by Nina Lane
“And are you wet?” He slides his hand over my thigh.
“God, De… sir.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Oh.” I writhe a little on the barstool, my clit pulsing with every beat of my heart. “Wet and… hungry, sir.”
Dean smiles. I half expect him to ease the raincoat open farther and start fingering me, but instead he lowers his mouth close to my ear again.
“You’re a bad girl, Olivia Winter,” he whispers, his breath stirring the tendrils of my hair. “And you’re the hottest, sexiest woman I’ve ever seen in my life. I’d fuck you right here on the bar if it wouldn’t get us arrested.”
A shudder rocks through me. I flick my tongue out to lick my dry lips. My nipples are so hard they’re starting to chafe against the mesh fabric of my bodice.
“Well,” I murmur, “is there somewhere else we could go?”
“I’m in the luxury suite.” Dean puts his big, warm hand on the nape of my neck. “But I’ll only take you there if you agree to do whatever I say. And I should warn you I’m very demanding.”
Demanding.
A bubble of excited anticipation rises in me.
“I’ll do whatever you say, sir.”
“Good.” He moves closer, his eyes brewing with lust. “Now kiss me.”
Before I can take a breath, his mouth comes down on mine again—this time with possessive force. A thousand fireworks explode inside me, my whole being filling with warmth and love. I lift my hands to the sides of his face as he urges my lips apart and delves his tongue into my mouth. Ah, bliss…
He tastes like scotch and sex. The noise of the bar recedes, the lights fading as the world compresses to the movement of our lips together—a warm, lovely kiss edged with the promise of hot passion.
When Dean lifts his head, we’re both breathing heavily, and a faint dizziness washes over me. He brushes his thumb across my lips and puts his hand under my elbow.
I slide off the barstool, shuddering as the pulse between my legs intensifies. Dean straightens the folds of my raincoat and tightens the belt.
I slip my hand into his as we cross the room, and I’m distinctly aware of the glances tossed in our direction. I suppress a giggle at the thought of what these people would think if they knew our true story.
But this is our true story. Everything we do is part of our story.
We go into the mirrored elevator, and Dean swipes a key card into the reader. The elevator whisks us to the top floor, the doors gliding open right at the foyer of a fancy suite. Dean steps aside and ushers me to precede him.
I go into the foyer, inhaling a breath of delight and awe at the sight of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the midnight expanse of the lake and the glittering view of downtown. The furnishings are gorgeously elegant—damask wallpaper, sheer taupe curtains, intricately patterned carpet and plush sofas. A carved open door reveals a huge bed piled with silk, tasseled pillows and a bedspread that looks thick and soft as a cloud.
“Oh, Dean.” I stop behind the sofa and turn to face him. “This is incredible.”
He smiles, his eyes creasing at the corners as he reaches out to tug a lock of my hair. I expect a tender, loving remark or kiss, but he points to a wing-backed chair facing the high windows.
“Take off your coat, Miss Winter,” he says. “And sit in that chair.”
My heart thumps. Despite his warm gesture, Mr. West’s iron-clad sense of command is fully intact. And I’m suddenly a little nervous because… well, he’s “very demanding.”
I step away from him, my breath shortening as I walk to the chair. The windows glow with both exterior and interior light, and I can see our hazy reflections in the glass. I stop by the chair and turn to face Dean, who is standing with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.
I tug at the knot of the raincoat and push it off my shoulders to reveal the skimpy little baby doll that barely covers my breasts and the scrap of lace panties. Dean’s gaze rakes over me, slow and heavy.
“Slutty indeed,” he remarks.
I curl my hand around the back of the chair, shifting my legs a little because the throb of arousal is becoming more acute with every passing second.
“The outfit maybe,” I say, blinking at him. “But really, I’m quite innocent.”
A smile quirks his mouth. “Yes, I can tell, Miss Winter. Sit down, please.”
