Big Love Abroad (Big Girls Do It Book 11)

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Nina.” I looked up at Lucas. “Close your eyes.”

  I closed them. I’ll never know why, other than in that moment I could only comply. He’d kissed the sense right out of me. So I closed my eyes. And then I felt that cool slippery silk cover my eyes, and my heart started thumping a little harder in my chest. I took a deep breath, and I heard Lucas make a sound deep in his chest, as if the swelling of my breasts with the breath was almost too much for him to bear.

  Fingers pinioned my wrists. Footfall on hardwood. A sliding sound, as of a closet door opening. Whisper of silk on metal. My lungs seized; I was already blindfolded, what else could he—

  Silk around my wrists, binding them together. “Lucas? Um—what…what are you doing?”

  Lips on mine, kissing and smiling. “It’s like the wine, Nina. Savor it. Feel it. Taste it.”

  “But—”

  “Do you remember my last name?” he asked, cutting in over my protest.

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “Killian,” I said. “Lucas Killian.”

  “Correct. If you want me to stop, anything at any time, you have only to speak my last name. All right?”

  I nodded, but the nod became a baring of my throat, because his lips were there, teeth nipping, tongue scraping. I let out a breath, and as my lungs contracted to expel the oxygen Lucas’s fingers danced down my spine, lowering the zipper of my dress. I felt it happening, knew what he was doing. And then the dress was falling, sagging to hang around my waist and at my bound wrists. Another nip of his teeth at my throat, then his lips on mine, sucking the sense out of me via my mouth, seduced by a kiss, and then somehow my bra was loose as well. Fingers around my wrists, silk unwinding, my clothes fell to the floor, and then my wrists were behind my back and the tie was winding and winding, tight and implacable and inescapable, yet still whisper-soft and gentle.

  Blindfolded. Naked but for a scrap of silk and lace around my hips. Hands bound behind my back. Heart in my throat, gasping shallow breaths, afraid, fear adrenalizing me, rushing through me. I could taste the wine still on my lips, taste his kiss there too, taste hints of dinner on my breath. I felt a breath of air on my skin. A fingertip, skating down from my shoulder to the slope of my breast, and then pinching my nipple. I gasped.

  My gasp was eaten by a kiss, scorching, eager. I would have wrapped my arms around his neck and leaned into the kiss and given myself over to it, but I couldn’t. I could only allow myself to be kissed and wonder what was next.

  Teeth at my belly. Hands on my hips. Lips on my thigh. I struggled against the tie knotted around my wrist, knowing what he was going to do and wanting the freedom to at least pretend I wouldn’t let him. We like the pretense, don’t we? No, no, don’t do that, don’t go down on me, I’m not really in the—oh, ooohhhhhh, well, that does feel good, doesn’t it? Okay, fine—OHHH!—oh Jesus you’re good at this, holy shit don’t stop! Take away that freedom, and all that’s left is knowing you really do want it, knowing that, lurking beneath the flimsy veil of demurral is a desperate hunger to be pleased, to be infused with the kind of breathless frantic bliss only artfully delivered cunnilingus can provide.

  Oh. My. God.

  He first seduced me with a kiss to my mouth, and then he seduced me with a kiss to my cunt. Devoured. Ravaged. He gorged himself. And I was utterly powerless. Raptured. Blindfolded, sight stolen, forced to feel more fully than I ever had before, hands bound behind my back and unable to guide or prohibit save cry stop. I could only endure it.

  To begin, he feathered kisses along my belly, just above the elastic of my underwear. His fingers stole along the backs of my thighs, angling upward and upward until he was teasing the lower creases where my full buttocks met my upper thighs, and then he cupped my ass in all its fullness while his mouth explored the front of my thighs, one and then the other, drifting inward and then across and inward again, and then pressed his mouth to my core over the silk and breathed a hot breath until I shifted with equal parts discomfort and pleasure. I would have pushed him away at that point, but I couldn’t, and his surname was absent from my lips.

