by Holly Hart
I hate it when Charlie makes me give voice to my desires like this. Hate it – and love it.
Even after all this time, I still feel like the same awkward, nervous little virgin Charlie married. The truth is, I’m anything but. We’ve done things together – naughty things – that I never knew existed. Hell, he’s fucked me up against this very glass wall, for all of New York to watch.
If they were looking that is. Through binoculars…
“Good,” Charlie says. His voice hums with lust. “Good girl.”
He strokes my stomach with approval. I want to curl up and die right then and there – because I would die happy. In any other context, from any other man, I’d recoil from a comment like that with disgust.
But from Charlie? The man I love? The man I can’t stop desiring? It makes my desire explode, like a wall of flame coursing through my veins.
“And you know what good girls get,” Charlie says. He scrapes his fingernails down either side of my torso, and I moan with delight.
“Their reward.”
Charlie hooks his thumbs underneath my red lace panties. I picked them out specially to match my hair. I know they are his favorite.
I wish I could watch, but my prison of darkness adds a layer of spice to this that I have craved for so long. I’m on edge, straining. Waiting. Desiring.
I’m forced to rely on my other senses: the faintest hint of Charlie’s spicy, floral aftershave that wafts through the air, the feeling of my husband’s heat radiating against my skin, the sound of –
A snip.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I feel a looseness around my hips.
“Your ankles are tied together,” Charlie replies, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world. “So I had to cut your panties off…”
My mouth drops open. I hear a second snicking sound, and then the cool kiss of air conditioning against my pussy. I squirm, pressing my legs together. Suddenly I feel so vulnerable, so exposed. Charlie’s got me exactly how he wants me: tied up, powerless, completely at his mercy.
It’s a terrifying thought.
And very, very exciting.
“Tell me what to do,” Charlie says.
My eyebrows kink underneath the soft silk blindfold. I have no idea what Charlie means –
– And then I do.
He kisses the slit between my legs first. I part my still bound legs to make space. My knees bow outwards like the hole of the hand-carved rowboat.
But Charlie doesn’t move.
He stays there, his lips barely grazing my wetness. I arch my back once more, and my hips rise slightly off the silk sheets in my desire to experience the magic of my husband’s tongue.
But Charlie doesn’t move.
I moan with protest, practically begging him to touch me. And then it strikes me. Exactly what Charlie wants me to do.
Tell him what to do.
“Lick me,” I moan, my cheeks burning red. “From bottom to top.”
Charlie does exactly as he’s ordered. He licks my pussy from bottom to top – slowly, so slowly every nerve ending cries out with pleasure in turn before he moves. The heat of his tongue mixes with the heat of my desire.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Don’t stop.”
Charlie doesn’t. He stays there, like my own personal sex robot, my own personal slave. His tongue moves with metronomic, well-trained precision.
A flash of pleasure, before it recedes.
Another flash, and another.
Slowly my breathing changes. It becomes more ragged. Goosebumps break out across my skin like the first seedlings of spring. I picture myself from above – blindfolded and bound, red hair streaming like a brush fire on the cream silk sheets.
“Now faster,” I moan as my pleasure begins to build like a rising tide. “And –”
Charlie freezes, awaiting my next command. I can’t let him stop. I’m so close to the edge. Every nerve ending, every muscle is screaming out for release. I’m so tense, my body wound up like a spring. I’m ready to explode.
“Squeeze my ass,” I yelp.
I have no idea why I asked Charlie to do that, but I do. It just feels right. I can’t see, but I can imagine every hair on Charlie’s head, even the look of desire painted on his face.
I want to feel him squeezing my ass, pushing it up and into his face. I want to feel the heat of his lips and nose and cheek pressed right up against my pussy.
And my wish is Charlie Thorne’s command.
He slides his hands up the back of my thighs – slow, steady, but hard and unyielding. He squeezes my ass, digging in with his fingernails, and presses my weight upward like it’s nothing, like my entire body is a feather.
“Keep going,” I moan. “Don’t stop!”
Charlie does. And he doesn’t. He wouldn’t dare.
My hands are bound at the wrists, they rest on my front. I pick them up and place them on Charlie’s head.
If I could, I’d dig my fingernails into his hair. But this is the next best thing.
My head tips back, I arch my body and push my hips into Charlie’s face.
“I’m going to –”
Come.
A blackness overtakes me. And yet fireworks as well. Both, all at once. Every inch of my skin feels like it’s on fire.
“That was your turn,” Charlie growls. “Now it’s mine.”
“What are you going to do?” I whimper.
All the tension has drained out of my body. The orgasm has left me feeling light as a feather. I feel like I could rise up like a balloon and just float off right here and now. Hell, it’s hard to even think. Little aftershocks are still crackling around my body.
Between my legs.
Around my nipples, which stand like two proud mountains atop my heaving breasts.
Even deep inside my core.
“Whatever the fuck I want,” Charlie laughs. “It’s your turn to be my little slut.”
“Good,” I whisper.
God, I love Charlie’s dirty talk. This isn’t the first time he’s talked rough in bed – but he’s certainly never called me something like his little slut before!
