I come in a wet rush all over his hand, bucking and moaning and saying all the things I probably shouldn’t. ‘Oh, yeah fill my mouth,’ I tell him, but I’m not just talking to him. I’m talking to a group of strangers, as they take turns with me.
Not that it makes any difference to Janos. His face goes bright and startled the second he realises what’s happening to me, before slowly sliding into that delicious feral need. Teeth bared, eyes hooded – God, he drives me crazy when he looks at me that way. And he drives me even crazier when he says in a guttural voice:
‘Get on your knees, then.’
Of course I obey him. I have to obey him. My legs no longer want to hold me up, and even if they did I wouldn’t stay standing. I’m too eager to fulfil this little fantasy, for all kinds of reasons. There’s the idea of those men … the thrill of doing what he says … and finally, there’s the act itself.
I’ve never sucked his cock before.
Oh, I’ve dreamt about it. I’ve lain in bed with my hand between my legs, and imagined him fisting a hand in my hair, grunting at me to do it, pushing past my lips in one hot thrust. But now I’m getting the reality, and oh, the reality is so much sweeter.
His voice isn’t a grunt. It’s this rough, gravelly groan, as he unbuttons his trousers. And he doesn’t fist his hand in my hair – he guides me into position, slowly stroking through the strands in a way that sends electric shivers down my spine.
By the time he eases his cock out, I’m practically drooling. I don’t even stop for him to say anything more – I just take him in my mouth, sucking and licking until he’s the only thing I can taste and feel. He’s salt-sweet and smooth as silk, so hot he almost burns my tongue. And of course he’s hard.
Oh, God, he’s so hard I could come all over again, just at the feel of it. Just at the sight of it. The shaft is so stiff it’s almost curving upwards, and the head is swollen enough to pose a problem. I can hardly get the whole thing in my mouth – though naturally I persevere. And when I fail – when I gag and strain too hard – I make do with a frantic licking and lapping that he definitely seems to appreciate.
‘Oh, what a filthy little cocksucker you are,’ he says, and although I should probably be offended my body just doesn’t take it that way. Instead, my sex thrums and thrums to hear him say it, and my already flushed face heats even further. I’m almost a furnace by this point, burning bright enough to rival the sun.
If he keeps standing this close he’s going to go up in flames, though I don’t think he’d care. He’s leaning over me now, one hand on the wall above my head, and the longer this goes on the more he seems to need that support. His legs are almost trembling and I can feel his hips rocking back and forth in this crazily exciting way. In a second he’ll be shoving his cock past my lips, and I don’t know what will happen then.
I might come again. I’m already close, despite the lack of contact. Just the taste of his pre-come is enough to make me ache between my legs, and the feel of him thrusting almost pushes me the rest of the way.
But it’s the sound of him that really does me in. It’s the rough note to his voice, and the low moan that runs beneath it. ‘Yes, yes, take it, just like that,’ he tells me. Apparently, the noises weren’t enough on their own. He has to add words to the mix, to ensure my complete and total destruction – and he succeeds admirably.
My whole body blooms with sensation at the ‘yes’ and the ‘take’. And then he lets out a long, low groan and I jerk as though struck. My hands snap forward of their own accord, to grab great fistfuls of his trousers. I have to grab great fistfuls of his trousers.
I need something to hold onto.
And apparently so does he. The hand in my hair suddenly tightens, and the one he had pressed to the wall comes down heavily on my shoulder – like he has to lean on me. He needs to prop himself against something, and after a second I understand why. I feel it thrumming through his body and hear it rushing out through those desperate moans.
And then his cock swells in my mouth, and ohhhh, yes, that’s it, that’s it. Flood my mouth, I think, and he does just that. His thick spend spurts over my tongue in long ribbons, so copious I can’t quite contain it. I have to move back, but of course the second I do he simply finishes all over my face.
He makes a mess of me, and I have to admit:
I kind of like it.
