by Shandi Boyes
Identifying the glimmer in my eyes for what it is, Marcus asks, “Growing impatient, Cleo?”
I nod. "Whoever created the whole ‘delayed gratification notion' should be hung by his testicles."
Marcus’s laugh slides through my body like molten lava, activating every one of my hot buttons. “What makes you so sure it was a man?”
I shoot him a wry look. “No woman would ever be so cruel. We are nurturers, not sadists.”
“I beg to differ. You clearly haven’t seen Shian in her element if you believe women can’t dish out punishment,” Marcus replies, his tone forthright.
My eyes rocket to him, certain I didn't hear him right. Astonishment mars my face when I spot the honesty in his forthright gaze. Although I am not entirely sideswiped at discovering Shian is a Domme, I'm still in awe that she has enough vigor to fight for what she wants in a very male-dominated field. I can only hope to be as strong-willed as her one day.
Intuiting my inner monologue, Marcus says, “Don’t get any ideas, Cleo. Although I’m tempted to have you top me, it will only be while you're riding my cock. I don’t plan on switching things up permanently.”
The deep rasp of his voice adds to the slickness between my legs. Unable to speak through my parched, gaped mouth, I shamefully nod, approving his assessment of our situation. I have no intention of topping him. What I said last night was true: I love being dominated by him. And I don’t have any plans on changing that in the near future.
“Please tell me your house isn’t an hour away?”
“Depends,” Marcus replies.
I purse my lips. “On what?”
I jump out of my skin when the wing-like doors of Marcus's car are closed. After gathering my heart from the floor, I return my focus to Marcus. Being trapped in a small two-seater vehicle with him makes the sexual chemistry zapping between us even more prominent. It crackles and hisses in the air, overtaking the loud rumble of his engine when he fires up the ignition of his slick sports car.
Marcus’s eyes connect with mine. His heavy-lidded gaze spears me in place. “On how much you trust me,” he mutters, his voice so lusciously scrumptious. “Do trust me, Cleo?” he breathes out slowly, spurring a set of goosebumps to race to the surface of my skin.
“Yes,” I respond immediately, not needing time to deliberate a response. “I trust you.”
Smiling a grin that makes the entire world disappear, Marcus devotes his attention to the road in front of him. Gas fumes stream through my nostrils when he plants his accelerator to the floor. The tires of his car fail to gain traction on the tarmac for several moments before we go whizzing towards a side entrance manned by a large black security truck that resembles a tank. When the two burly security officers sitting inside spot Marcus’s car rapidly approaching, they scurry to open the chain-link fence they are positioned next to.
After dipping his chin in thanks, Marcus pulls his car onto the highway. I'm thrust into my chair, his speed as out-of-control as my rampant horniness. He weaves his vehicle through the dense flow of traffic surrounding us with the same dominance he exerts in his playroom. It’s a confident control that ensures not a smidgen of concern enters my mind, a control that sends my libido skyrocketing.
The reasoning behind his erratic speed comes to light when my vision is suddenly assaulted by flashing lights. I lift my hand, sheltering my eyes from the paparazzi snapping our photo from the backseat of a motorcycle. They veer so close to Marcus’s car, I’m afraid they will scratch his pristine paintwork.
The cars streaming past my window blur as Marcus strives to lose the dozen or so paparazzi hot on our tail. He pushes his car to its absolute limit, showcasing its powerful engine in its full light. If I didn’t hand my trust to him in the playroom last week, I’d be panicked out of my mind at the speed he is going, but I’m not—not the slightest. I have so much faith in him, I know he’d never put my life in unnecessary danger.
Within seconds, the paparazzi give up on their pursuit, the combination of Marcus’s driving skills and the grunt of his engine too much for them to contest against. Happy we are void of any pesky intruders, Marcus shifts down the gears as he guides his speedometer back to a safe range. Once he is doing the posted speed limit, he swings his eyes to me.
“You okay?” he checks.
I smile, pleased as punch he’s more concerned about me than the thrashing he gave his no doubt multi-million-dollar car.
“Yes, I am perfectly A-Okay,” I reply as my eyes stray from the pretty oceanside scenery to him. “Horny as fuck, but fine nonetheless.”
