Finding The Limits (The Limitless Trilogy Book 1)

by Cole, Harper

  Like family.

  * * * *

  I steered the conversation into pleasant, light waters as we dined. She watched me, and I could tell she was itching for a fight - she had something to prove, and she wanted me to slip up so she could call me out for being some kind of horrific bore. Or boar. Either way, she was already convinced I was an over-privileged animal stuck in an outdated feudal system.

  I saw nothing wrong with that system.

  When the desserts were delivered, I leaned closer to her, and maintained eye contact. She had a fire in her belly that was frankly adorable; I wondered how hot those flames could burn.

  "Quit it."

  "I'm sorry?" I said.

  She put her small silver fork down with a clatter. "Stop watching me eat," she complained.

  "I'm sorry," I said again. "Your lips are captivating."

  "What?" Her voice rose and she glared, but there was a light in her eyes. Yes, my dear, I thought: everyone loves a compliment. Pretend to be horrified if you like, but you want more of this.

  I merely smiled and lowered my gaze for a moment; then looked back at her, pinning her with the full force of my attention as I leaned in ever closer, and whispered, "I am surprised that every man in this place isn't watching the way your mouth moves."

  I didn't need to add any reference to crude sexual acts. Her imagination was on the same track as mine; I could tell by the way she had to shift in her seat.

  "Oh, give it up already," she said, crossly, and continued with her food.

  I gave her a few moments of respite, allowing her to finish the exquisite cheesecake before resuming my attack.

  "You seem tense," I said.

  "I am not," she said, her shoulders immediately squaring; by saying it, I had made it true. Oh, so biddable.

  "It's all right," I said, reassuring her. "I'm simply surprised. The impression I had of Americans was that they were a casual, relaxed sort of people. You, on the other hand, seem awfully straight-laced."

  "Okay," she said, planting her elbows on the table, ticking off her points with her long fingers. "For one, I think stereotypes and generalizations suck, okay? And two. You don't know shit about me, so there's that. And three, the sort of person I might or might not be is none of your fucking business. Got it?"

  A few heads wobbled - no one would be so crude as to look in our direction, but I knew the ears of the other diners were pricking up. I didn't want to give them a public show, so I shifted around and caught the waiter's eye.

  He was a professional and he knew when his guests needed a quick exit. Within moments, my card was charged and another minion had brought Jasmine's wrap for her; we were hustled out of the door with smooth efficiency. She had the decency to hold back her argument until we were outside once more.

  She whirled around to me, clutching her pashmina to her body. "I don't know where guys like you get off," she hissed. "Are you fucking negging me or what?"

  I had no idea what that might mean, so I ignored it. Instead I did what I had been wanting to do all night; I stepped forward, grabbed her shoulders, and pulled her into a deep, brutal kiss.

  She pushed at me, but her lips parted, and after a brief moment of resistance she was kissing me back, her scent clouding my nostrils, her heart beating so hard I could feel every pulse below my fingers.

  Then as she relaxed into me even more, I pulled back. "This is where guys like me get off," I told her, growling low into her ear. "With women like you."

  "Just what do you mean by that?" She was struggling to keep her voice level.

  I nuzzled into her neck. "Fire. Passion. You stand up to me. You fight me. I want to fuck you, Jasmine Turner."

  "But-"

  When I kissed her again, there was no resistance. Her arms went around me, pulling my neck down, curving her body into mine. I felt her toned muscles and her soft, warm breasts. Her tongue darted into my mouth and my cock was already hard, and I pressed it slightly against her.

  She stifled a tiny gasp - just the lightest breath of air - as I released her.

  "And you want to be fucked, Jasmine Turner," I said.

  Chapter Three - Jas

  Fucked. The fucker. Fucking hell.

  Fuck me.

  He was right. I wanted him to fuck me - I wanted to fuck him. Yes. All of it. I wanted to hit him and pummel him and open my damn legs to him, the irritating, smug, sexy bastard.

  Everything he said to me was calculated to annoy me. I knew that. I could see that he was playing with me, but I fell for it, again and again. He was playing me, and I couldn't help being dragged along.

