Falling

by Simona Ahrnstedt

  “Yes.” Shit, he really hadn’t thought it would be this hard.

  Her grip tightened.

  “Yes, Isobel,” he said quickly.

  She smiled—a slow, satisfied grin—and let go. “Good boy.”

  “For God’s sake, Isobel,” he snapped, and he ran a hand through the hair she had been holding in an iron grip. He really hated that phrase.

  She cocked her head. “Who’s in charge?”

  He ground his teeth. Part of him wanted to get up and leave, tell her to go to hell. He wasn’t here to be degraded, hadn’t realized what it would take to subordinate himself. What she would demand of him.

  “Alex?”

  “You’re in charge,” he said under his breath.

  She handed him the glass. “Drink.”

  He did as he was told. Emptied the glass. He had come here on an empty stomach, and the alcohol went straight to his head.

  She was in front of him again. Her dress moved provocatively around her body, and he was on the verge of reaching for her again. It was automatic.

  “Put your hands behind the back of the chair,” she ordered.

  He hesitated, but then reluctantly complied.

  She rewarded him with a smile that went straight to his cock. Then she pulled her dress up over her thighs, spread her beautiful legs, and straddled his knee. She placed her sweet-smelling hands on his face and kissed him deeply. He squirmed beneath her, and she pressed herself against his naked chest. She broke off the kiss, took hold of his head, and pressed his face against the deep neckline of her dress. He greedily kissed and licked her skin, wanted to use his hands but held them obediently behind the chair.

  When Isobel got up from his knee, he was breathing so hard he felt giddy. Alcohol, testosterone, and carbon dioxide were a heady cocktail in his bloodstream.

  “God, Isobel, let me . . .”

  “Not yet,” she said. The thin material of her dress was damp where he had kissed her. She ran a hand over one of her magnificent breasts, smoothed out the material so that it strained against her generous curves and the hard, pouty nipple. He stared, feeling he would do and agree to anything to get her back on his knee.

  “What would you like to do right now?” she asked gently.

  “Get up, throw you onto that table, and fuck you. Hard,” he said through clenched teeth, not remembering ever being so horny.

  She smiled sweetly and gave him a long look, as though she was weighing up a number of different options.

  “Yes, maybe we’ll finish up with that,” she eventually said. She leaned against a black table that looked at least a hundred years old. Stable, steady, overloaded with bowls, pots, and other trinkets. Her dress parted, revealing her thighs again. God, he loved her soft thighs. She started to touch herself. Almost distractedly, her index finger disappeared among her red locks, moving, petting, teasing.

  Alexander didn’t blink, his gaze firmly set on the enticing scene. She then came over to him and pushed the same finger into his mouth. He sucked. She inserted another, and then a third, moved them in and out, used his mouth the way he wanted to use her body. It felt as if flames were licking his body now, hissing, crackling flames of lust.

  “I never understood the point of masturbating in front of someone else,” she said quietly, and pulled her fingers from his mouth. He wanted to leap up, take her back, but it was as if he were rooted in his chair. Her finger moved among her red locks again.

  “But people can change,” she said, and she started to finger herself more purposefully. She put her other hand on Alexander’s shoulder, steadied herself against him while she moved her fingers increasingly quickly. Her breaths were like a hot wind against his cheek, and his entire body howled at him to take over.

  “If you touch me now, that’s it for this evening,” she said in warning. “I want to come without you laying a finger on me. You only get to look, understood?”

  He couldn’t nod, couldn’t answer, could only stare.

  The scent of her. The warmth vibrating between their bodies. The wet sound of her fingers moving. The slight pain when she dug her fingernails into his shoulder—all of this made his head pound, his blood roar. She came silently, powerfully, and then stood panting in front of him. The smell of sex and of Isobel reached him, and he wanted to eat it up, drink it in, wrap himself up in it. He had practically come too. Isobel looked at him with hazy eyes. She grazed his lip with her index finger and he caught it in his mouth, sucked it as if it were the only thing that stood between him and everything worthwhile in the world.