I turn and sit in the chair, resisting the urge to squirm again. I dart my tongue out to lick my lips. I can see my reflection in the window, surrounded by the elegant furnishings—my hair long and loose around my shoulders, my body newly sexy in the lacy lingerie and thigh-highs, my feet still clad in the black fuck-me heels. The intimidating, dark shadow of Mr. West behind me.
I shiver, my anxiety ratcheting up a notch. Goosebumps prickle my skin.
Dean approaches, his steps silent on the plush carpet, his tall figure moving ever closer. I watch him in the reflection of the window before he moves to stand in front of me.
My mouth goes dry as I find myself staring at the intimidatingly large erection pressing against the front of his trousers. A fire burns low in my belly, spreading heat outward into my blood. I reach up to touch him.
Before I can, Dean grabs my wrist.
“No,” he says, his voice deep and soft. “You don’t get to touch me unless I say you can.”
Though I’m not at all certain I can obey that order—after all, touching this man’s incredible, muscular body is one of my most favorite pastimes—I nod in agreement. He releases my wrist and reaches into his pocket, producing a length of red silk. Before I can ask what he intends to do with it, he wraps one end around my right wrist.
“Dean, what…”
He shakes his head and loops the silk around the chair arm, then the back, before bringing it around to my left wrist. Next thing I know, I’m lashed to the chair, the silk gentle but secure around my wrists. I move my arms experimentally. There’s very little give in the fabric.
“Where did you learn to tie knots like this?” I ask.
Dean catches my eye for half a second and winks. “Boy Scouts.”
Of course.
He reaches into his left pocket and removes another length of purple silk. This time I don’t have to ask what he intends to do with it, but my heart stutters when he places the cloth against my eyes and ties it at the back of my head. The world becomes darkness, and a faint fear rises along with the hammering of my heart.
Dean spreads his hands over the top of my head, the strong weight of his palms like a beatification.
“Okay?” he asks.
I take a breath and nod. He waits for a minute more, as if ensuring I’m not on the verge of real fear, before slipping his hands away. His lips touch my forehead in a warm, reassuring kiss. Then cooler air fills the space in front of me, and I know he’s gone.
A shudder rocks me. My nipples are still so hard, chafing against my bodice, my breasts full and exquisitely sensitive. I wait. And listen, straining my ears for a hint of what Dean might be up to. But all I can hear is the sound of my own breath, quick and heavy in rhythm with the beat of my heart.
He returns, the heat of his presence tangible in the space between us. I arch forward a bit, tensing with anticipation over what he will do next. Then something sticky and sweet-smelling brushes across my lips.
“Open,” Dean commands.
I open my mouth. He slips something inside, and my tongue floods with the taste of sugar and gooey fruit. Cherry pie.
“Mmm.” I bite down on the soft cherry, which is almost overwhelmingly sweet and tart, as if my sense of taste is heightened to acute levels since I can neither see nor move. I’m suddenly ravenous for more.
Dean’s finger brushes against my lower lip, as if he’s wiping away a sticky trace. “Want another?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Open.”
I open my mouth. He feeds me another cherry. The sweet, sugary flavor goes straight to my blood. Another bite has
a bit of crust attached, the flaky pastry a delicious contrast to the gooey filling.
“More?” Dean asks.
“Yes, please.” I think I could eat the whole pie. I want to eat the whole pie.
I scoot forward as far as I can to the edge of the chair and open my mouth. This time when Dean slides a cherry past my lips, I close my mouth quickly so I can suck the juices from his finger.
He breathes out a mild curse and pulls his finger from my mouth with a pop.
“Behave, Miss Winter,” he warns.
I smile innocently, wishing I could see the expression on his face. He holds another cherry to my mouth. I eat a few more offerings before something different nudges at my lips.
And I’m so awash in the taste and deliciousness of cherry pie that it takes me a second to realize it’s the smooth, tight head of Dean’s cock.
I gasp. “Mr. West!”
“It’s bigger than a cherry,” he remarks.
I stifle a laugh, my heart hammering at the thought of sucking his cock without being able to touch or see him. For a second, I’m not sure I can do it, but overwhelming that uncertainty is the deep, abiding wish to do whatever he commands, to obey.
