Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  With great reluctance, I shift her off my lap and settle her on the bed. Her gaze instantly falls to the tent in my slacks. She may as well get used to that.

  I stand and grab my rigid length, forcing it sideways in my pants. “Many weeks ago, you said you didn’t want to be gagged, tied, and whatever else you think accompanies those things.” I reach for the belt and loop it in half, holding tight to the ends. “But you’ve thought about it.”

  She stares at the leather strap and rubs her hands over her lap. “I…I didn’t mind the spanking.”

  “That’s a half-truth. Try again.”

  Frustration crinkles her brow. “Okay, I liked it. But that doesn’t even make sense. It was humiliating and painful.”

  “Define the pain.”

  “It was…I don’t know. It should’ve scared me. Instead, it just made me feel warm and fuzzy all over. Maybe because you don’t scare me. Because I…I like…” She drops her gaze to her hands.

  “Look at me.”

  She does, her teeth sawing along her lip. “I like you. You make me want things I’ve never…” She looks away and quickly returns to me. “I want your spankings and kisses and…more.”

  “Good girl.” Standing over her bent position, I cup her chin with my free hand and kiss her mouth.

  The moment our tongues connect, I’m lost to the aimless, sensual slide of our lips. She’s fantasia in the flesh, unbound to convention, vibrating beneath my hands and begging to be directed.

  I straighten and step back. “The pain you experienced with other men… That was unacceptable, Ivory, because it was non-consensual.” I punctuate each syllable with a stern tone. “You are not at fault. You will never blame yourself. Say yes if you understand.”

  She sits taller, her chin lifting higher. “Yes.”

  That glimmer of confidence in her posture does wonders for my ego. We’re making progress, and damn if that doesn’t harden me like a rock.

  I widen my stance, the looped belt hanging at my side. “Just like the spanking, I’m going to show you good pain. The kind of pain you control. You’ll have all the power here, because the moment you say no—”

  Her shoulders tighten, a reminder that in her experience that word is a useless son of a bitch.

  A renewed blaze of anger hits my blood. I spear a hand through my hair and draw a deep breath. “Scratch that. Give me a word you would naturally use in place of no. Something that—”

  “Scriabin.”

  The speed in which she spits that out shocks me. And why a Russian composer? As I stare into the shadows of her muddy brown eyes, I decide that Scriabin is rather fitting given the conflicted, dissonant quality of his music.

  I flex my hand, my heart pumping wildly. “When you say Scriabin, I stop.”

  She scans my face, my shoulders, and the belt in my hand. A frown pulls on her mouth.

  “I need your trust, Ivory.”

  She looks up, her lips parting. “You have it.”

  “Show me.” The ache in my cock magnifies. “Feet on the floor and chest on the mattress.”

  When she obeys, the tightness inside my ribs loosens.

  I step behind her and trail the loop of leather up her leg and over her round ass. My hands continue upward, holding on to the belt as I extend her arms above her head. “Tell me why you’re being punished.”

  With her fingers curling into the quilt, she rests her cheek against the bed and meets my eyes. “For selling my body.”

  “That’s not—” I feel the tremor of my outrage all the way to my feet. “Listen to me. You were in a desperate situation, and those fuckers took more than you offered. I’m punishing you because you put yourself in that car instead of coming to me.”

  She starts to rise, but I hold her down with my weight, my chest on her back and my hungry cock against her ass.

  “But you’re my teacher,” she says, quietly. “I didn’t know what you would—”

  “You also had Stogie. And the police, social services… You had options.”

  Her muscles deflate beneath me. “You’re right.”

  “Right and pissed. You refused my help with the textbooks, yet you accepted money from those assholes. You didn’t trust me enough to confide in me, but you trusted those boys with a dangerous arrangement.”

  She nods, her mouth soft in agreement. But I know her mind must be racing into the future, searching for new solutions to lingering problems.

  I trace my lips across her jaw. “You’re mine, Ivory. That means your problems are mine. Your bills, your worries, your safety…” I kiss the corner of her mouth. “All of it belongs to me.”