I love it.
It makes me feel filthy and wanted, all at once. It stokes the flames of my desire; it makes me desperate to do whatever it takes to make my lover come.
I can’t describe it. I know it shouldn’t be the case. I should be a proud, strong feminist. I should recoil when someone uses a word like that. But I don’t. I’m not going to. Because when Charlie says it, he says it with love.
What I’m thinking, Charlie’s moving.
“Turn over,” he says.
I’m still processing his gruff, commanding voice when I feel the warmth of his hands on my hips. Charlie flips me over in one. The impact of my breasts meeting the mattress knocks the wind out of me.
“What are –?”
I stop talking. It doesn’t matter what Charlie’s about to do. Because whatever it is, it’s not to me: it’s with me.
My last orgasm is still wriggling around my body when Charlie grabs my hips once more. He pulls me back, so my ass is in front of him.
The darkness begins to irritate me. I can’t see where my body is, or where Charlie’s making me go. I can’t see the desire on his face. I can’t even see the mattress in front of me!
But I know better than to ask him to remove my blindfold. In fact, that’s the last thing I want. The darkness is intoxicating. It adds another dimension to all of this.
Charlie’s belt clinks. I jeans falling down his legs. Damn, I wish I could see it. I love watching my husband undress. Every day, he just gets sexier. I don’t know how I got so lucky.
Charlie reaches forward and thrusts his fingers between my legs, probing my soaking pussy.
“Are you ready for my cock, Penny? Are you ready to be my slut?”
“Yes,” I murmur, looking over my shoulder – even though all I see is darkness. “God, yes!”
With my wrists and ankles bound,
I’m at Charlie’s mercy. I’m forced into an uncomfortable position, kneeling on my knees on the thick, firm mattress, and supporting myself on my forearms, rather than with my hands.
I complain – but I think it’s all part of Charlie’s wicked plan…
“God, you look so fucking hot!” Charlie groans. He scrapes his fingernails across my ass, and then slaps it once for good measure.
The crack rings out across our bedroom. I feel my ass ripple from the impact, feel as the aftershocks vibrate through me, meeting between my legs and building my pleasure.
“Really?” I say. Honestly, I’m just fishing for a compliment. I love it when Charlie talks to me like this. No wonder it’s my secret fantasy!
“Fuck yes. Fucking really,” Charlie growls. “Penny, this is the best idea you’ve had all month.”
“I know,” I grin. “Now – are you going to going to –“ I pause. The word rolls off my tongue. “– Fuck me, or just stand around talking about it all day?”
Charlie doesn’t reply. Not with words. Another crack rings out as he spanks me teasingly, pushing me forward. He makes a low, throaty moan, and grips the left-hand side of my body.
With his other hand – I imagine – he guides his thick, pulsating cock. I feel it – the heat of it – pressing against my pussy. I back into it.
“Please,” I groan. “Please Charlie, just take me.”
He does.
I feel his thickness parting my legs.
“Oh God, you’re so fucking wet, Penny,” Charlie groans. “Don’t you dare fucking change.”
I have no idea what that means, but I love it. Does Charlie really expect me to walk around all day like this? I stifle a laugh. In his mind, I bet he’d love that!
And then all conscious thought gets pushed out of my mind. I can’t think, I can barely breathe. Charlie thrusts his cock into me, gripping both my hips, and digging in with his fingernails.
“Yes!” I moan.
“You’re going to come for me,” Charlie growls.
The pleasure that’s squeezing his balls constricts the gruffness in his throat. I love it! My body is bound and defenseless, but I love that it has an effect on Charlie he can’t conceal. Not even when I’m blindfolded!
“You’re going to come for me, you little slut. And you’re going to love it.”
I don’t doubt it.
Charlie’s right about another thing.
I am going to come… Soon.
I collapse forward, struggling with my bound wrists to stay upright as Charlie’s cock rams into me. I love it when he fucks me on my hands and knees. He goes so deep, stretching me like I didn’t know it was possible to be stretched.
“Charlie –!” I whimper.
My husband – my lover’s – throat gurgles with suppressed pleasure. He slaps my ass once more for good measure, and as the pleasure ripples through my body –
I explode.
I feel Charlie’s heat explode inside me. He collapses on top of me, the sweat on his front mingling with the sweat on my back. His lungs strain, and his chest rises and falls in time with mine.
I feel him lean forward. I sense his heat once again near my earlobe. I feel him hook a finger underneath my blindfold, and finally free me from the darkness.
“Don’t you think,” he whispers. “It’s time we had a baby of our own?”
The End. Really!
Part Two
Climax
Wanna hear a dirty little secret?
No guy has ever gotten me off!
At least, it was a secret, until my boss saw my journal.
Now he’s making me a promise I can’t resist...
I won a war, lost a wife, and raised a beautiful baby girl.
But I left the SEALs scarred and broken. I swore off women for good.
Until Skye.
She’s innocent, curvy, and makes my company tick.
But I discovered her deepest secret: she’s never had an O.
I made her a deal: You fix me and I’ll fix you…
I’m gonna fix her, all right, right there in her own office!