  Maybe I was more annoyed with myself than with him.

  But as he pulled me to him, and kissed me so hard, I melted and all my internal arguments faded away as sheer hormonal lust took over.

  A passing car tooted its horn but I was wrapped up in him; I tasted the wine on his lips, smelled his musk and his skin. His hands were gripping my ass now, as bold as you please, and my pelvis was grinding against his, like we were high schoolers making out with that urgency of teenagers.

  "Get a room!"

  I ignored the cry but he snorted with a laugh as he released me slightly. His eyes were dark; in the glow of the street light I couldn't tell that they were blue.

  "You're a jerk," I told him, though I still held on to his waist.

  He half-smiled, lifting the corner of his mouth, and narrowed his eyes at me. "I'm not a jerk," he said, the wording sounding flatter in his accent.

  "Well-" I started to say, but he lifted one hand, and put his fingers on my lips. He pressed warningly, and I inhaled sharply.

  "I'm not a jerk," he repeated but this time his voice was low, and full of a thrilling menace. "I'll tell you exactly what I am, Jasmine. I'm a man. I'm a man who is in charge. I'm dominant. Do you understand what that means?"

  "Sure," I said, my mouth a little dry as he removed his fingers and let me speak. "Hell, hasn't everyone read Fifty Shades by now? So you get off by bossing a woman around. I get that."

  "Is that what you think I mean?"

  "Why, what do you mean?"

  "You're a cheeky little madam who needs taking in hand, that's what I mean."

  "Seriously? I gotta tell you, I have literally no idea what you are talking about." Sure, I heard the words, but he could have been talking Dutch for all I understood what he meant. I had heard the word "cheeky" a few times now, but I still really wasn't sure how to interpret it.

  "Then I shall show you."

  Holy fuck but I thought he was going to throw me to the sidewalk right there and then, and fuck me senseless. He dragged me to the side and threw me up against the wall - this was Claridge's, for fuck's sake! Was he going to get us arrested?

  He pressed me against the stone and he kissed me hard, his tongue probing into my mouth, making me think of warmth and wetness and dark, secret holes. His hands roamed my body, skimmed my curves, hunting from my ass to my tits; he cupped my breasts and I instinctively arched my back, wanting to feel his whole strength crush me.

  Infuriatingly, his thumbs swept over my nipples, hard already, only lightly touching me before his hands were either side of my head, holding me brutally still.

  His mouth tugged at my lower lip, kissed to my neck, nibbled my ear, and breathed on my flesh. Every inch of my skin was alive and every goose bump raised up in anticipation.

  "Now we'll call a taxi and finish this."

  "Where?" I breathed, my thigh pressed against his. My sex was quivering. I hadn't had a fucking in months - just me, my hand and my vibrator - and I would swear that my juices were pouring from me already.

  "Let us go to your place," he said, and this is a measure of how far gone I was. Ordinarily that was a no-no. But I was so desperate to see this through, now, that I said, "Sure."

  And he grabbed my hand as he stepped away from me, and within moments we had tumbled into the back of a cab, and I was telling the driver the address of my rented apartment.

  As soon
as the cab had set off, he pulled me onto his lap. My hemline rode right up as I straddled him, and before I could adjust my position, he clamped a hand right between my legs and squeezed. His force made me gasp but he held me - actually held me down by gripping my crotch.

  "You are very, very wet," he said, pressing a finger onto my clit. He wriggled and eased it under the thin fabric of my panties, and slid it straight into my pussy. His palm was uppermost, clasping me firmly.

  I twitched, which ground me against his hand, and I couldn't help but moan.

  "I could make you orgasm," he said, conversationally, as he flexed his fingers.

  The cab made a sudden turn and I was thrown against him. I pulled back, straightening, and he bent his head to kiss along the swelling top of my cleavage. Then, with his other hand, he pulled sharply at the neckline of my dress, and I heard the fabric tear.

  "Hey, watch out," I said, suddenly returning to my senses. This was a designer fucking dress, for God's sake.