“Jesus Christ, Cleo,” Marcus mutters, his tone stern. “If you keep talking like that I’ll wash out your filthy little mouth.”
My lips crimp as a smile crosses my face. “Please,” I tease. “As long as it's done with your cock.”
My thighs quake when Marcus's panty-wetting growl rumbles through my pussy. Drifting his eyes back to the road, his pressure on the gas pedal increases, slowly creeping his speedometer back into forbidden territory. I place my hand on his thigh and squeeze. My giddiness intensifies when his muscles bunch from my meekest touch.
“You do know if you had a driver, this wouldn’t be an issue.” I stray my eyes from the road to his, wanting to ensure he knows every word I speak is gospel. “I could already have your cock in my mouth if you’d loosen your need for control just a little.”
His car hugs the curve in the road as his pressure on the gas pedal increases, but not a squeak oozes from his succulent lips.
Twenty minutes later, we are stumbling up the stairs of a palatial mansion on the outskirts of town. I can hardly hear the sounds of waves tumbling in the distance over the purrs toppling out of my mouth. Although I am interested in perusing the scenery, I can’t tear my focus away from Marcus for even a second. Our twenty-minute ride from the private airstrip was crammed with palpable sexual tension. It was so fire-sparking, my orgasm is already teetering on the edge of orgasmic bliss.
My hands are frantic as they strive to strip Marcus of his long-sleeve dress shirt concealing his yummy body from my avid eyes. I’m so dying to feel his skin against mine, I haven’t stopped to consider the fact I nearly have him half-naked on the front porch of his home.
I drag my mouth away from Marcus so my eyes can scan the darkened street. “Paparazzi?” I ask, fretful I’m making him so heedless, he hasn’t stopped to consider the ramifications.
The stubble on Marcus’s chin scratches the delicate skin on my collarbone when he drags his mouth down my jaw to suckle on my neck. “They don’t know about this place,” he mutters, his warm breath fanning my sweat-drenched neck.
I tear at his shirt, yanking it so roughly, I'm confident I hear buttons popping. Happy I have enough of his ravishing torso exposed to quell my eyes’ eagerness to ravish him, I set to work on the belt wrapped around his waist. Marcus has similar ideas as me. He fists the hem of my long-sleeve shirt before whipping it over my head, exposing my erratically panting chest to his more-than-keen gaze. His eyeballs me, like it’s the first time he has ever seen me naked.
The coolness of a sizeable Balinese door soothes the overheated skin on my back when I lean against it and thrust out my chest, offering myself to him.
“Yes,” I hiss through clenched teeth when his large callus-covered hand creeps up my stomach to cup my breast.
As I frantically yank his black belt through the loops of his trousers, he bestows lavish attention to my aching-with-desire nipples. I pant when he releases my right breast from the tight restraints of my bra by pulling down the satin cup covering it. My nipples bud painfully, engorged by a fresh, salt-infused breeze blowing over my exposed chest.
Marcus’s eyes burn into mine, relaying his every attention before his mouth drops to suck my erect nipple into his warm and inviting mouth. I still as an upwelling of desire scorches through me. I don’t freeze for long, just long enough to cherish the feeling of being so yearned for, we couldn’t achieve the ten paces from his c
ar to the front door of his home without him needing to touch me. I’ve never felt as desired as I do right now.
As Marcus’s tongue slithers around the firm nub of my nipple, his other hand moves to unzip my jeans. He only has the top button undone before his hand is slipping inside my panties. When the tips of his fingers brush the wetness pooling between my legs, his manly groan vibrates straight to my shuddering core.
“So impatient,” he murmurs against my breast when I flex my hips up, begging for more direct contact.
When his thumb hovers over my throbbing clit, my hands shoot out to secure a hold on something. His touch is so potent, if I don’t tether myself down, I’ll float into ecstasy at the first sweep of his thumb on my clit.