  She releases a heavy sigh.

  Shifting downward, I roam my hands over her clothes. Her slender shoulder, the curvature of her spine, the rise of her ass, there’s so much femininity to touch, devour, and welt.

  I crouch behind her, my muscles buzzing with excitement. With the belt in my hand, I let her feel the scrape of leather as I slide the skirt to her waist. Toned thighs and freckles, pert ass and creamy skin, goosebumps and pink satin…it’s all mine. But the panties have to go.

  As I yank them to her feet and step back, everything inside me narrows to one basic instinct. Jesus, fuck, I want inside her with blinding ferocity, but I manage to keep my feet on the floor and my hand off my dick. “What’s your safe word?”

  “Scriabin,” she breathes, clutching the quilt.

  The sight of her bent over for me has my cock jerking painfully in my slacks, damn near tearing through the zipper. Does she touch herself when she’s alone? Has a man ever pleasured her? I doubt it, but I need confirmation, even if it tempts me to strap her down and fuck her until I break her.

  “One more question.” I stroke a finger up her thigh and slide it through the soft, wet flesh between her legs. “Have you ever had an orgasm?”

  Ivory

  I press my face into the manly scent of Emeric’s bedding and force my trembling legs to keep me from sliding to the floor. Cool air brushes against my bare backside, and his fingers… Holy hell, his fingers slide back and forth between my thighs, producing the strangest, most invigorating kind of warmth down there.

  I can’t focus on anything but the path of his strokes, my entire body singing for him to keep doing that…that…exactly what he’s doing. Please, don’t stop, don’t—

  He stops, cupping me in his huge palm. “I won’t repeat the question.”

  I press my teeth into my lip, hating his gruff, impatient tone. Or maybe I love it.

  “I don’t know. I…I touch myself sometimes.” I’ve tried to create the toe-curling Oh yeah, right there! the women in my neighborhood go on about, but it never feels as good as they claim. “Can it happen when I don’t enjoy it?”

  His hand flexes against my pussy. “All those motherfuckers, and not one of them got you off.” He relaxes his fingers, caressing lazily. “It’ll be different from now on.”

  The next stroke curls all the way inside, thrusting me into a whole new world of different. Air shoots from my lungs, and my body clenches around the invasion. Oh my God, it’s so…painless. Not dry or searing or too tight.

  With slippery drives of his finger, he plunges again and again. A molten, coma-inducing pleasure courses through my body. My nipples tighten, and my pulse goes crazy. I dig my toes into the carpet as the slurping sounds of his rhythm saturate the room.

  Heat rushes to my face. I know this is desire, and he’s found that mysterious trigger to release my natural lubrication, to show me how to want this. But I’m leaking all over his hand. Is it normal to be this messy?

  He crouches, burying his finger inside me as his other hand drags the belt along my thigh. The leather shakes against me, like his exhales. And his voice. “So fucking wet.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know why—”

  “Don’t,” he growls, dipping his finger in and out, massaging and rubbing with so much control. “This is what it feels like to be taken care of, to receive pleasure f
rom someone who wants to give it desperately.” His lips graze my inner thigh. “I know how to touch my girl.”

  He knows how to be both languorous and male and how to coax my surrender with only the strength of his words. I’ve never been with someone so powerful and confident, who can also remain calm enough to touch me like this.

  His fingers leave my body, and his heat slips away. I turn my neck and catch a glimpse of deep navy eyes as he straightens and swipes his wet hand over his mouth.

  That’s the second time he’s tasted me. It’s obscene yet fascinating at the same time.

  He steps to the side. “Don’t move your hands.”

  I twist my fingers in the bedding above my head just as the air whistles behind me. A fiery thwack lands across my ass, and I can’t stop my hand from jerking back to rub the pain.

  But his mouth is already there, sealed over the stabbing heat, sucking and licking. He grabs my wrist, pinning it to the mattress as his lips transform the hurt into something else completely. The sweep of his tongue chases away the sting, leaving a drugging kind of tingle across my skin.