  Then he tugged my underwear down around my knees, but left them there. His lips touched the indent of my hips, one hand firmly cupping the tensed globe of my ass, the other between my thighs and angling upward, a single fingertip tracing my opening, stroking, pressing, slipping, sliding, inching in, in, in, ohhhhhhh, yeah, jesus yeah, there it was, that delicious stroke through my wetness, the hum in his throat of raw appreciation, he likes it when I’m wet and ready, fuck yeah he does. And god, I’m always wet and ready, aren’t I? When did that happen? Have I always walked around with a dripping-wet pussy, ready and waiting for pleasure, ripe for the devouring, and just never knew it? Is the scent of my desire palpable? When I strolled the grounds at university, and that handsome young student in the stupid argyle sweater-vest shot me a glance, was it because he scented my constant state of arousal?

  Fuck me, I’m a horrible person but I just couldn’t do anything but let this near perfect stranger eat me out like I was dessert—there hadn’t been dessert. So I was his dessert, and he was making sure he didn’t miss a drop. His tongue slithered and slid and delved, tickled and flicked, traced and lapped, and I was vocal but wordless in my delight; e.g.: I moaned. Loudly. Frequently. Through gritted teeth, my tongue tamped down a scream.

  But when I was there, on the edge, arching and grinding into his laving tongue and suctioning mouth, he pulled away. Touched a finger to my lips. Nudging me backward, which was awkward given that my underwear were still around my knees. I felt the edge of the bed, and sat down. I smelled Lucas, felt him lean against me, took the opportunity to press my lips to the skin I found near, a shoulder, maybe, or his chest. Silk unwound, fingers grasped my wrist, brought my hands around front, and Lucas’s weight pressed me backward until I was lying flat on the mattress. I heard the ruffle of blankets being tugged backward, took this as an invitation to move toward the head of the bed.

  Oh my. High thread-count cotton sheets, cool and soft as a cloud against my flesh. Decadent, luxurious.

  Lucas wrapped my wrists in the tie once again, pushed my hands up over my head. I felt the edge of a headboard, thick, wooden, smooth. I gripped it as my underwear was pulled off.

  When did he take his shirt off? Is he naked? These thoughts rippled through me, apropos of nothing.

  Then the soft whip of silk on metal, once, twice, more ties removed from a rack. Now what?

  Shitshitshitshitshit.

  One ankle, silk-wrapped, tugged aside, a moment of nothingness as he presumably tied a knot. My other ankle, drawn aside so I was spread wide open. My chest heaved. I was afraid. Why wouldn’t I be? I’d just met him. I knew only his name, that he was a student at Oxford, and that he…well, apparently, he liked to tie women up and make them feel incredible.

  So far, so good.

  He’d done nothing to hurt or scare me, beyond the fear of the unknown. In fact, every motion had been utterly gentle, slow and careful and intentional, each touch precise, no movement wasted.

  “What’s my name, Nina?” His voice came from far away, near my feet.

  “Lucas…”

  “Good.”

  And that was the last word he spoke for some time.

  What did he do next? He teased, tortured, and taunted me to within an inch of my sanity. He left my wrists bound, but not fixed to the bed. But with his face between my opened thighs, I couldn’t reach him to touch him unless I sat up and leaned forward, and his oral talent left me alternately limp and arched up off the bed. Whenever I got close, he would bring his mouth away from my clit and kiss my hip, my inner thighs, my belly, my breasts, my lips—tasting my essence on his lips, tasting myself, my arousal—and then when I’d stopped moaning in frustration and was huffing with the pleasure of his thousand teasing kisses on my hyperaware skin, he would taunt my clit with a flick of his tongue, flick and flick and flick until I was consumed with need for more.<
br />
  Unerringly, he knew when I was close. Albeit, I wasn’t shy or quiet when I drew near the edge.

  So then I wised up. I clenched my teeth, pressed my spine down into the mattress, and endured his teasing tongue until he had me near screams—which I choked down, and kept still.

  And then I exploded. I couldn’t keep that down, couldn’t endure it in silence, couldn’t do anything but thrash against the restraints and scream.

  “Oh Nina. So clever. So beautiful.” He sounded proud of me for tricking him into letting me orgasm.