  “Please, Isobel, please, I want to be inside you,” he said huskily, feeling that he would go along with anything.

  “Soon,” she said.

  She took her champagne glass and sat down on a low, plush couch opposite him, sank down into the dark velvet.

  Alexander licked his lips, following every movement she made. She sipped from her glass, crossed her legs, pushed her hair from her face.

  “This is Eugene Tolstoy’s apartment,” she said. “He let me borrow it.”

  That explained the brothel-like elegance. Alexander hadn’t known his uncle had an apartment in Stockholm, but Eugene had always been rather secretive, so . . .

  “Did he know what you planned on using it for?”

  She bit her lip. Her cheeks were rosy, and she looked exactly like what she was. A sex goddess. His sex goddess.

  “What do you think?”

  “I probably don’t want to know. Can I come over and sit next to you?”

  She nodded, and he quickly moved over to her.

  “Are your trousers tight?”

  “So goddamn tight.”

  He was so aroused it hurt.

  She looked down at his erection, leaned forward, and moved her hand up and down, up and down over his pants, until he couldn’t sit still any longer.

  “Isobel,” he warned her, and took hold of her wrist.

  “Let go of me,” she said.

  “I don’t want to come in my pants,” he pleaded.

  Her eyes narrowed. Their gazes locked.

  “Shit,” he swore, and let go of her hand. He didn’t want to come like this. In his pants. Like some horny teenager. She caressed him. He gave up and let himself go, moved toward her hand. He panted, it throbbed, his body began to contract, and he closed his eyes. But just as he thought he was about to come, she stopped.

  “Get up.”

  He opened his eyes, couldn’t really think; his heart pounded, and he had practically no blood left in his head. But he did what she said.

  Isobel stayed on the couch.

  “Take them off.”

  He unbuttoned his pants with some effort. He carefully pulled them down, stepped out, and then stood naked and erect in front of her.

  She leaned forward, brushed against him, and he shook, actually shook at her touch.

  She looked up. “You want to fuck me now, right?” she said.

  He nodded eagerly, could already see himself taking her, harder than ever, taking sweet revenge for the torment she had subjected him to.

  Isobel raised her chin. “But I’m not ready.”

  She got up from the couch, brushed against him with her shoulder, and he shuddered. She opened the bag he had brought with him and took out the white whip. When they’d bought it, Alexander had thought it almost looked like a toy. In her hands, it definitely looked real.

  “See the ottoman?” she asked.

  He turned around, spotted the piece of furniture—a big, heavy divan or footstool, without a backrest, square, bulky, covered in dark velvet fabric. Golden lion’s paws as feet. Typically Eugene. Probably smuggled Russian goods from some old royal palace.

  “Lie over it. On your stomach. I’m not going to tie you up.” She smiled demonically. “Yet.”

  So far, he had been sure he would be able to cope with whatever she suggested. But now . . . Would he really do this?

  Reluctantly, he got down on his knees. He steeled himself and l
ay down, over the ottoman, as she’d told him to, then adjusted his position. Isobel came over to him. As she got on her knees, he heard the rustle of her dress, saw the white material from the corner of his eye. She put a hand at the base of his spine, stroked his back. He shivered, was about to explode, just from her cool touch.

  “If I do this, I’m going to do it properly. If you don’t want it, then say so. Otherwise, say: Yes, Isobel.”

  Alexander stared at the floor and was struck by the surreal sensation of being naked, on his stomach, on top of an ottoman, in one of the most decadent apartments he had ever seen, trying to decide whether he was going to let a red-haired goddess spank him or not. He studied the oriental rugs. If he wanted to back out, now was the time to do it.

  But he didn’t. Couldn’t deny that he was more turned on by this game than he’d thought was possible.

  “Yes, Isobel,” he said, his voice sounding forced to his ears.

  “Good boy,” she murmured.