  Maybe it’s because he spent so much time touching me first, suspending me in a state of over-stimulation, but I don’t cower as he stands to swing again. My body is already buzzing like an addict. I want more.

  Except he doesn’t strike. He moves away from the bed with determined strides and disappears within the closet. What the hell?

  A second later, he emerges with a black duffel bag and unzips it on the bed beside my head. Leather cuffs drop on the mattress, followed by nylon straps.

  My heart bangs so loudly it could drown out an orchestra. “Wh—what is that for?”

  He unwinds the straps, squatting as he attaches them to the bed frame. “If you had moved your hand a second sooner, the belt would’ve sliced your fingers. Maybe even broken them. We’re going to do this without endangering your piano career.”

  Says the man who punches walls.

  I lift up on elbows and point at his damaged knuckles. “When is your next symphony performance?”

  “Two weeks.” He stretches his swollen hand then pats the edge of the bed. “Arms here.”

  “You’re going to tie me down?”

  “I’m going to protect you.” He opens the first leather cuff. “This or your safe word. Make a decision.”

  I imagine myself in those restraints, trapped and unable to escape as he belts my ass, kisses it better, and makes me the center of his universe. He’s not forcing me. He’s empowering me with a choice, an offer to take me somewhere exciting when no one else has ever bothered to care.

  I rest my cheek against the mattress and extend my arms above my head.

  “Your trust is intoxicating.” His hands are suddenly on my face, angling my head as his mouth crashes against mine.

  I melt beneath the demand of his lips. This kiss is harder than its predecessors, more hungry and lethal, his tongue looping with mine and his strong jaw scratching my skin in a delicious burn.

  He breaks the kiss and returns to the cuffs, connecting them to the straps and locking them around my wrists. His fingers move expertly over the buckles and latches.

  How many times has he done this? With how many women?

  With my history, I’m in no position to be jealous, but it doesn’t stop the clawing ache in my gut.

  The touch of his hands pulls me from my thoughts. He’s here with me, trailing goosebumps across my arms as he secures them in the restraints.

  That done, he moves to stand behind me, hands on my hips and tugging my ass against his thighs. The straps strain with the movement, the manacles holding my arms above my head.

  But I don’t feel trapped or held down. I feel anchored. To him.

  The folded belt swings in my periphery right before a new sting inflames the underside of my ass. He teases the welt with feathery touches, and his lips join in, kissing and soothing the lingering pain. Then he swings again.

  Thwack, massage, kiss. I don’t know how many times he repeats those steps. At some point, I slip into a blissful trance, lost in some floaty place where there’s only him and me and the harmony of our breaths.

  This is what it’s supposed to feel like when two people come together, willingly, wantonly. What would sex be like with him? I can’t even fathom it. The emotional connection alone might explode my brain.

  He covers my heated backside in caresses and kisses, kindling such a big feeling inside me. The swollen throb between my legs rallies and flares, energizing my nerve-endings and expanding into parts of my body I didn’t know existed. Something’s coming, something wonderful, but before the sensation reaches a breaking point, he steps back to swing again.

  Over and over, he brings me closer to the edge, burning me hotter with need, and teasing me one stroke at a time.

  When the hot lashes and affectionate touches stop completely, I moan into the quilt. “You’re done?”

  His groaning laughter follows him around the bed where he bends to release the cuffs. I’m too limp and weightless to move. But my pussy pulsates with emptiness, clenching and soaked beyond embarrassment.

  I don’t care. I need…need… “Please.”

  Climbing onto the bed, he rolls me to my back and straddles my hips. His erection is right there, trying to stab a hole through his pants. But he doesn’t free it or look at it.

  He weighs enough to crush me, but his quads contract at my sides, bearing his bulk. His gaze lowers to my button-up, and he grips the collar, ripping it open. My nicest blouse. But the look on his face makes me forget why I care.

  His lips separate with the force of his breaths, and his eyes drift over me like a vast ocean, heavy and deep, drowning me in wonder.

