by Karina Halle
He starts to pull my underwear down. I lift up my hips without him asking.
All at once the moment starts to lose hold of me, the voices come back in my head, the worries, the guilt, the shame.
I hope I didn’t fuck up my bikini trim.
I hope he didn’t expect me completely hairless.
I hope my thighs look okay.
I hope he likes what he sees.
I hope my…
My thoughts fail me as my underwear hangs from one foot and his hands go between my thighs, parting them.
Oh god.
Oh my god.
His thumbs press into my inner thighs, his fingers on the outside, a firm hold on both legs. He stands between my parted knees.
Every single part of me is on the razor edge of anticipation, waiting, waiting, waiting for him to do something.
What does he want from me?
He murmurs something in Spanish, something that makes his voice go all throaty, like it’s choking with lust.
My heart tries to climb out between my ribs.
The world slows its spin.
It’s like all the planets are fixed to this place, a new orbit.
It’s pretty obvious what he wants from me.
“So beautiful,” he manages to whisper in English. “Violet…if you could see what I see.”
I don’t want to answer that because I’m pretty sure I know exactly what he’s looking at. Every pink bit of me, spread for him and on display.
I have never, ever felt so vulnerable and exposed in all my life.
His hands start to move up my thighs, squeezing my skin as he goes.
He lets out a low moan followed by a sharp intake of breath.
I feel his gaze burning over me. I suck on my lower lip, my lungs constricting.
His hands skirt down my thighs now, to my knees.
I feel him going lower, a shuffle as he adjusts himself.
I gasp as his tongue licks at the soft skin of my inner thigh.
It feels like wet silk.
Electric.
His tongue slowly moves up, his hands gripping my thighs, then my hips, then scooping underneath to grab a firm hold of my ass. The brush of his stubble on my skin feels unreal.
Is this really happening?
But the thought doesn’t stay because all I can think about is exactly what’s happening.
All I can do is be.
He gently kisses the softness between my legs and then I feel his tongue slide, wet and long, among my barest parts.
My body is washed with prickles from top to bottom, a heady mix of hot and cold that makes my eyes roll back into my head, my tongue want to loll out of my mouth.
With his fingers digging into my hips, he moans into me, the vibrations sending me to the moon while he shrugs me forward an inch so his mouth envelopes my clit.
Holy fucking hell.
I groan, my body completely swept away by the feeling as his tongue laps me up in long languid strokes, each one pushing my nerves to the edge. With the blindfold on, everything is heightened, and whatever shock or shame or embarrassment or vanity I had has completely disappeared and is replaced by one thing:
Need.
I want more. Need more.
His tongue is impossibly skilled, working me up and down before swirling in circles around my clit. Every second that passes, I feel my legs opening up more and more for him as I hold on to the chair cushions, as if they’ll keep me from flying off this ride.
He wants me to fly off. This was his whole point.
He sure has a way of doing it.
“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs, his mouth pulling away briefly while I feel his finger prod my entrance. “Better than heaven.” He pushes his finger in slowly and I automatically clench around it, wanting more.
He makes a sound of amusement, like he knows what I want and he’s going to take his time giving it to me.
He’s a tease.
He’s really taking his time.
It’s…torturous.
Then, two fingers follow.
Three.
I suck in my breath, stretching around his fingers. My body might want it but it’s not used to it.
“Relax,” he whispers. He lifts my leg to get around to the side of the chair, his one hand still inside me, his fingers moving in and out in an aching rhythm. He grabs my bra and pulls the cup down so my breast is exposed. My nipple hardens in the air before his lips close over it.
He sucks it in, my nerves shooting in firestorms all the way to my toes.
“Oh god,” I cry out as he takes my nipple between his teeth and pinches it. Bursts of hot pain radiate outward, fizzling into a heady bliss.
He soothes the pain by licking it tenderly, too tenderly. I’m practically squirming beneath him, his fingers still thrusting inside as his thumb presses over my clit.