  She reached between him and the ottoman and took hold of him. He couldn’t help but groan when he felt her longed-for touch, but he forced himself to be passive, to be jerked off by her long, strong fingers. He had never realized how vulnerable he would feel, how the slight sensation of uncertainty could increase his arousal, how frustrating and stimulating it was to have no control over what was happening.

  He closed his eyes, felt his balls tighten, the blood rush to his cock. She let go. Stood up. Left him again, just as he was about to come. He had to bite his lip hard to stop himself from swearing, to stop himself from begging her to continue.

  “Lie still,” she said.

  He forced himself to relax, to empty his mind.

  Felt a breeze when she raised her hand.

  Heard the sound of the whip whistle through the air.

  Chapter 51

  Isobel saw Alexander’s body tense as she flicked the whip in the air. Would she really be able to go through with it? She had based this all on her own likes and dislikes. Gathered her fantasies and experiences, and then simply decided she was going to dominate him, force him to be submissive. She had expected it to be tough. What she hadn’t expected was to be so turned on by it, almost high from the experience.

  Satisfying herself in front of Alexander had been a decision born in the heat of the moment. She had come more quickly than ever before, and when Alexander begged to take her, she had been seconds from saying yes, from letting him make love to her on the floor, against the wall, wherever.

  She cracked the whip in the air again and saw his muscles tense in preparation. His body was like poetry: tanned, muscular, and glistening with sweat. She was glad she had stopped herself from surrendering too fast, that he had followed her lead, that she had kept control. She knew it was a one-off, that this wasn’t a role she wanted in the future.

  But now.

  She dragged the whip tails along his back, saw him shudder.

  Now she wanted to take all she could.

  She raised the whip and brought it down on his buttocks. He jerked but didn’t say a word. Even though it must have hurt.

  “Relax,” she ordered. “Breathe.”

  Alexander inhaled sharply. She raised the whip and brought it down again, making sure to hit only muscle and fleshy areas. His entire body shook. She paused. He said nothing, just breathed. Was she being too hard? She crouched down, reached a hand beneath him. Ah. He was so big, she couldn’t get her hand all the way around him, warm and wonderfully hard. She leaned over him, bit his ear. He groaned, moved eagerly beneath her, toward her palm. She let go, and he made a growling sound of protest.

  She raised the whip again, let it fall. Again. And again, even harder. Still, he said nothing. She wiped her brow.

  She couldn’t keep it up much longer. Who would have imagined it was so damn exhausting to whip someone?

  She hit him twice more, one on each buttock, really getting into it. She heard a stifled sound.

  She stood still, allowed her breathing to calm down, making him wonder. This was what she found hardest herself. Not knowing what would happen. She wanted him to feel it.

  “You can get up now,” she said. “Stand up. And kiss me.”

  He lay still for a second, as though he was gathering himself.

  And then he rose to his full height. Naked and sweaty, his eyes wild, he grabbed her, kissed her hungrily, almost vehemently, pushed a leg between her thighs, made her ride him as he wrapped an arm around her like steel.

  “Wait,” she panted, her hands on his chest.

  He was about to take over, but this was still her night.

  “Isobel,” he groaned against her mouth. His expert fingers caressed her, his talented mouth kissed her, and she yielded. It felt so good, she loved this madness. Being desired, coveted.

  “Baby,” he said huskily.

  Her eyes narrowed at the arrogant word.

  Alexander respected her, she knew that without a doubt. But this was about the balance of power, and she wasn’t prepared to hand it over to him yet. She pushed him away. Gestured toward one of the bedrooms with her head.

  “There’s a bed in there. Lie down on your back. One hand by each bedpost. Wait for me.”

  He looked about to protest, so she just turned on her heel and left him, went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Jesus, this was intense. It was like trying to keep your balance on a tidal wave. She splashed water onto her face, checked her makeup and hair. She stared at her reflection. Her eyes were enormous, her skin practically glowing. This was a woman she had never met before.

  She went out again. Would Alexander have done as she said?