Skye’s gonna learn fast:
There’s more to this contract than meets the eye.
And there’s a first time for everything. It won’t be her last
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Skye
I’m lost in the glow thrown out by my smartphone as I walk past my assistant, Tyler. I know – cool, right!
“Skye, there’s –”
“Just give me a second, Tyler, okay?” I mutter, missing what should have been my first warning.
I’m reading an article from one of those British psychiatry journals. I guess most people don’t find that sort of thing interesting, but I live and breathe therapy. It’s not just my job, it’s what I’ve wanted to do since I was a little kid.
“Um okay, I guess–,” Tyler says in a stifled, anguished squeal.
His shriek should have been my second warning.
I push the door to my office open without looking at it, and almost bump my forehead against the frosted glass in the process. I kick off my flats and wander to my chair. I know the contours of my little office like the back of my hand. I could find my way around missing every cabinet or locating any file I needed – even if the room was pitch black and I was blindfolded.
I guess my third warning should have been the scent of spicy cologne wafting through the air. But my brain takes a couple of seconds too long to process the smell, as well.
The glass door closes with a hiss behind me.
“You must be Skye?”
The voice startles me. It sounds familiar, in a long-lost kind of way. My body searches for adrenaline and dumps it straight into my veins. The clever, self-assured, rational part of my brain switches off, and I go into survival mode. I rack my brain.
What did Tyler say?
I look up to see a man standing in the office – My office – and he’s reading My journal. The notebook which chronicles every last embarrassment that has happened to me, all of my darkest fears, and –
– My secret.
I freak out, and rush towards the man, knocking the journal out of his hands. Some of the pages crumple against the floor.
“Who the hell are you?” I yell and recklessly ask, “and what are you doing in My office?”
The man takes a step back. He doesn’t seem intimidated or put off by my – slightly crazy – reaction. In fact, a smile tickles his lips.
“I think you’ll find, Skye, that this is in fact my office.”
“Oh. My. God,” I whimper.
Not some play whimper, a very real I’m-a-scared-little-puppy whimper. Because right now, I know that I’ve fucked up – like lose-your-dream-job bad fucked up.
Because the man standing in front of me is Harlan Wolfe – not just the third richest man in New York – the CEO of Wolfe Capital.
Meaning, therefore, he is my boss …
… technically speaking …
… because before now, I’ve never seen the man. He owns the company, it’s his name that’s plastered across the office building’s front. But people like Harlan are supposed to stay on floors a whole lot higher than mine.
“There’s no need for that,” he grins, sticking out his hand, “just call me Harlan.”
I just stare at the floating hand.
I’ve got no idea how to act. How the heck am I supposed to dig myself out of a hole this deep? I just practically assaulted the freaking CEO. Worse, if you can believe it, is what he might have read in my journal. Most of it contains just embarrassing thoughts – my hopes, fears, and any problem I might have had during the day. I’m pretty sure I’ve never bitched about the company, at least…
But there’s one secret that would kill me if anyone found out.
“I’m – I’m so sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t – I mean – I didn’t know it was you. I mean, that you were you.” I clam up, and clap my hand across my offending mouth. I play back wh
at I just said in my head and cringe. I sound like an idiot.
Harlan looks at me with an expression shaded by pity. Then he glances at his outstretched arm. When it’s obvious that I’m too panicked to shake his hand, he lets it fall to his side.
“I should hope not,” Harlan says, still grinning broadly.
It’s like all this is a game to him. I guess, when you’re worth twenty billion dollars, life is just one big strategy game.
Harlan crouches down. He’s wearing a light gray, perfectly-tailored Italian suit that hugs his body like a second skin. I can’t help but watch as his muscular thighs bulge, straining against the cloth. God, the man has the body of an Olympic athlete.
And then I realize what Harlan’s doing. He’s reaching for my journal. The one I just batted out of his hands.
But now I am stuck. I feel like my feet are encased in concrete. I can’t possibly throw myself at the journal a second time. But I’ve got to do something, to say something, at least.
“Why –”
“– am I in your office?” The billionaire, hedge fund manager, completes my sentence and smiles, picking up the gray notebook. “That’s an interesting question, Skye. Not as interesting, though, as what I read in here…” He taps the side of the journal.
I feel my cheeks heat like a runaway forest fire. “That’s –,” I croak, “Private.”
“Unfortunately for you, Skye, if it’s in this building, then it’s not private. To me, anyway.”
Harlan glances down at the incriminating journal, chews his lip, then hands it back to me. I hold my breath the entire time. I am uncomfortably aware of how attractive he is. His eyes are iceberg gray, his hair thick and black and virile.
A few gray hairs betray his age – late thirties – but he shows no sign of balding. In fact, he couldn’t be further away. Besides, he has the body of a man half his age. He looks lithe and fit, and almost painfully sexual. That’s the only way I can describe him. His expression crackles with intent, with desire.
“But I can see it’s causing you some bother,” Harlan smiles. He wraps his knuckles against the journal one last time, and then hands it to me. I practically snatch it out of his grasp.