I inhale a deep breath, curl my hands around the arms of the chair, and open my mouth. Dean’s hands settle on the sides of my head, his fingers tightening against my scalp as he pushes slowly forward.
Oh, God…
I have no frame of reference, nothing else to focus on except the aching throb between my legs, the silk tied around my wrists, and the glide of my husband’s cock into my mouth. I moan, wanting desperately to reach up and touch him, to grip his hips and fist the base of his shaft like I always do, but all I can do is sit here and take him in.
Dean pauses, his breath rasping above me. I swallow and move my head forward to indicate it’s okay for him to go deeper.
And he does. Filling my mouth with his thick, throbbing shaft. The taste of him mingles with the sweet cherry juice still lingering on my tongue. I slacken my throat muscles and close my eyes behind the blindfold, feeling his tension, the grip of his fingers on my head.
When he starts to thrust, I’m ready for him, loving the sensation of him pumping gently in and out of my mouth. His restraint is palpable, as it always is, his care not to thrust too deep, but this time—maybe for the first time—I don’t want him to be gentle.
I start to ease back, and he pulls out at the same instant, the head of his erection brushing across my mouth. I wish I could see it.
“I don’t…” I swallow and lick my lips, my breathing rapid. “I don’t want you to be gentle, Mr. West.”
“You don’t, huh?”
“Not this time.” I squirm, wishing he would touch my breasts, rub my nipples. “I want you to fuck my mouth.”
A groan rumbles above me. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. Please.”
His hands tighten on my hair as he pushes forward again. Then the length of his cock is in my mouth as deeply as I can take him. I relax my jaw muscles and let him pull back and push forward again. He’s still gentle at first, before urgency coils palpably through his body and his thrusts increase in pace.
And oh my God, my blood fires with bolts of heat as I sit there, hot and dripping, tied up and blindfolded with silk, unable to do anything but suck the cock driving in and out of my mouth.
Dean’s breath is heavy and harsh, his fingers gripping my head so tightly it hurts. I struggle to take him in deeper, breathing through my nose, my wrists straining against the bonds lashing me to the chair.
When Dean pulls away from me, releasing his hold, a sudden bereftness and fear sparks in my belly.
“Dean?”
“Right here.” He puts his hand on the side of my neck, the gesture both reassuring and welcome. “Okay?”
I nod, my chest heaving with rapid breaths. I squeeze my thighs together, aching for the sensation of his cock pushing into me down there, so thick and hard…
God. A violent shudder rocks through me.
“Wait,” he says, lifting his hand from my neck.
I wait again, forcing my breathing to slow. Then Dean is in front of me, his hand slipping under my chin. The cool edge of a glass touches my lips. Obediently I open my mouth. The crisp, sparkly flavor of champagne spreads over my tongue. I gulp it down too fast, and a trickle spills down my chin to my neck.
With a soft laugh, Dean lowers his head, his faint stubble scraping my skin as he licks up the stray drops. The touch of his tongue creates a warm, swirling pool of desire in my lower body.
Then his lips brush against mine. I draw in a breath of relief when our mouths press together in a hot, familiar kiss that reminds me exactly why I’ve always been so willing, so eager, to let this man alone take me places I’ve never been before.
The kiss deepens, shifting from familiarity to an edgy lustfulness as Dean slips his hand down to cup my breast. A moan spills from my throat. I arch into his hand, aching for him to rub my tight nipples.
He grabs the straps of my baby doll and tugs them over my arms, baring my breasts. I shiver—even though I can’t see, I feel his gaze traveling over my body like a touch. I wiggle a little, spreading my thighs in the hopes that he’ll slip his fingers into my pussy and stroke me in the expert, precise way of his that makes me crazy with need—
His hands linger on mine as he works the knots of the silk ties. I swallow my questions about what’s going to happen next. He doesn’t remove the blindfold, instead lifting me up into his arms as if I’m light as a feather.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist, loving the solid strength of his body as he carries me across the room. His shirt is smooth and soft against my bare skin. For some reason, the thought of him still fully dressed while I’m half-naked and clad only in skimpy lingerie is shockingly arousing. A few seconds later, he lowers me onto the bed, the comforter plush and pillowy beneath my half-naked body.