  “Lucas…untie me. Let me see you. I want to touch you.”

  “No, I don’t think so. There’s more.”

  “More?” I sounded skeptical.

  “Oh yes. Quite a bit more.”

  “Does more involve the blindfold coming off?”

  A long moment without a reply. Verbal, at least. There was an oral reply, though. Meaning, his mouth, at my breast. Tongue flicking, licking, teasing. Then a finger, slipping into me. Curling, nudging, searching, testing, teasing. Nipple hardening between lips and teeth and against his flattened tongue.

  “Do you want the blindfold off?” Lucas asked, his mouth on my opening, both hands busily tweaking my nipples. He was everywhere, it felt like, and I never felt him move or shift. “Are you sure?”

  I couldn’t answer. I was torn. I wanted him to take it off, and yet I didn’t. Being blind, being bound, being powerless, was intoxicating. Frightening, and exhilarating.

  “Do you, Nina?” This was spoken as a demand, but in his soft, gentle voice.

  I could only roll my head from side to side, a silent negative. Capitulating to darker, baser desires.

  Tie me up. Blindfold me. Spank me. Fuck me.

  The Nina Herrera who wanted these things, was it really me? Had I stepped through some kind of rip in the space-time continuum and accidentally inhabited some other alternate, sex-crazed, sexual deviant version of myself? Nina Herrera didn’t have sex with men she’d just met. Nina Herrera didn’t let those near-perfect strangers spank her, or come on her, or fuck her in the ass, or tie her up and blindfold her. Nina Herrera wasn’t that kind of girl.

  Except….

  I was.

  Clearly. I didn’t believe in rips in the space-time continuum, didn’t believe in alternate selves. There was only one explanation and, as Occam so eloquently insisted, it was the simplest explanation. Of course, my current situation wasn’t really the kind of scientific or philosophical context in which Occam’s Razor is meant to be applied, but whatever. Semantics. Blah.

  The reality is that Nina Herrera, at some point since arriving in England and meeting Ian, had gained a new facet to her personality: sex freak. Okay, maybe freak was too strong a word, because none of this was exactly truly freakish territory; but, for me, coming from my strict and staid and buttoned-up background, it was way outside every box I was used to inhabiting.

  A low, buzzing hum brought me up out of my floating thoughts. No, he wouldn’t. No way.

  Yup.

  Holy fucking shit. He had a vibrator, and he was using it to tease my clit, brushing the little button of nerve endings with the humming device until I let out an involuntary gasp, and then removing it, waiting a moment, and touching me with it again. And again. And again. Until I was writhing on the bed and panting through gritted teeth and fighting the urge to beg Lucas for the mercy-killing of an orgasm.

  “Lucas! Please!” I sounded desperate.

  So maybe I didn’t fight the urge all that hard. I mean, what did I have to prove by not begging? I was putting myself at his mercy, so why not indulge in the game?

  “Please what, Nina?”

  “Let me come!”

  “No, I don’t think I will yet. I’d planned to draw it out a while longer, get you really wild with the need, but you tricked me. So now you’re going to have to endure a bit more torture.”

  I was already going nuts. He’d brought me to the bleeding edge of need several times already, and he’d only had the vibrator on for a few minutes. If he insisted on dragging this out, I might just snap and really go ballistic. I wasn’t sure what that would look like, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. There might be ugly crying. Possibly some abject pleading. Nothing attractive, at any rate.

  “Don’t, please. Just…just have sex with me.”

  He laughed. “Oh, Nina. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that just having sex is…boring, per se. But it is best when used as the coup de grâce to a much more involved process.” He touched the vibrator to my clit and held it there until I was moaning and grinding against it. “If you’re crazy for it, you’ll enjoy it that much more when you finally get it.”

  “What about…what about you?” I was right there, right there, sweating, thrashing.

  He pulled it away. “Me?” Another swift touch, not enough to even feel, almost. “Nina, you sexy thing. I’ve got you naked and tied up in my bed. You’re all flushed and sweating and so beautiful it’s absurd. You’re begging me to let you come, begging me to make love to you. I would wager my first edition copy of Pride and Prejudice that I’m getting far, far more out of this than you are.”