  But when his mouth closed over my nipple and his tongue began to work around, my protests died. Fuck, I could always buy another dress.

  His hand in my pussy worked in slow circles, and his lips pulled at my lengthening nipple. My pulse was already tripping hard in my head as I moved rhythmically against him. Part of me knew I ought to be reciprocating - touching him, pleasuring him - but I selfishly didn't want to do anything that took the focus away from the building sensations in my belly.

  "Oh yes," I murmured, my face almost in his hair as my body clenched and relaxed in growing waves.

  Suddenly his hand movement stopped and he withdrew his fingers. He kissed a little trail away from my nipple, across my breast, my collarbone and my shoulder, and then sat back, looking at me.

  I gasped, and pulled at him. "Don't stop!" I begged.

  "Do control yourself," he said, in such a smug and withering tone that I slapped him, hard, across the cheek.

  The sound ricocheted around the cab and as soon as the sting began to spread across my palm, I knew I had overstepped the mark.

  "I am so sorry," I blurted out. "I was so fired up and all…"

  There wasn't the hint of a smile on his face.

  The silence was awful. I was there, stuck straddling his legs, almost too afraid to move. I didn't know what to do.

  He said, "What are you waiting for?"

  "I don't know. For you to say something. Do something…"

  "That's better."

  "Say what?"

  "Let us now do this my way."

  I wasn't sure what his way was. "Andrew-" I said, hearing the pleading in my voice. Grow up, woman! You don't beg no one.

  He shook his head at me. "You can call me Sir," he said, and before I could protest that, the cab drew to a stop. I felt the shame of a blush burn as I tried to make myself fit to be seen on a public street. He leaned forward and paid, and hustled me out onto the sidewalk.

  "Andrew," I said again, wrapping my pashmina tightly over my ruined dress. "I want to say sorry for the slap. I just-"

  He gripped my upper arms and pulled me close, and there was almost a tenderness in his force. "Jasmine. Listen to me. You have committed a wrong, and usually for that I would punish you. If you were my sub, you'd be begging for mercy by now. But we both understand this is a one-off, don't we? You'll take me into your flat, and we'll screw like animals, and then I'll leave. But while I am here, you will show me the respect due to me, and in return, I promise to treat you well."

  His words swirled in my mind, half-understood. I led him into the apartment block and we rode up in the elevator, kissing all the way, not caring if the security cameras were on, or not. Let the night staff watch us.

  I pulled him along the corridor to my door, and we fell into the hallway. This place didn't feel like home yet; it wasn't "mine" and somehow that made it easier to bring a stranger into it.

  He pressed me up against the wall, and his right hand slid up to my neck, until he was holding my throat, my head tipped back. He nuzzled at my neck and whispered into my ear: "So, what are you going to call me?"

  I didn't want to say it. I wanted to fight it. Fight him. I tried to remind myself that this arrogant jerk needed to learn a lesson, but my body wanted to melt into his arms.

  His grip tightened - only slightly, but enough to prompt the unwilling answer from me. "Sir."

  I was rewarded with a kiss and the feel of his body against him. His cock was apparent as it pressed against my thigh.

  "You make me very happy when you show some respect," he said, "And it's a two-way thing. I am pleased."

  Fuck knows how, but that flipped a switch in my head - suddenly all I wanted to do was please him. "Yes, sir," I said, and I meant it, in that moment.

  He stepped back and clicked his fingers at my dress. "Strip."

  Jeez. And yet I did, dropping my dress to the floor, and unhooking my bra and panties.

  "Open your legs."

  I planted my feet a shoulder-width apart.

  "Now touch yourself."

  "Oh," I said, half a moan, half a protest, but still I obeyed, letting my hand move over to cup my mound. "Please - sir - won't you touch me?" It felt strange to beg like that. But I had to. If this was the way to get some release, I'd play along. It was just role-play, after all.

  Wasn't it?

  His mouth quirked. So maybe that was a good sign that I was doing this right. My fingers slipped around my pussy lips, spreading the flesh apart. I felt empty, and wanting.