  Men have sat on me like this before, but only during a struggle when my arms are swinging and my hips are bucking. No one has ever straddled me in such a vulnerable position without thrusting and taking. With his pants still on.

  He takes in the white satin of my mom’s bra, the material too small to fully cover my chest. With a groan, he tugs the cups beneath my breasts, exposing them. “If you knew how many times I’ve imagined these the past couple months, what they would feel like, taste like, how they would look trussed up in rope…”

  “I’ve imagined you, too.” I lift my hand to reach for the hard length straining his slacks.

  He catches my wrist and lunges forward, his chest on mine and his voice guttural. “If you touch me, it’s all over. I’m barely hanging on.”

  Part of me wants to see what he looks like when he lets go. But I’d rather give in to my curiosity about where he’s taking this and let him lead.

  With a shaky hand, he traces the outer edge of my breast. His other hand tangles in my hair as he leans in and tastes my lips.

  I love the cinnamon flavor of his tongue. It’s so unique to him, just one of the thousand things that separates him from all the others. When I’m with him, the bruises inside me tuck themselves away. Or maybe they fade. I can’t feel them or the fear they ignite. Why? Because he’s viciously protective? Because he’s achingly tender even when he’s punishing me?

  He’s a deep well of discovery, and I hope he gives me the time and permission to learn everything about him.

  He slides off my hips to lie against my side, facing me. The hand in my hair clenches tighter, and his lips stay with mine, each bite and roll of his tongue delivering an electric shudder up my spine.

  His free hand travels down my throat, trails a path between my breasts, over my stomach, and dives between my legs. I gasp against his mouth, my fingers grasping at his shoulder.

  The placement of his thumb stuns me, and my clit throbs against the diabolical pressure he rubs against it. He sinks one then two fingers inside me, and I writhe against his hand, my skin hot and exposed beneath his gaze.

  I must look ridiculous with my skirt bunched around my waist, and my too-small bra shoved beneath my boobs. But he doesn’t seem to care.

  He steals glances at
my bared breasts, even as his mouth feasts on my lips. I despise my chest, but I love how he stares at me like he appreciates what he sees, like he’s never wanted another woman the way he wants me. My body pleases him. I please him.

  The length of his frame trembles against mine, all sharp edges and contracting muscles. I don’t know when he slipped off his shoes, but his socked feet brush against my toes. The shirt and slacks he’s still wearing doesn’t diminish the heat seeping from him. His intensity smothers me, and his gravely noises shiver my skin. He’s a starving, growly man in need, and I want to feed him.

  His hand grips my hair, holding my lips against his as our tongues lap and twine together, hot and wet, ravenous and unguarded. His erection grinds against my thigh in maddening circles, and a combustion of sensations lick across my skin, hardening my nipples into painful points.

  He tears his mouth away to devour my breasts with a hot tongue. Sucking and laving, he pulls a bud deeper into his mouth as his fingers and thumb continue their wicked assault.

  I’m going to explode. I feel it simmering deep in my core, rising faster, hotter, robbing my air. When his lips return to mine, he swallows my moans. His kiss, his scent, the feel of his strength surrounding me… My muscles shake with the overwhelming pleasure of it all.

  A tremor skips down his arm, spurring his fingers faster and his hips harder.

  “Come, Ivory,” he pants against my lips. “Come all over my hand.”

  My mouth slackens, my chin tilting upward as I reach for it. I fall into his smoldering gaze and feel the expanding pressure, right there, like a brewing storm inside me, collecting and strengthening. But I don’t know how to make it happen. “I—I’m trying. I don’t know…”

  “Get out of your head.” He rotates his thumb and trails his tongue across my pliable lips. “Let it all go.”

  My earlier confessions had been shockingly freeing. It should’ve relaxed me enough to do this with him. And I am relaxed, but also nervous about what’s happening and what it all means.

  He shakes with the urgency of his arousal, rubbing himself wildly against my thigh as he fingers me into insanity. With each circle of his thumb and pump of his hand, my release hovers on the ledge, galvanized with determination yet teetering with uncertainty.