by Tracy Wolff
If I could reach it, I’d kick my own ass.
But I can’t and doing so wouldn’t solve Aria’s problem anyway. Not in the state she’s in.
“Aria.” I say her name firmly, quietly. Then wait to see if she responds. If she even hears me past the hammering of her heart and the high, keening cry that’s coming from deep in her throat.
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t acknowledge by so much as a look that she’s heard me. She’s too far gone, her head thrashing back and forth, hips rocking, body undulating. And damn me, but she’s a sight to behold. Flushed, shaking, desperate. Her body bruised and aching. She was born for this, her body soaking it up like rain. Born to submit. Born to control.
But she’s too far gone and no matter how beautiful she is to me, I can’t leave her like this. So locked in her own head, her own body, that the rest of the world has all but ceased to exist.
“Aria.” I say her name more firmly this time as I place one hand on her abdomen, use it to press her hips back against the window and hold her firmly in place. It’s obvious just from the short time I’ve known her that she needs boundaries to buck against. But she also needs someone to hold her to those boundaries. To hem her in when she pushes too hard against them, as she’s doing right now.
But she needs someone to take care of her, too. To coddle her and soothe her and put her needs first. Which is why I use my other hand to stroke her hip, to calm her down.
“I’m right here, Aria,” I whisper in between gentle kisses to her thigh, her hip, her stomach. “I’ve got you.”
Eventually, she stops writhing against me and her breathing calms down to some semblance of normal. But when her eyes open slowly, I can tell she’s still under. She might be looking down at me, but she’s not seeing me. She’s in deep, her eyes glassy and just a little bit lost.
Fury at my own stupidity flares to life once again. I beat it back, bury it deep—there will be time enough for that later. For now, I need to take care of her.
Cupping her breast in one steady hand, I rub my thumb across her nipple at the same time I thrust two fingers deep inside her and crook them, looking for her G-spot.
It only takes a few seconds to find it. And then I’m rubbing against it, once, twice, then again and again as I flick her nipple with one thumb and circle her clit with my other.
She comes then, with a gasp and a shudder and a cry that rips all the way through me. I don’t let up, not yet. Instead I work her through first one climax and then a second one, only stopping when her body once again sags against the window—this time with relief instead of desperation.
I push to my feet, gather her in my arms. She feels so fragile now, so delicate, and I realize, suddenly, that she always was. Aria might act bold and brash and ready to take on the world, but inside she’s soft and breakable and desperately in need of care.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, pressing kisses to her temple, her cheek, her lips.
She doesn’t answer and a quick look at her eyes tells me everything I need to know. She’s not back yet, not really.
I glance around the room with a muttered curse, for the first time noting that there’s no damn couch to sit on. No place for me to hold her against me and gentle her back to herself. Figuring one of the despised chairs will do, I start to pick her up.
She stops me with one word. “More.”
Before I can process what she’s asking, she’s got herself wrapped around me like a limpet, her arms and legs and body intertwined with mine.
Instinct has me resting a hand on her ass, pressing her hips against my still-hard dick. “You want to come again, baby?”
I hope that’s exactly what she means. I’d love to spend the next two hours, the next two days, doing nothing more than making her come. Just the thought has me gritting my teeth and fighting my own orgasm. Something that becomes exponentially more difficult when she presses a hot kiss to the skin right below my ear and whispers, “I want you to fuck me, right here against the window.”
Shit. Damn. Fuck. She learned the lesson too well, has gone from not being able to ask for what she wants to demanding it as her due.
I nearly come from that knowledge alone, not to mention her words and the images they evoke. But she’s in no shape for this right now, not after what I just did to her. Later tonight, tomorrow, any other time but right now, I’d be on her before the invitation even left her mouth. Right now, though, she’s too vulnerable and the last thing I want to do is break her.
“Aria.” I pull her arms from around my neck, try to step back. But her leg is between mine, wrapped around my calf, and she’s not letting go. Not letting me back away.