I like the way he pumps his cock to eke out the last of his orgasm, swift and brutal and slick. And I like the look he gives me as he does it, too – every feature tense with pleasure, but shot through with a kind of wonderment. He didn’t expect me to be this way, I’m certain. He had no idea that I’d be willing to kneel on the floor of an elevator, with his come staining most of my face.
But that’s OK.
Neither did I.
And I certainly didn’t know that I could stand with that slickness still all over me, and look right into his eyes. Then just when he’s about to say something, just when he’s about to reach up and clean me off, I go one better than that. I lean forward, on tiptoe.
And I kiss his shocked mouth, with my utterly filthy one.
Chapter Fourteen
He gets me on all fours, like before. Only it’s not like before at all. Things have shifted between us, to this intense point of no return. His boundaries are down and he’s no longer the deliberate, careful person he was before – though, in all honesty, neither am I. Of course I’m still fizzing with that thrilling fear, and part of me wants to jump off the bed and run right out of his apartment before anything insane can happen.
But that part is getting smaller all the time. It’s being consumed by the desire to have him do anything, just anything, all at once and in a big muddle. I’m rocking on the bed and kind of mewling like an impatient child – and that’s before he’s taken all of my clothes off. After they’ve been stripped away I’m almost insane.
I can’t even describe the sound I’m making. It’s a keening, desperate noise, made worse by the little teasing passes he keeps doing. As he unhooks my bra he catches my stiff nipple between thumb and forefinger, and just plucks at a little. And when I squirm over the sensation, he wets his fingertips and repeats the action.
And it’s obvious why.
Because it makes it worse. Oh, that hint of slipperiness makes it so much worse. I almost beg him not to do it, but the desire to have him continue fights back. I want him to play with my tight nipples until I come and come and come, and I’m pretty sure I could do it. Those odd, faintly blooming orgasms in the elevator tell me I can, but this time he doesn’t let me get that far. He doesn’t make any sounds to push me into it, and he stops short of anything like a real fondle.
He’s going to make me wait this time, I’m sure.
It’s clear before he’s even produced the handcuffs, though especially so once I feel them clicking around my wrists. I’ve got my eyes closed and hardly know what he’s doing – until that cold steel connects.
Then I understand. Yeah, I understand all the way through me, at that point. I just hear the sound like a gunshot going off, and that whimpering I’ve been doing becomes a series of frantic gasps. I’m suddenly panting like a well-run racehorse, mind full of all the possible reasons for a move like this. Does he want me flummoxed and flushed, already raw before he’s done anything? It seems likely, but other ideas occur.
Like … maybe he doesn’t want me to resist. He wants me tied and restrained and unable to do a thing, and oh, I wish that thought wasn’t quite so electric. It sizzles and pops in a hundred weird places, like inside my gums and behind my knees, and the second I start to feel it I almost fall face down into his enormous bed.
But he saves me. He catches me, and keeps me upright. And he says soothing things, designed to calm my nerves and steady my resolve – or at least I think that’s the intention. It’s hard to tell when the soothing things are being said in a voice so choked with lust I’m surprised he manages to get out a single word.
He’s as far gon
e as I am.
Which doesn’t bode well for me, I have to say. He’s probably going to do something crazy to me – something he doesn’t have any control over.
And then he suddenly does the crazy thing, and it’s still somehow a shock. I lurch forward again the second he does it, but this time he’s prepared for it. He curls a hand around my hip, to keep me in place – and it works. However, I’ve no idea if it does so because his touch is so firm and sure and solid, or because the sensation is so strange I just have to experience some more of it.
I’ve never had anyone lick me there before.
Oh, sure, a couple of past boyfriends might have got a little lost on their way to other destinations. And once some guy passed out drunk in that general area. I think I felt him drool a little over that one far too sensitive spot.
