied. Like a rag doll just waiting to see what Sebastian is going to do next.
There’s a part of my brain—a tiny part at this point, but still—that continues to warn me that this is a bad idea. That I should get the hell out of Dodge as fast as humanly possible. But it’s buried beneath the pleasure, beneath the need he evokes in me with just a look, just a touch. Buried beneath the curiosity and this strange, sweet lassitude that I don’t have a clue how to fight.
I’m not sure what I expect to happen next. Maybe for Sebastian to unbutton my blouse. Maybe for him to demand that I drop to my knees in front of him this time—the chance I’ve been waiting for. Or maybe I expect him to shove down his zipper, shove up my skirt and shove into me as I’ve been wanting him to since he first told me to put my hands on the window.
He does none of those things, though. Instead, he brings his other hand to my cheek and just stands there for long seconds, cupping my face, holding my throat, watching me.
Watching and waiting, waiting and watching.
I don’t understand why he’s postponing what I’m pretty sure is the inevitable, but I have enough self-control left not to ask. Still, every second I stand there, wondering, anticipating, I sink further and further into the lassitude. It’s warm and sweet, like honey, and I love the way it runs through my veins. Slowing me down. Taking me over.
My limbs are heavy, my heartbeat slow and rhythmic now instead of fast and thready. And my eyes—it’s so hard to keep them open. So hard to stay alert when all I want to do is sink into Sebastian and let him do whatever he wants to me.
I struggle against the sweetness of it for a few moments longer, but eventually I lose the fight. My eyes flutter closed again, and as they do, my knees go weak. Suddenly, the only thing keeping me upright is Sebastian’s touch. His palm against my face, his hand on my neck, his hips jerking forward to pin mine against the window and keep me from falling—or choking from the pressure of his hold on my throat.
Though his hips are doing most of the work of holding me in place, his hand is tight enough now to cause me pain. Not a lot, not even a significant amount, really. But enough—a pinch here, a tug there—to make me aware of just how much control he has over my body at this moment.
Instead of freaking me out, the knowledge only makes me wetter.
“Sebastian.” I whisper his name for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Yes, Aria?”
I can feel his warm breath against my cheek and though my eyes are closed, I know that he is close. So close. I turn my head, try to press my lips to where I know his are, but all I find is air. He’s gone as quickly as he was there.
“I need—” My voice breaks.
“What do you need, love?” His voice is lower now, deeper even than it usually is. His breath is against my other cheek, the edge of my jaw.
I turn my head again, more quickly this time, and once again try to capture his lips with my own. But he’s gone again, and this time he moves back so that his pelvis i
s no longer pressed to mine. So that the only point of contact for our bodies is his hand at my throat.
He tightens it a little bit and as I move my head back so that I’m facing directly forward again, I feel a little more pressure there than I did before. Not enough to come close to cutting off my air, but definitely enough to let me know he’s not playing around. At least, not like I first thought he was.
It occurs to me suddenly that if someone walked in right now, they wouldn’t know if he was trying to kill me or fuck me.
Considering my background—where I came from and what I’ve done to survive—the thought shouldn’t be as arousing as it is. Maybe it’s because I know the difference. I know just how careful Sebastian really is being with me.
“What do you need, Aria?” Sebastian repeats, his finger stroking the sensitive skin right beneath my ear. “I won’t ask again.”
“I need—” Again my nerve fails me. Again my voice breaks.
“There’s no shame in asking for what you need,” he tells me, and this time I can feel his breath on my lips. His mouth is right there, mere centimeters from my own. If I lean forward just a moment, just a breath, we’ll be kissing. I want that desperately, want to feel his lips and tongue and teeth against my own so badly that it’s all I can think about. But if I go for it, if I try a third time to kiss him…
Three strikes and you’re out.
The old baseball adage springs to mind and suddenly I know what Sebastian meant when he said he wouldn’t ask again.
It’s a terrifying thought.
Any other time I’d feel ridiculous and melodramatic for thinking that even for a second, but right here, right now, the idea of Sebastian walking away and leaving me like this—wet and drowning and desperate for whatever he’s willing to give me—is anything but humorous.
And so I force myself to stay exactly where I am, force myself not to move, not to tremble, not to breathe.
Seconds pass—long, excruciating seconds where every heartbeat is an agony—and then he rewards me with a brush of his lips against my own.
It’s not enough, not nearly enough to quell the burn building inside me and yet I soak it up like the parched desert soaks up the rain.
Another pause on his side. Another wait on mine.
Another kiss, this one a little bit longer and wetter than the one that came before.
And it still isn’t close to what I’m after.
“I need your mouth.” I say the words that have been bubbling inside me for what feels like hours, days, millennia.
He mutters something that sounds an awful lot like, “Thank Christ.” And then he’s kissing me, his mouth open and wet and ravenous against my own.
He feels so good, tastes so good—like the beer he had at dinner mixed with the sweet and wild desert wind that likes to whip through the city at the least provocation.
“Sebastian.” His name is a prayer, a plea, a cry of desperation and desire as my hands slide up his heavily muscled back and tangle in the wild silk of his hair.
“Aria,” he answers, and my name is sweet on his lips. On his tongue, as it sweeps along the seam of my lips, explores the corners of my mouth. “I love the way you taste.”
I start to answer him, to tell him I feel exactly the same way, but then he’s sucking my lower lip between his teeth, biting down softly, and any thoughts I have scatter like poker chips after a winning hand.