  When she pushed open the door to the bedroom, he was actually lying down. Naked and outstretched on the enormous antique bed. His face a mix of frustration, arousal, and uncertainty, and his gaze never left her. But he lay still, as she had told him, completely at her mercy.

  “One hand by each post,” she reminded him.

  He obeyed, an intent look on his face.

  She unbuttoned her dress and let it fall to the floor. If you faked being comfortable with your nakedness, it practically became true, she thought. And the way he stared at her, it was hard to feel anything but flattered.

  She climbed up onto the bed and straddled him, positioned herself with her knees below his hips, studied his handsome face, his muscular chest.

  She leaned forward, took the silk ribbon she had already tied around the bedposts and looped it around his wrists, one at a time, until he was tied fast. Silk was good in that respect, strong and durable but still easy to loosen. She tied the silk in bows and smiled at how it looked. Alexander sought out her gaze, and she stroked his beautiful, angry face.

  “This is difficult for you, I know,” she said soothingly. “But you can do it. Trust me.”

  “Let me inside you,” he whispered. “It’ll be so good. I know you want to. You know how much you like it. Come on, Isobel.”

  “Yes, I want it,” she said quietly, almost giving in to the fervor in his voice. “But first, I want to do something else. You aren’t in charge here.”

  He looked like he was about to explode. His body quivered beneath her, like an animal. “Christ, Isobel. I can’t bear this much longer. Let me do something.”

  She clambered from the bed and went to fetch the ice bucket.

  “What are you going to do with that?”

  She leaned forward and gripped his erection, moved her hand up and down a few times before she let go. He was so close to coming now, she could practically see his orgasm rising up through his body.

  “Not yet.” She smiled. She filled a glass with champagne. It was so cold the glass was immediately damp with condensation, but she took some ice cubes from the bucket and dropped them into the glass anyway.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  His eyes widened. “No,” he bellowed.

  She poured the champagne over his stomach and crotch. He swore. She straddled his legs again and licked h
im, lapped up the liquid, licked his thighs, his stomach, the skin around his trembling erection. She moved her fingers over him until he shook. She caressed him, carefully, so lightly and gently and tantalizingly that he started to pull at his bonds out of frustration. He was angry now, she saw; there was fire in his eyes, fury in his limited movements.

  She picked up the whip again. Dragged the soft tails over his erection, saw real fear pass across his gorgeous features. She wouldn’t admit it, but it was arousing to see his fear, to have him in her power.

  He was breathing hard, his eyes not leaving the whip, his muscular legs tense.

  But of course she hadn’t planned to use it on him like that. Instead she lay down comfortably next to him, her head at the foot end of the bed and her feet by his hips so that he could see all of her. She spread her legs, could see his smoldering gaze fixed on her. She wasn’t even sure she had seen him blink. His arms were stretched, the veins and tendons raised beneath his tanned skin. She laid one of her legs over his, spread herself, half closed her eyes, and began to touch herself.

  She sighed gently, moved her hips.

  “Isobel.”

  Alexander’s voice was pained, the sweat glistened on his chest. His cock trembled against his stomach, mesmerizing, enthralling. It had shrunk with the ice-cold champagne, but now it was big and hard again. She slowly pushed the handle of the whip inside herself. The short grip was hard and ribbed, and actually really arousing. She played with the whip, pushed it in and out, as she touched herself with her other hand. She did this until Alexander pulled so hard against his bonds that the bed shook beneath them.

  Isobel came, panting and violently. She pulled out the handle, stood up, filled her champagne glass, and held it to his mouth.

  “Drink,” she said.

  He craned his head forward and drank, desperate gulps, spilling most of it.

  “Good boy,” she said, and leaned forward to kiss his mouth. She bit his lip, licked his neck.

  “Untie me now. I’m going crazy.”

  Alexander wasn’t a naturally submissive man. Dominating him was a bit like trying to tame an angry bull or a wild horse. It was hard, but it was exciting. Reading the feelings on his face and trying to anticipate his reactions. Seeing his resistance, pushing him to accept her demands. But he had earned what he wanted now. And besides, she was longing for him.