  He shrugged out of his dark suit jacket and dropped it to the floor. When he was wearing just his shirt and pants, his powerful muscles seemed accented. He didn't step toward me, but he unbuckled his belt as he watched me sweep my fingers around my throbbing clit.

  Oh God, oh fuck, I needed this; all the build-up of frustration at home, and work, and here - Jesus, I moaned to myself, I am gonna cum like a fountain. So fuck me already.

  Everything suddenly happened very fast, then. I thought he would drop his pants but instead he pulled hard, the leather belt almost whip-cracking free. I froze, unable to think, unable to move - then he was on me, but not beating me. He grabbed my hands and raised them above my head as he pushed down - a strange move, almost judo-like, which had me sinking to my knees. He towered above me and wrapped the belt four or five times around my wrists, tucking in the end. Then he pushed hard and I sprawled backward, my hands still above my head, my body stretched out painfully.

  He was there, then, between my legs, and his cock was rearing up from the folds of fabric. He rolled a condom on with a sure movement. I wanted to reach out, to pull him to me, to touch his body and urge him on, but I was pinned like a butterfly and totally helpless.

  I hated it, and loved it, and when he plunged down over me and pushed his cock hard inside, I stopped thinking at all.

  He was thick and long and my hungry pussy clamped around him as he surged within me, stroking with firm, but slow movements; each time he was buried deep he paused, and my legs scissored around him. I was begging again, pleading, sobbing for a hard, fast fuck - just to get it out of my system, but he wouldn't oblige.

  One hand gripped my breast, pinching on my nipple so hard I screamed as the pain bloomed into an unexpected pleasure and his pace increased. My pelvis was in spasm, my hips bucking as I tried to take more of him - all of him - devour him.

  Then he went wild, slamming into me, suppressing his grunts as he fucked me hard the length of the hallway and my back was warm and raw from the carpet and still he fucked me, my head now against the wall and my own core exploding in a burst of orgasm that sent me sobbing, wailing, over an endless waterfall of tension and release - not once, but in a succession of tiny waves that broke me apart.

  And then he pulled out of me, and tied up the condom, and released my hands from the belt. He stood and calmly threaded it back through the loops on his pants, and only once he was dressed again did he look back down at me, still sprawled on the floor.

  "See what you
get when you are a good girl?" he said, and before I could say anything in reply, he turned and walked right out the door.

  Chapter Four - Jas

  I watched him walk away.

  As the sweat cooled and dried on my skin, and my rational brain was allowed to take charge once more, I began to feel embarrassed.

  No, mortified.

  No - wait - absolutely fucking furious.

  He walked away!

  Okay, yeah, so he said it was a one-off. He said it was just sex. I get that, I really did. But still - the motherfucker walked away, and I was left there on the floor, refusing to feel ashamed of what I'd chosen to do.

  So much for Brits and their politeness. He was goddamn rude.

  I moved slowly, easing my body upright. It was now past midnight, but my body was thrumming as taut as a wire. I took my time in the shower, letting the warm spray embrace my body and soothe me.

  I did a circuit of the apartment before I went to bed, checking the doors and windows. There was a voicemail on my cell and my heart leapt that it might have been Carlee, but I saw the missed call was from my mom, so I deleted it without even listening to it.

  You taught me well, mom, I said under my breath. You taught me by your actions, not your words.

  And then I went to bed, and did not sleep.

  * * * *

  I wanted to spend the next day in bed; I felt so groggy and unwell. But I had another presentation to make, that afternoon, so I rose late and moped around for an hour. After a leisurely breakfast - mostly coffee - I felt a little more human, and better able to reflect on the previous night's adventure.

  An "adventure" was the easiest way to deal with it. Andrew Walker-Wilkinson was a jerk with a hot body and a way to make a woman swoon, in the old-fashioned sense of the word. There was obviously something primal going on, because I hadn't expected that I would fall at his feet. I had intended to play him - not let him play me. I had to tell myself that I'd made a choice to do so - I'd chosen to fall. It made my actions easier to understand.