But this is different. This is intentional. He’s intentionally licking over my tightly clenched asshole, and I know he is for certain because he isn’t just working his way in there, in tiny tentative strokes. He’s using his free hand to spread me open, and is actively working over that place in long, wet laps.
As though he likes it, I think, and then my mind tries to fly away. It visits calmer shores, where everything is reasonable and rational – because surely no one enjoys doing something like this. It can’t possibly be enjoyable.
To anyone but me.
Oh, Jesus, it’s so enjoyable to me. In all honesty, I don’t see how it could be anything but. It just turns the dial inside me – the one that apparently loves things that seem filthy and naughty and forbidden. He shouldn’t be touching me there, I think, and suddenly everything is so much more exciting. He isn’t just touching me, after all. He’s licking me, with his eager and oh so slippery tongue. He slides it over my entrance, setting off landmines of sensation that knock me sideways.
I had no idea there were so many nerve-endings – that being licked there could narrow your entire focus down to just that and nothing else. It’s all I can do to keep breathing. I’m sure my heart’s about to stop, to make way for this one unbelievable sensation. Then just when I’m about to pass out from it, he pulls away.
And replaces his tongue with something else – something slicker and more slippery but, oddly, so much cooler. It’s almost soothing against my overheated skin as he slowly rubs and works it over me … until I realise what it is.
After that, it’s not soothing at all. It makes my fists clench and my back arch, that urge to both stay and get away reaching some kind of crescendo. Any more of this and I’m going to tear in two, but still he continues. Still he keeps on making a slick mess of me with the lube I know he’s using. It’s not thin enough to be saliva, so, really, what else could it be?
And more importantly, what else could it mean?
He’s going to fuck my ass, I know. It’s obvious before that maddening finger starts to exert some pressure, then impossible to deny once it has. I can feel that slow, insinuating push, feel it all the way up to the roots of my hair, almost painful but oh, so sweet at the same time. The slipperiness just adds this tingling, silky sensation that’s pretty much driving me wild – and ultimately, that’s what lets him in.
I flood with pleasure and everything just relaxes. Everything gives, in this rush I’m not quite ready for, and then suddenly I’m being spread open. His thick finger slides in, far bigger than it had ever seemed before. When he’s busy doing ordinary things it looks almost normal, but now that it’s inside me, slowly working back and forth …
It’s enormous. It’s all I can focus on – that smooth slide, that sense of something intruding. Or at least it’s all I can focus on until he speaks.
And then there’s nothing but the sound of his voice.
‘Yeah, you like that, don’t you,’ he says, but he doesn’t really need me to answer. It’s obvious how much I like it. I’m moaning and rocking back against his hand, and when he asks me if I’d like his cock there I don’t tell him no.
I tell him:
‘Oh, God, yes, yes, do my ass.’
‘You want me to fuck it?’
‘Ahhhh, yes, yes, go on.’
‘You want my cock easing into that tight little hole?’ he asks, and this time I think he really wants to know. There’s a building note of incredulity in his voice, like he can hardly believe I want this. Or else he can hardly believe he’s going to do it.
Either way, the answer is the same.
‘I want it, oh, I want it,’ I say, because I do – though I’m not sure if the reasoning is the same as it was a moment ago. Before, it was all about getting more of this strange pleasure, but now there’s another layer. There’s the thought of him doing something that makes his voice all shaky like that, and his hand so unsteady on my hip. It’s almost as though he’s never done this before.
And oh, that idea is thrilling. It makes me clench hard around his still working finger – much to his delight and possible consternation. He lets out a little gasp, followed by a stream of Hungarian words that make absolutely no sense to me.
Yet they make all the sense in the world. They spell out his feelings, as clear as day: this is more than I can handle.
However, he doesn’t stop. He barely pauses. I hear his zipper go and the snap of rubber, and then a terrible absence. That slick finger leaves me, in a way that makes me whine and beg – but I don’t have to do it for long. He mutters something more in that glorious, guttural language – half prayer and half praise – and then I feel the most incredible pressure. I feel the blunt head of his cock, rubbing and pushing against my entrance.