Everything is building up, up, up.
Vicente stars licking a hot path away from my breast, up to my collarbone, which he grazes gently with his teeth.
Then nips my shoulder.
My neck.
Small bites before he starts sucking right below my ear.
I’m the lit wire at the end of dynamite, fizzing and sparking and…
“Kiss me,” I manage to say as he devours my neck. “Please.”
He grunts, breathless, and pulls away. I can see the shadow of him come over me, feel his hot breath on my cheek.
Nothing happens. Even his fingers have stilled inside me.
He removes them and now I am empty, aching for him. I’ve never felt so ravenous, so hungry, so starved. I had no idea how deprived I was for this.
But Vicente seemed to know. Says all the right things, knows all the right things.
Does all the right things.
He runs his finger over my mouth and I can taste myself on it, salty, musky, sweet. Then he reaches up and slides the tie off my eyes.
I blink up at his face, trying to focus, squinting at the light.
My world went from darkness to golden brown eyes. His gaze is so direct, so abrupt, so penetrating.
It’s a vibrating line between the two of us.
Connecting, tightening.
Waiting.
Then the look in his eyes smolders, drunk with desire, and he grabs my face with one hand, the other hand going behind my neck, and he’s kissing me.
Hungrily.
I can barely react. I’m overwhelmed by his mouth, by the feeling of him, his warmth, his need.
If I was already standing it would be knocking me off my feet. His tongue is insatiable, explicit as it thrusts into my mouth ravenously, his lips crazed and needy. It’s wet and violent and makes me throb, hot and desperate. His hand at my head is gripping my hair as if he’s holding on for dear life, and each tug shoots fire through my nerves. Every part of my being feels alive, soaking it all in, desperate for more of his touch, more of him, more of everything.
I’m so fucking starved for him.
For this.
All of this.
He pulls back half an inch, just for a second, just enough time to let out a moan while his other hand holds my face in place, captive. His heavy-lidded gaze fixates on my eyes, then my lips, as if I’m some sort of apparition.
I grab his collar and yank his lips back to mine. The need in me builds and builds. I’m dying to wrap my legs around him, to feel every inch, to feel his want for me. I think I whimper. I gasp. I kiss him with the same kind of abandon as he’s kissing me, his mouth all-encompassing as if wanting to swallow me whole.
I need him inside me. I’m aching, dying for it.
He knows this. He rips his shirt off over his head, tossing it to the ground then starting to undo his jeans, pulling a condom out of his pocket.
I try not to stare but I’m staring, watching with wide eyes and shaky breaths as his jeans fall to his ankles and he’s wearing just his boxer briefs.
Jesus.
His body is un-fucking-real.
>
His skin glows, tanned from top to bottom, like he’s dipped in gold, his every muscle from his thick and toned thighs, to his rippling six-pack abs and the sharp cut of his hip muscles, stands out. He looks carved by a famous artist, every single inch of his body molded to perfection.
And while my eyes roam over his wide, smooth chest, the rounded strength of his shoulders and the bulk of his biceps, they can’t help but focus on his package. I couldn’t tear them away even if I tried.
His boxer briefs are small, on the tight side, and red. The thin cotton material shows every single vein and the hard line of his cock as it bulges out of them, ready to burst the flimsy seams.
If I thought his fingers were too much, I’m going to have to re-evaluate things because Vicente looks like he’s smuggled a python into his underwear for safekeeping.
“I guess it’s only fair,” he says, his voice rough and low. I manage to look up at him, at the smug expression on his face. “I got to memorize your body with my eyes. You should be able to do the same.”
He slowly shifts his briefs down over his hips until his cock springs loose, dark and formidable in his palm. He strokes it from length to tip, staring at me with such heat that I feel I might burst into flames on the spot. The condom is rolled on expertly, shiny and stretched.