  The only thing that penetrated my orgasm-needy haze was the terms of the wager. “You have a first edition Pride and Prejudice?”

  “That’s what you seize on, out of all that I said?” He laughed, a bark of raw amusement. “Yes, I do. And…if you can last another twenty minutes without uttering my last name, I’ll give it to you.”

  “Twenty minutes?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  I blinked hard behind the silk, felt sweat trickle down my temple, felt the clench in my gut and the tightening of my vaginal muscles as Lucas touched the vibrator to my clitoris again, kept it there, brought me to the edge, and….stopped. Twenty minutes? I wasn’t sure I could last twenty fucking seconds. But a first edition Jane Austen? I might just voluntarily subject myself to actual torture for that prize.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  “Deal,” I agreed, against my better judgment.

  “Twenty minutes starting…” a pause as he set some sort of timer, presumably, “now.”

  As soon as he said the word “now”, Lucas pressed the vibrator against my clit and left it there until I shattered. I screamed, I cried, I came and came and came, and all the while Lucas kept the madly buzzing vibrator against me until every thread of my being was white-hot and exploding and shredding.

  And then he brought it away, and I fell back against the bed, gasping for air—a momentary respite, a single lungful of sweet oxygen, and then he touched me with it, pressed it against my clit and this time he slid the fingers of his other hand inside me, two long fingers sliding and curling inside me as the vibrator hummed against me, and I discovered that there was only one thing more madness-inducing than being held at the edge of orgasm.

  He made me come four times within a matter of moments. Touch—come; touch—come; touch—come; touch—come. Each one was more potent and more destructive than the last. It hurt. Physically, the pleasure was becoming pain. Sensitivity became something else entirely. Hypersensitivity wasn’t even accurate. Something beyond even that. I could feel the smooth rubber of the vibrator head, could feel it as it approached and feel each individual infinitesimal tremor of its vibration, as if in slow motion. When Lucas’s fingers curled inside me, I could feel his short, manicured fingernails as they scraped my inner walls with delicious pressure, could feel his breath as it spread across my skin, feel the texture of his lips as he kissed my neck, my throat, my cheek, my lips…

  I heard a click, and the buzzing sound went faster, as if the device had just been made to vibrate more wildly. No. Please no. If he touched me with it going that high, I would—

  Thrash, scream, come so hard I saw stars in the darkness behind my closed eyes, so hard I bowed up off the bed, every muscle tensing, sweat beading and instantly cooling on my superheated skin. The vibrations receded, and I went limp, sweat pouring off my fo
rehead, and Lucas wiped it away with his palm, smearing it across my temple, touching my upper lip, my chin, brushing flyaway strands of hair out of my eyes and mouth. His lips slid down my sweat-slick skin, kissing the valley between my breasts, and I was about to beg him not to even touch me, I was so sensitive even the air on my skin was too much, but he flicked his tongue across my rigid nipple and I shivered, nearly came from just that soft, wet, brief contact.

  The buzzing touched my nipple, and I did come.

  I couldn’t take any more.

  Mercy. Please, just…just let me breathe for a moment—

  I didn’t say it, but I thought it.

  Orgasm.

  Again.

  Again.

  All he had to do now was brush my clit with the vibrator and I’d come apart instantly, like a spark touching gunpowder.

  I was gasping nonstop now, thrashing and bucking, twisting, curling forward and then kicking out, trying to get away from the agony of ecstasy.

  He gave me a moment of respite, a moment to catch my breath, but a long enough moment. And the next time he touched me with the vibrator, he left it there again, and as I came, his mouth crashed down on mine and his tongue slashed between my lips and sought mine.

  “Lucas…god, please…”

  “What’s my name?”

  “Lucas…”

  Touch—come.

  “What is it?”

  “Lucas!”

  Lips scraping across my nipple, vibrator at my clit, fingers in my pussy, stimulation blasting through me, orgasm after orgasm crashing through me like the tide of waves smashing against a shore, over and over and over and over.