Not realizing his front door is unlocked, my firm grab of the large silver door handle triggers the door to swing open. Before I have the chance to register I am falling, my backside and elbows connect with the hard wooden floor in the foyer of Marcus's home, and he lands on top of me with a thud. I grunt as an equal amount of excitement and pain scuttles through my body. Although my backside isn't appreciating the hard knock it took, my body is too focused on being swamped by Marcus's delicious body to cite an objection to our unpleasant fall.
I grab Marcus's undone tie and yank his luscious lips to mine before his mouth can relay a single worry his eyes are portraying. He hesitates for only a second before he returns my kiss with equal vigor. His tongue slides around my mouth as his thick cock rocks against my heated core. My hands are all over him, touching and caressing every inch of him. I am desperate for him—everywhere.
When I tell him that, before I can comprehend what's happening, he has me flipped over onto my knees with my ass thrust in the air. My bra sags to the floor with a soundless thump before my jeans are roughly tugged down my quaking thighs to pool around my knees. We are both so desperate for each other, our movements are frantic and out of control.
I call out, no longer capable of constraining my excitement when Marcus thrusts into me in one swift motion. My pussy hugs his glorious cock as every nerve-ending in my body bristles. With the hardness of the tiled floor on my knees adding to the intoxicating energy strumming my veins, and Marcus’s perfect cock ramming into me at an uncontrolled pace, I’m soon lost to the chase of climax. It's blinding to the extent I don’t believe any previously cited more is required.
I moan loudly when Marcus twists my ponytail around and around his hand before he tugs my head back roughly. He yanks on my hair at a speed matching the frantic grinding of his cock. The hair pulling is rough enough, my scalp stings from his firm hold, but not rough enough to kill the thrum of excitement making my orgasm race to the finish line.
I lick a bead of sweat off my top lip before begging, “Can I please come, Master Chains?” My pleaded moan is barely heard over the sound of skin slapping skin.
Marcus barely breathes out the word “yes” when my climax hits fruition. I scream as a blistering of beautiful stars detonate before my eyes. I quiver and shake while my pussy squeezes his cock, begging for the opportunity to milk his thickened shaft while in the midst of ecstasy. Before last weekend, my chances of bringing a guy to orgasm while riding my own were impossible. Now, I’m riding the crest of climax with nothing more than a few erotic tugs on my hair while being thoroughly claimed by a mouthwatering cock.
My silent pleas are answered when Marcus takes me to the very base of his cock. He growls out my name in a deep, throaty moan as the hotness of his cum rockets out of his engorged knob. He stills, filling me to the very brim with every magnificent drop of his spawn. His groans are feral—almost animalistic.
With my palms damp from our vigorous activities, I soon lose my grip on the varnished wooden floor. I crumble into a heap on the floor, taking Marcus down with me. Ensuring he doesn't squash me, Marcus slides his still twitching shaft out of my throbbing core before rolling onto his back.
I take a few moments lying sprawled on the floor to gather my breath before drifting my eyes to Marcus. He is peering up at the ceiling, shocked into silence. Small beads of sweat are rolling down his delicious chocolate skin before they are absorbed by the collar of his shirt, and his trousers are bunched around his shoe-covered feet. A sultry smirk curls on my lips, loving that I made him so mindless, he is still pretty much clothed.
Feeling the heat of my smile directed at him, Marcus cranks his head to the side. With his brow arched high, he drinks in my blemished cheeks and sexually satiated eyes.
"What are you doing to me, Cleo? We barely made it in the front door."
My inane grin enlarges. “Once again, if you had a driver, this wouldn’t be an issue,” I jest, my mood playful.
Marcus groans before throwing his arm over his tired eyes. If I had any energy left, I’d laugh at his unusual response, but I am too sated to absorb the swift change in his personality.
My heart stops beating, and my head cranks to the side when a light switches on above my head. Panic scorches my veins, worried we are about to be busted.
As my hands shoot up to cover my exposed breasts, an elderly male voice queries, “Mr. Everett? Is that you?”
The sound of bare feet padding down a set of stairs rings through my ears as my frightened eyes snap to Marcus. An ill-timed giggle spills from my lips when I spot the panicked mask slipped over his face. I’ve never seen him so fretful—not even when Lexi had a gun pointed at his chest.
“Yes, Abel, it's me,” Marcus answers before scampering onto his feet.