Then he’s at me again, like a viper. He bites at my neck until I’m moaning his name and then he’s picking me up off the chair, as if my legs aren’t heavy with muscle, as if I weigh nothing at all.
I’m spun around, picked up, and my back is now against the glass window.
I gasp in fright, the cold pane of glass pressing into my back, while my legs wrap around his waist and my nails dig into his shoulders, holding on for dear life.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into my neck.
But I can’t breathe. The fear is unreal. I might go through the window at any moment. My lungs are tensing, waiting.
“Breathe,” he tells me, pulling back to kiss me softly, tugging at my lower lip with his teeth. “I said I’ve got you. The glass will hold.”
And if it doesn’t? We’re twenty floors up, more so because of the angle of the hill we’re on. I’m starting to shake. I can just imagine the fall.
Down.
Down.
Down.
I gasp, trying to get air.
“Violet,” he says softly but sternly as he reaches down, priming his cock against me. “Keep your eyes on me. Watch me. Just me.”
And yet that’s somehow more terrifying.
The moment he pushes into me though, it doesn’t matter.
I cry out sharply, my eyes pinching shut as he enters. Everything inside me tightens, a closing fist. I’m pressed so hard against the glass, I’m afraid it will shatter, that I’ll shatter.
Vicente groans, the sound making me even more wet than I already am, his lips brushing against mine. “That’s it, so perfect, so sweet. Just breathe.”
I try. I gulp for air and dig my heels into him, holding on tight as he slowly pushes deeper and deeper inside. My hands grab the back of his neck, feeling the strength in his straining muscles. He kisses the length of my throat and moans into me as his hands pull my breasts out of my bra cups and his cock thrusts in.
“You’re so sweet,” he whispers hoarsely. “So good. So fucking good.” He pulls out slightly and drives back inside, pushing me harder against the glass until I start to melt. My dancing heart leaves the fear behind. The pleasure starts to take over, a wash of warmth all over my body, making my skin feel tight and hot.
“You know how you feel to me?” he whispers.
I shake my head.
He grabs my chin with his fingers, holding my face in place. “Look at me,” he commands.
I open my eyes to see his tiger eyes boring into mine. I feel like prey. I feel like a tiger myself. I feel everything as he comes at me again, arching his hips up, his cock so thick and rigid, filling me to the brim. I can feel his ass flex against my legs as he pounds deeper and deeper with intense, animalistic thrusts.
“You’re everything I’ve ever needed,” he says through a lustful groan. He bites his lip, the corded muscles of his neck straining. “I was famished, starved for you. For this.”
Good god, this is too much. Being fucked against a window by this man, this man who seems so in control and yet absolutely undone by me.
“I want you starved for me,” he says, voice raspy and broken. His hand slips away from my face, down to my clit, and he presses his thumb there, rubbing with each thrust. “I want you to come for me,” he murmurs, kissing me quickly—hot, wet, and sweet, his tongue teasing the seam of my mouth. “I want you to come so hard, you’ll swear you’re falling. Again and again.” He groans, his eyes fluttering closed. “Fuck.”
Something changes in his pace, like a switch being flipped. He quickens, his hips like pistons, firing again and again, my whole body slamming against the glass until I’m calling his name without even knowing it.
In this moment, I fear nothing. Not my bare ass pressed against the window, not the glass breaking, not the fall. I don’t fear the unknown. I don’t fear anything because all I can do is chase my relief, down and down and down the spiral, desperate for it.
He is starved for me. I am starved for him.
And then it hits, generating from my core, spreading outward like a supernova, gaining speed in waves and waves and waves of stardust until it lets go, thundering in aftershocks. I’m babbling, holding him tight and letting go all at once. I stare into his eyes, I look away. I feel everything and feel nothing. I ride it out, muscles jerking, body shuddering in sharp waves.
I’m not sure I exist anywhere.