And just when I’m thinking he can’t possibly fit … just when I’m sure I can’t take him … everything gives again, and he glides in as though it’s nothing, absolutely nothing. He’s not fucking my ass. I’m not taking his big cock in my most private place.
This is all completely easy and ordinary, even if I know to the marrow of my bones that it’s not. The way he’s cursing and gasping tells me it’s not. His hands are coated in perspiration, and when I glance over my shoulder at him he looks like someone who’s lost his way. I can almost feel him reaching out for me with his eyes, and though that seems like a complete impossibility the urge to help takes over anyway.
It’s a blind instinct, like feeling for someone’s hand in the dark. I don’t know if he needs it and am kind of sure he doesn’t, but the words are there and I want to offer them.
‘You can say the safe word, if you want,’ I tell him, and for a second there’s such a stripe of vulnerability on his handsome face. It breaks him in two, right down the middle, in a way that makes me think he can never be put back together again. He’ll never be the same now, and I know he won’t, because after a second he just reaches down and gathers me up. He pulls me close to him, my back to his front. My face in his hands.
And then he kisses me, he kisses me, he kisses me. He puts his mouth on my mouth as though that is the transgressive thing, while his cock eases back and forth in that forbidden place. My hands are chained and my ass is getting the fucking of a lifetime, but this one act of intimacy is so much more searing.
And not just for him. Oh, God, it’s not just for him at all. It burns through me, too, completely unexpected and totally unprepared for. I’m not ready, I think, I’m not ready, but it’s too late for that now. The fire is already raging, whether I want it to or not. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s stoking the flames higher as I flounder in the middle of the inferno.
He doesn’t just kiss me – he covers my throat with one hand, in a way that’s so tender and adoring I can hardly stand it. Suddenly it’s me who wants to say the safe word, though it’s not for any reason I ever thought I’d need it for. It’s for messy feelings and gushing emotion, as brutal and shocking as any kinky sex.
I love him, I realise. And as we stumble towards our pleasure – heaving and hauling and grasping at each other desperately – I realise something even more subversive:
He loves me too.
Chapter F
ifteen
I jerk awake in the middle of the night, half-panicked and completely unsure of where I am. Everything smells so unfamiliar – like his cologne and whatever his cadre of servants wash his sheets in – and, when I reach out for something to reassure me, there isn’t anything there. All I can feel is the vast and empty acres of his immense bed, coated in sheets that make me think of skating rinks.
It’s too cold and too smooth, and no matter how hard I search I can’t find him. He must have got up, I think, but I’m not sure if that’s really the discomfiting part. In fact, I know it’s not the discomfiting part, because when I finally find him after seventeen years spent wandering in this bed desert, I don’t feel relieved.
I feel unsettled. Somehow, somehow … I’ve slept with him. We’re sleeping in the same bed, like a real couple who do real things together. And though I’ve done this before with other people, the idea of doing it with him is jarring. Did he even ask me to stay? I don’t think he did, and yet here I am anyway – like some interloper in his world of cold liaisons and crisp sheets. In a moment he’ll probably wake up and realise I’m still here, then point at the door like some silent harbinger of doom.
And the fact that he doesn’t is disturbing in itself. I creep closer and he doesn’t even stir. Apparently, my presence hardly troubles him at all. He’s quite content to remain asleep, no matter how close I get. I actually manage to lift the sheets off his shockingly naked body, and I’m poised for a reaction that never comes.
I think I expect his hand to lash out and grab my wrist, though I’m not sure why. Because this is the first time I’ve really seen him naked? Up to this point I suppose it had seemed like something secret … something he had to hide beneath his Prada suit of armour and his numerous rules.
But now I guess all of that is gone. He doesn’t need it any more. He can just lie here bare and exposed, while I gingerly peel back the covers like I’m the panicked one.
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