“Don’t tell me you don’t want me.” She rubs herself against my dick in an invitation I have no desire to refuse.
“Of course I want you,” I tell her, and though my hands are on her hips, I can’t work up the strength to push her away.
“Then take me.” It’s her turn to press kisses to my jaw, her turn to use her tongue to trace designs on my skin.
I force myself to pull back, to look at her eyes. Damn it. She might be playing the part of the seductress, but she’s still under. She’s just giving me what she thinks I want. “I can’t. You’re—”
“I’m what?” Her fingers start working on the tie I loosened hours ago, undoing the knot and sliding it slowly from beneath my collar. “Horny?” She drapes the tie over one of her wrists, wraps it around a couple times. I can’t take my eyes from it, can’t get over how good the teal silk looks against her skin. “Aching?” She pulls the fabric tight, knots it so it won’t fall off. Then uses that same hand to reach for mine. “Wet?” She puts my hand between her legs, covers it with her own. Then strokes both of our fingers gently through her still-drenched folds.
Fuck.
“I don’t understand what the problem is,” she tells me, spreading her legs so we can both watch what we’re doing. “You want to fuck me. I want you to fuck me. Isn’t that enough?”
It should be. It really should be. I reach for control once more, reach for the strength of will that’s always been a part of me. A part of this. But then Aria whimpers, the seductress disappearing as her eyes glaze over with tears and she pleads, “Please, Sebastian, I need you inside of me. I need—” the last of my control snaps.
Grabbing her wrists, I pull them above her head, wind the ends of the tie around her unbound wrist and then knot them together.
“Turn around,” I order as I shrug out of my shirt.
When she doesn’t move immediately, I start to bark at her to do what I asked. But her attention is fastened on my chest—and the phoenix tattoo that runs across my pecs. She wants to touch it, I can tell, but I’m about ten seconds away from blowing my whole fucking wad and her stroking my chest isn’t going to do anything but make me come faster. So I grab the hands she’s even now lowering, yank them back above her head. And then I spin her so that she’s facing the window again, her hands and cheek, her breasts and sex pressed up against the glass.
Far below us, Vegas glitters in a kaleidoscope of yellow and blue and green lights. It’s a famous view, one that’s almost impossible to overlook, but here, now, I barely notice it. All I can see and feel and think about is Aria.
I make quick work of unzipping my pants, yanking my wallet out of my pocket. I pull out a condom, roll it on with hands that are still shaking way too much.
“Hurry,” Aria urges, thrusting her ass back against me. “I want—”
Her voice breaks as I slide myself along her soft folds.
“How do you want it?” I snarl, holding on to sanity by the skin of my teeth. “Hard and fast? Deep and slow?”
“Any way you want to give it to me,” she pants.
Way. Right. Answer.
Wrapping my hands around her hips, I pull her ass up and back. I’m on fire now, balls aching, dick burning with the need to bury itself deep inside her. A quick slide of my hand between her thighs proves she’s still wet, still r
eady. And then I’m sliding inside of her, slamming home with one smooth roll of my hips.
Aria cries out, arches wildly. Her hands slam against the window and I slide mine up her arms, past her tied wrists, to tangle our fingers together. I thrust again and again and she tugs like she’s trying to get free, but I refuse to let her hands go. Refuse to let her go, not now that I’ve finally got her where I’ve wanted her ever since I watched her rack that whale.
“Sebastian!” she gasps, and the sound of my name on her lips—broken, desperate—shreds the last ounce of control I’ve got. With a growl, I sink my teeth into her shoulder to hold her still as I pound into her again and again.
I’m rough, I know I am, but any gentleness I had in me was used up long ago. I ride her hard and fast, slamming her hips into the window again and again and again. Each thrust is a frenzy of need, each stroke a declaration of ownership. Still, I make sure that every cry I wrench out of her is of pleasure, that every stroke into her body takes her one step higher.