Heat slams through me and I gasp, hands curling into fists. Fingers tugging at his hair, pulling sharply. He groans low in his throat and then his free hand is on my hip, his fingers digging into my ass. Not hard enough to hurt, but definitely enough to remind me that he’s the one in control.
The reminder only makes me hotter, and I can’t stop myself from moving restlessly against him. I want more than he’s giving me. Need more than I ever imagined I would.
But Sebastian is having none of it. He nips sharply at my lip in reprimand, but it only pulls me under. Even the gentle strokes of his tongue that follow the bite—strokes meant to soothe away the small hurt—do nothing but drag me deeper.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Until nothing matters but Sebastian and this moment and the sweet lassitude seeping like syrup through my whole body until I nearly drown in it.
And still it’s not enough for him. Still he pushes for more.
He slides his hand up my throat to my chin, tilts my head up and back a little more. And then he takes me over, his tongue sweeping inside my mouth to slide against my own. To stroke over the roof of my mouth, down the side of my cheek. To tease and taunt and torment me until all I can think of is him.
Until all I want is him.
I tug at his hair again, even more sharply this time, and he responds by slamming his hips against my own which in turn slams my ass against the cold, hard glass of the picture window.
Not that I’m complaining. This is what I’ve wanted all along. The time for playing, for the slow, sweet, luxurious build of desire, is long past. In its place, need is a desperate, destructive force between us, rising like a desert dust storm until it all but swallows us whole.
Chapter Three
Sebastian
Jesus, she’s sweet. Like cinnamon and apples and warm, dark honey that melts on the tongue. Sweet and soft and gorgeous, so gorgeous, as she loses herself in the darkest, deepest kiss I have ever been a part of.
The only problem is I’m losing myself just as readily.
I started this because I want her and because I want to show her what it means to truly have control over every aspect of herself—her choices, her body, even her orgasm. And yet I’m the one being tested here, the one whose control is slipping a little more with every second I spend touching her.
Deep inside me I can feel it welling up, the need to take her, to have her, and to hell with the consequences. I want to fuck her here, up against the window. Want to whirl her around and bend her over the back of one of my chairs and pound into her from behind. Want to drop her sweet, luscious ass on my desk, sink to my knees in front of her and feast.
But losing control like that won’t help her, won’t give her anything but an explosive orgasm or two. And while I’m not one to knock a well-needed release, if I can just hang on, if I can just regain the control that’s been second nature to me for such a long time, there’s so much more out there for her. For us.
Because I like the way she responds—with desperate little sounds in the back of her throat and a shimmy of those glorious hips of hers—I bite at her lower lip again. Sure enough, Aria whimpers, shifts against me even as she winds her fingers through the belt loops on my pants and tugs me closer.
I don’t give her what she wants, though. Partly because she didn’t ask and partly because I want more. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I’m dead set on hearing my Aria sing.
With that thought uppermost in my mind, I pull her closer, thrust my tongue into the warm velvet of her mouth.
She’s so much softer than I imagined she would be when I jacked off in my bathroom yesterday, so much hotter than I dreamed her last night.
“Please,” she murmurs against my lips. “I’m ready.”
Her words rocket down my spine, shoot through my dick. And there’s a part of me that wants to yield to her softly spoken words. After all, I just taught her that control is about asking for what you want—demanding it—and she’s done that.
She wants this. Wants me. I can feel it in her mouth. In her fingers tangling and tugging at my hair. In her nipples hard against my chest and her hips so restless against my own.
And still it’s not enough. She’s given me so much—her body, her trust. Yet I want more. I want everything she has, everything she is. And I will have it. Eventually. For now, I’ll keep pushing for—and keep taking—everything she wants to give me.
And so I kiss her. Wickedly. Crazily. I kiss her and kiss her and kiss her, until I can’t tell where she begins and I end. Until her lips
are swollen and so are mine. Until her mouth and this moment are the only things that matter.
And then I kiss her some more.
She moans deep in her throat, gasps, and I revel in the sound.
Revel in each moan and cry that leaves her lips and enters mine.
Revel in the way she opens to me, sharing her secrets and her pleasure.
I’m learning her with each glide of my tongue and nip of my teeth, unlocking her mysteries with each stroke of my hand and press of my hips.
I know now that a quick slide of my tongue across her lower lip elicits a warm sigh. A stroke of my hand against her breast evokes a deep-throated gasp. A pinch of her nipple gives me a whimper. And the thrust of my tongue deep inside her mouth makes her moan, low and sultry and dirty. So dirty.
I like that sound most of all, and so I do it again, sliding my tongue against, over, around hers.
And still it’s not enough. Aria’s pleasure is a song and I want to hear every note.
I press gently on her throat, just to feel her sharp intake of breath and the low, shaky exhale that follows. Her head rocks against the glass then, her hands twisting in my hair just enough to cause sharp frissons of pain to wind themselves through my scalp. It feels good, really good, and as a reward I suck her tongue into my mouth, let her explore me the way I just explored her.
She makes a new sound of pleasure, half-whimper, half-laugh, and I add it to the list I’m keeping. And then I give myself over—to her and to the power of this thing that arcs between us.
Eventually it gets to be too much—too much and not enough and everything in between. I rip my mouth from hers, and she moans, whether in protest or relief, I’m too far gone to tell. Shifting slightly, I rest my forehead against the window, my cheek next to hers, as I drag in great gulps of air.
She does the same and for long seconds the only sound in the room is our shaky inhalations. But then Aria turns her head and smiles at me, a sleepy, sexy thing that makes me forget why I needed oxygen in the first place.