“Don’t move,” Dean instructs, and he spreads my arms out to fasten the silk around my wrists again—this time, it seems, tying the other ends to the bedposts.
I shift, tugging experimentally at the cloth again but the knots are as tight as they were before. I pull in a breath, uncertainty flashing through me.
“Christ in heaven,” Dean whispers, his voice guttural and hot. “You have no idea how fucking sexy you are.”
My pulse hammers. I can imagine how I look—disheveled and blindfolded, my lingerie pushed to my waist to expose my breasts, my messy hair falling in a tumble over the pillows, my skin sweaty, and my inner thighs damp with arousal. I turn my head toward the sound of Dean’s voice, aching for the reassurance of his touch.
The bed shifts with his weight as he moves onto it. He touches my thigh, the edge of his sleeve brushing against my skin.
“I’m going to fuck you now, Olivia,” he says, his deep voice a wash of heat over me. “And you’re going to take my cock as deep as you can, over and over again. You’re going to twist and flex your gorgeous body as I pound my cock into your sweet pussy. You’re going to scream, moan, and beg for more… and if you’re good, I’ll give you more. Are you ready?”
My mouth is so dry, my pulse pounding so hard, that for a second I can’t even answer. I manage to nod, straining toward him.
“Please,” I gasp. “Sir. Fuck me. Now.”
A faint chuckle rumbles from his chest. The mattress shifts again as he moves, his fingers adept as he strips off my panties. There’s the sound of rustling cloth before he slides his hands against my inner thighs and spreads my legs apart. Obediently, I lift my knees, dizziness washing over me when I feel his cock pressing against my spread folds.
Oh God. Oh God.
I’ve made love with this man countless times, but this night is so drenched in erotic fantasy it’s almost impossible not to feel as if he’s a beautiful, domineering stranger who is about to fuck me for the first time ever.
I flex my hands, arching my hips upward. H
e pushes his cock into me with excruciating slowness, as if he wants me to feel every inch of his throbbing flesh. And I do. My nerves fire with sparks as he fills me, stretches me, going deeper, deeper… oh, so deep…
I draw in a heavy breath. Sweat trickles between my breasts. He pauses, and his hands spread over my hips, up my torso to my breasts. He pinches my stiff nipples at the exact instant that he plunges all the way into me, his testicles slapping against my pussy.
Electric currents arc through me. I whimper, aching for the exquisite friction of his thrusts, but he stills. His shaft throbs, sending heat rippling to my blood.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice barely audible past the heaviness of my breath. “Fuck me hard, sir.”
“I’ll fuck you hard.” His grip moves to my waist. “I’ll fuck you rough.”
He pulls back and plunges inside me again, the rhythm edged with lust and the drive toward release. Again, I can do none of the things I would normally do—grip his arms, pull him against me, gaze into his desire-drenched eyes, watch his gorgeous muscles flex and strain. All is darkness, except for the bright, glowing light burning right in the center of my soul.
I twist my hands so I can hold on to the silk ties as his thrusts increase in pace, jostling my body back and forth, each push and pull firing me with fresh heat. I draw my legs up, letting him go as deep as he can and knowing I can take as much as he can give.
His breath rasps harshly in the air above me, echoing the rhythm of my own breath. He pauses once to circle his thumb around my aching clit. I moan, arching into his touch. My eyes dampen behind the silk blindfold.
“I need you so badly,” I gasp, pulling ineffectually against the restraints, desperate to touch him. “Oh, please…”
He pulls out of me, and I feel his fingers working at the knots of my ties. When they’re loosened, he grabs my hips and turns me around before fastening the silk back around the bedposts.
Air brushes against my naked bottom. I tighten my hands into fists—this position has always made me feel intensely vulnerable, even at home with Dean, and now that sense of helplessness hits me harder than ever.
I sink my face into the pillow, shivering when his big hands stroke over the length of my back.