And she’s taking it, more, she’s relishing it, her muscles tightening around me as she begs for more. I knee her legs apart so that I can go deeper still, driving my dick so hard and deep inside of her that she’ll never forget this moment. Never forget the feel of me inside of her. Never forget the way her body yields to mine.
She’s sobbing now, her fingernails digging into my hands as she whispers, “Please, please, please.” Her body is shaking, her pussy clenching around me. It’s pleasure and pain, ecstasy and agony, dark and raw and perfect. So fucking perfect I can barely breathe with the need to come. But she’s close, I can feel it, and I won’t let go until she does.
I slowly ease my teeth from her shoulder, lick the livid purple marks I left there. Then whisper, “Let go, baby. Let go. I’m right here to catch you.”
Another kiss to her throat, another thrust of my hips and she’s crying out, her back arching like a bow as she comes and comes and comes. And still it’s not enough for me. Still I want more.
I grit my teeth, keep up the hard, steady strokes until my muscles cramp. Until sweat rolls down my body and my cock cries out for relief. Until Aria comes yet again, limp and wrung out beneath me, her body nothing but a vessel for everything I want to give her.
Only then, only when she’s safe and sated and nearly slack with exhaustion, do I let myself go. And when the release hits me, when it tears through me like a speedball, it’s so strong and violent and all-consuming that for a moment it’s like death itself.
Chapter Four
Aria
I feel strange when it’s over. A little lost, a little exhilarated, a lot exhausted. My body feels like lead, like it would take more energy than I will ever have again for me to move.
Now that pleasure isn’t rocketing through my every cell and nerve ending for the first time in over an hour, my brain clicks back on. Or at least, the switch moves away from the holy-fuck-I-need-to-come setting it’s been resting on pretty much since Sebastian brought me up here.
Sebastian.
He’s still inside me, his chest still pressed to my back, his fingers still intertwined with mine. And he’s making no move to pull away. To walk away now that he’s gotten what he wants from me.
Tears—weak, useless, pathetic tears—fill up my eyes and I try to ignore them. I’d probably do a pretty good job of it, too, if they didn’t make everything blurry. Especially the lights of Vegas spread out below us as far as the eye can see.
If I’m being honest, I’ll admit that I like the blur. The way that everything is softer, shadowy, just a little bit out of focus. It makes all the truths I’m living with—including the one where I just let my boss fuck me in his office like some kind of inflatable blow-up doll—so much easier to look at.
The fact that it didn’t feel like that, that it felt like something more—something powerful—only proves how stupid I really am.
This was a lesson I thought I’d learned a long, long time ago.
Suddenly I can’t bear to be this connected to him, not anymore. I shift a little, press back against him. It takes a couple seconds, but he gets the hint.
“You doing okay?” he murmurs after he pulls out. His lips skim my shoulder, press soft kisses to my back.
“Yeah. My arms are sore.”
“Right. Sorry.” He untangles our fingers, then steps away, making sure to keep me close as he lowers my hands and gently unties them.
They hadn’t really been hurting before—or if they were, I’d been too caught up in my head to notice—but now that they’re down and the blood is rushing back into them, it feels like I’m being stabbed by a million pins and needles.
I don’t say anything about it, but somehow Sebastian knows—probably because he’s got a lot more experience with tying people up than I have with being tied up—and he takes hold of my right arm, rubbing it gently. When I have feeling back in that arm, he moves on to the second one, all while keeping his arms around me and his body pressed to mine.
I don’t know how I feel about this. About Sebastian, about what we did together, or about the way he’s treating me now. I guess I expected him to treat this like any other rich man fuck—wham, bam, get the hell out, ma’am—but instead he’s being kind, tender.
He’s taking care of me. And I’m letting him.
That, too, is a shock. I’m pretty much a do-it-myself kind of girl, or at least I’m trying to be, and the fact that I need this—his tenderness, his comfort, the soothing stroke of his hands down my back—disturbs me in a way the sex didn’t.