After quickly tucking his cock, which is glistening with evidence of my arousal, into his trousers, he gathers my shirt from the floor and throws it over my head even more quickly than he removed it. I grip the waistband of my jeans huddled around my knees and yank them up my quaking thighs. I've scarcely pulled them past my dripping core when an elderly African American man enters the foyer.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, dear,” he mumbles, averting his wide eyes from my disheveled self, which is sprawled across the floor, to a carved wooden pillar on his left.
Embarrassment burns my throat, horrified he is meeting me this way. You can never redo a first impression. After stuffing my bra into the pocket of his trousers, Marcus shoots his hand out in offering to aid me off the floor. Although I am mortified at being caught unaware, silly giddiness is still fluttering in my stomach. My reaction can’t be helped. I’ve never seen Marcus so ruffled. Due to my rough handling of his shirt, he is missing numerous buttons, which means it is gaped open, erotically exposing inches of his scrumptious chest and rock-hard abs, and his trousers are crinkled from being bunched around his thighs during our heated exchange.
His tousled appearance strips him of all the titles he has, leaving nothing but a twenty-eight-year-old man with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He is the untouched Marcus—one I doubt anyone has seen in a very long time.
Curling his hand around mine, Marcus moves us toward the muted man standing at the side of the foyer. My mouth gapes, more in wonderment of Marcus's beautiful property than being busted with my pants down. Since I was so rapt on chasing the thrill of climax, I failed to notice how impressive Marcus's Florida residence is. Just like his New York property, the huge top story of his home is held up with big, wide pillars. But instead of being stark white concrete, they are chunky carved wood. The ceiling is vaulted with a similar grain of the wood, and a thin white mesh material canopied between the pillars softens the hardness of the industrial material. If we had been in the private jet for longer than an hour, I would have sworn Marcus had shipped me away to an overseas continent. His entire home has a gorgeous Balinese feel to it.
My attention diverts from the awe-inspiring residence when I become conscious of the activity we were just undertaking. It isn't the blemished hue on Abel's freckled cheeks prompting my fuzzy brain, it's the small gush of Marcus's cum dribbling into my panties. I squeeze my thighs together, praying to the Lord a wet patch doesn't form on the crotch of my jeans. I knew Hollywood movies were full of crap
. I don't know one girl who can have sneaky sex in the middle of a dancefloor and continue dancing minutes later like nothing happened.
“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Abel apologizes, his gaze focused on the woven mat under his feet. “I was not expecting you at such a late hour. I was afraid we had an intruder.”
“It’s okay, Abel,” Marcus acknowledges, accepting his apology with a sincerity in his tone I haven’t heard before. “I should have warned you about our late arrival. I got a little caught up convincing my guest I wanted her attendance that common courtesy slipped my mind.”
Marcus squeezes my hand, ensuring I can’t mistake who was the cause of his distraction. The warmness spreading across my chest grows when Abel lifts his gaze from the ground. His worldly eyes glisten with moisture as he drifts them between Marcus and me. Usually, his type of stare would have my skin crawling, but all I feel is squishy comfort from his prolonged gaze. He has gentle eyes and an aura that tells me he is a wonderful man. If I had to guess Abel’s age purely by looking at him, I would say he was in his mid to late fifties, but his eyes give away his true age. I would say it's closer to mid-seventies.
After rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand, Abel locks them with Marcus. “Are you going to introduce me to our guest?” he queries, his tone not as apprehensive as the one he was using earlier.
“Yes, sorry.” Marcus smiles. Tilting his torso to face me, he introduces, “Abel, I would like to introduce you to Cleo, my girlfriend.”
"Girlfriend?" I splutter out, my lungs failing to breathe. I was expecting him to trail off his sentence like he has every other time he has introduced me, but his voice didn't waver in the slightest.
I’m not the only one stunned; Abel looks as flabbergasted as me. As his ageless eyes bounce between Marcus and me, the sheen glimmering in them grows damper.
Not the slightest bit put off by my slack-jawed expression, Marcus continues with his introduction, "Cleo, this is Abel, my. . ." This time, his words trail off to silence as confusion clouds his penetrating gaze.