Then Vicente comes with hoarse grunts, his hips driving into me while every muscle in his body strains. With sated eyes I watch as he arches back, exposing his strong neck, his fingers gripping my hips so hard I think they might mark me forever.
Our chests rise and fall, and the room is filled with the sound of our ragged breathing.
Vicente looks at me. His dark hair clings to his forehead, the glisten of sweat lines his upper lip. His eyes have taken on a quality I haven’t seen in him until now.
Vulnerability.
I feel like I’m looking at a Vicente that’s rarely revealed.
Like he’s sharing the inner reaches of his soul with me and me alone.
His mouth quirks up in a lazy smile.
“My Violet,” he says softly, reaching up to brush the damp hair off my face. “That was a lovely appetizer.”
“Appetizer?” I can barely get out the words.
He murmurs, “Yes,” as he gently kisses me, slowly pulling out. “I’m only getting started.”
Grabbing my waist, he steps back from the window and carries me all the way to the bedroom where he throws me down onto the bed. I bounce with a little squeal before rolling over. My heart has barely had time to slow, my head is still swimming against the tide, unable to pull itself out of the post-orgasmic bliss.
I manage to take off my bra that’s somehow still on and prop myself up on my elbow, watching as he leaves the bedroom. His ass is firm, ripe like a fucking bronzed peach, and I can see why he was able to fuck me like a madman.
When he comes back, cock still long and swinging as he walks, I’m reduced to warm clay again.
He’s got the tie in his hands.
He stops at the foot of the bed and stares down at me.
“Raise your hands up, above your head,” he says with a quick nod.
I lie back, arms over my head, trying not to smile.
He comes over and I watch his face as he gently ties my hands together at the wrists. There’s a determined slant to his brow, the way they arch and come together, but at the same time there’s something so achingly gentle about it all, tying me up like he’s trying to soothe me.
This man is nothing short of a mystery to me. There are so many facets, so many sides, and I never know which one I’m going to get. The man in th
e other room just fucked me mercilessly against the glass for the whole city to see. The man in here has nothing but quiet movements, tying me up like he’s doing me a favor.
Maybe he is.
Honestly, I’ve only had vanilla sex before. I haven’t had anything except blow jobs, missionary. Occasionally a boyfriend went down on me, sometimes we did it doggy-style. That was it. We never played with sex toys or sex games. I don’t even have a vibrator (which Ginny makes fun of me relentlessly for since it’s like mandatory for every female in the city).
“Are you going to be good?” he whispers to me when he’s done, staring down at me, searching my face earnestly.
“What would be considered bad?”
He smirks at me. “You’re already questioning things. That’s off to a bad start. Perhaps I should restrain the rest of you.”
I raise my brows and glance at the corners of the four-poster bed. I have to wonder if it was by accident that he got a room with a bed like this.
My heart has started racing again. I’m getting wet at the thought of what lies ahead. Maybe I’m kinkier than I thought.
“Yeah,” he says, looking me over. “I think I might. You can’t be trusted.”
I let out a laugh, both nervous and girlish. “I think you might have our roles confused.”
“Oh, you can trust me,” he says, heading over to the wardrobe. He opens it and rifles through it. I’m still staring at his gorgeously naked body.
He brings out two long loops of nylon rope.
What the…?
“Why do you have rope with you?”
He grins at me, standing at one corner of the bed. “It’s for tying up hostages, of course. No Mexican travels without it.”
Thankfully I know he’s joking. “Where’s the duct tape?”
“In my toiletry bag,” he says without missing a beat, wrapping the rope around my left ankle and securing it to the bedpost. Like he did with the tie, his movements are slow and self-assured which calms me.
Kind of.
Because, oh my god.
He’s fucking tying me to the bed!
“Relax,” he whispers to me. “Give up control. You’ll learn to love it.”
While I don’t think Vicente uses the rope to tie up hostage victims, I’m starting to think that with his confident ease, he has the rope with him for exactly this.