And the sex was plenty disturbing in a blow-my-mind, drag-me-out-of-my-comfort-zone kind of way.
“I need to get back to work.” My voice sounds rusty, like it hasn’t been used in a while. Or like I’ve spent the last hour screaming Sebastian’s name.
“I know.” He presses a long, lingering kiss to my bare shoulder. “But taking a few more minutes won’t hurt anything.”
“Except my tips.”
“Right. Your tips.” He steps back then, bends down and gathers up my clothes. As I take them from him, I refuse to meet his eyes. I also do my best to ignore the fact that I’m still wearing my high heels and stockings.
“Can I use your bathroom?”
“Yeah. Of course.” He rests his hand on my lower back, his thumb stroking softly against my skin as he guides me toward the closed door on the other side of the room.
“Thanks.” I reach for the doorknob, still doing my best not to look at him.
“Hey.” He puts two fingers under my chin, tilts my face up until I can’t help but look at him. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah?” He looks concerned, like he really cares, and that only messes with my head more. I don’t know what he wants me to say here, don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. I’m almost totally naked, completely exposed, and all I want is a little cover. A chance to get my head back in the game.
“Yeah.” I push past him into the bathroom, close and lock the door behind me. Then sag against it for long seconds as I try to wrap my head around everything that just happened.
It’s not a big deal. I mean, yes, I just had soul-shattering sex. With my boss. And yes, he’s only the third guy I’ve slept with in my life. All of which means it could turn into a big deal. If I let it. Which I am so not going to do.
Dropping my clothes on the closed toilet lid, I cross to the sink. And come face-to-face with a mirror for the first time since this whole thing began.
Holy. Shit.
I look like I’ve just been fucked every way a woman can be fucked. My hair is a mess, my eyes are glassy, my cheeks are flushed and my lips—shit. My lips are swollen and dark pink while my red lipstick is still smeared across my chin and cheek, even down my throat.
And my body…My God. My body is covered in bruises and love bites and pink whisker burn from Sebastian’s stubble. My breasts, my stomach, my neck, the inside of my arms. The inside of my thigh
s. Everywhere.
Horrified—fascinated—I reach out a hand. A finger. And play connect the dots with the darkest of the bruises. There’s one on the edge of my jaw, four on my neck. Two on my left breast, three on my right—including one directly over my nipple. I probe at it a little, wincing at the pain—and doing my best to ignore the fact that that one simple touch has my nipple standing erect and sparks of heat shooting through my body.
Is it just that my nipple is sensitive from all the attention Sebastian paid it? I wonder as I gently circle it. Or is it the pain that’s turning me on even though I’m exhausted? Has Sebastian Caine somehow managed to link pain and pleasure in my mind? In my body?
That thought disturbs me more than anything else has so far. More, even, than the bruises scattered like confetti over my stomach and thighs and—I do a quick turn, look over my shoulder—my back. And, if I’m being honest, those bother me quite a bit on their own.
Not because of what they are, but because of what they stand for. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, maybe I’m looking for shadows where there aren’t any, but standing here—looking at the marks on my body, so many of them in visible places—I can’t help thinking that Sebastian was marking me, branding me. Like property. Or the family pet.
For a moment, just a moment, an image of Carlo floats through my head. Suave, sophisticated, jealous. So jealous. He used to mark me like this, to remind me—and everyone else—exactly who it was I belonged to.
Like I could forget.
Whore.
Slut.
Tramp.
The words slam into me like punches, leaving bruises that aren’t so easily seen. Waking up old injuries I thought were healed, old scars I was certain had faded away into nothingness.
Suddenly, I can’t stand to look in the mirror anymore, can’t stand to see my naked body—or the marks Sebastian left on it. I dive for my clothes, yank them on as fast as I possibly can. And then I turn on the water and scrub, scrub, scrub at my face. At the red lipstick smears that speak more loudly than any words.
