How was it that I lusted after this man? How was it that my body craved him so violently, even though every thread of this situation was wrong? I was naked, vulnerable and terrified.
The heavy beam chafed my shoulder blades. The heat of the afternoon rose from the sweet hay that littered the barn floor. I was trapped here with a man I didn't know, one that could cause serious damage.
Just as the though came, he dropped the belt like a forgotten plaything and bent to slip a knife from his boot. I gasped.
"Relax," he murmured, and then grinned, as if he knew how impossible that was.
When he stepped forward and reached around me, he brushed his lips against my ear. "Behave, now. It will all work out."
I smelled his scent again, so close and warm; fresh air and leather and horse's musk, one of my favorites. It did nothing to stem my body's betrayal, and as a curl of his dark hair brushed my cheek I leaned into its softness before I knew what I was doing and inhaled deeply.
His laughter rumbled again.
"See?" he said. "You can enjoy this, too."
I didn't want to, but I was enjoying it. Desire still lapped at me, urging me to draw closer to this man as soon as I felt the bindings fall from my wrists.
I made fists of my hands and rolled my suddenly sore shoulders, but otherwise didn't move. I couldn't outrun him and didn't have any sort of weapon.
"Take me to the house," he said, nuzzling my ear one more time before pulling away.
"I'm…I can't," I protested softly. "I'm naked."
"Nobody but me here to see you. Let's go."
What made him sound so sure, I thought, but in another instant it clicked. That must be where his buddies were – standing guard, watching the area so that he wouldn't be surprised by a concerned neighbor. Which meant that he had planned this. Which brought me once again to the question, why me?
It felt strange walking through the corral and yard, the sun hitting my stiff spine and chasing the chill of the dark barn from my skin. I didn't look up and didn't try to catch a glimpse of his men. My face burned as I hoped that they were too far away to see me. The man – I still didn't know his name – walked a step behind and to my left. I felt his eyes on me, watching me walk, and that somehow sparked every nerve in my body. I jumped when he dropped a hand on my shoulder.
"Slow down," he said. "You look nice, all dressed in sunshine."
I blushed and forced myself to slow just a tiny bit, even though I really wanted to sprint to the house, out from under the gaze of passing clouds and random birds. Out from under his gaze, too, which I felt searing into my back.
I heaved a sigh of relief when we reached the porch and my front door, but paused before opening it. This wasn't a safe situation. "What are you going to do to me?" I asked quietly.
"I'm going to ask you to make me a meal," he said, and the words sounded so simple, as if we were old friends, except that I could hear the weight of what he left unsaid.
My eyes ghosted around the room, looking for a weapon, but my kitchen was neat and tidy and calm, as always. Coming in close behind me, he gave me a little nudge at the small of my back. He had seen the roast that I had pulled from the oven before going outside.
"Some of that would be perfect," he said, nodding in that direction, but his eyes never left my body, and I knew that his hunger wasn't going to be sated with meat and potatoes.
My hands trembled as I stood naked in front of my own stove, in my own kitchen, and spooned up a plate for this man. A chair scraped as he sat at my table and made himself comfortable.
It was strange, having a man in my house after being so alone for so long. It changed the air, charged it with a sort of tension that I might have enjoyed under other circumstances. I was very aware of my body and what it must look like, very aware of the way my head dipped and my hips swayed when I turned to bring him his supper.
"Stop," he said, before I had taken a step. I stopped.
He just sat there, hands clasped together at my table, and looked at me. Finally, he said, "Turn around. All the way."
I was trembling so hard that I feared dropping his plate, but I held on and slowly turned all the way around, until I was facing him again.
"Very pretty. Now get on your knees, darlin'."
I hesitated, confused.
"Go on," he said quietly, as if he were gentling a stallion.
I got on my knees and looked up at him now from less than a servant's place on the floor.
"Now, come here."
That soft, demanding voice was making me feel crazy inside, and I felt my thighs dampen again. This man held my world in his hands, and his eyes told me he knew it. The thought should have terrified me, but instead, it sent hot blood boiling through my veins.
On my knees, I felt small and weak. I felt defeated. I reminded myself that I wasn't. Not yet.
Slowly, careful not to spill the plate, I knee-walked across the wooden floor, worn smooth by years of footsteps. My legs hurt, my breast swung full in front of me, and I bit my lips to hold back a sudden half-sob that jumped in my throat. Why was he making me do this shameful thing?
When I got to him and reached up to set his plate on the table, he put a hand on my head.
"Good girl," he said. "Stay here."
His words sent a ridiculous and inexplicable jolt of happiness through me. Why should I care if I pleased him? It almost made me angry, but I couldn't deny it.
I sat on my heels at his knee, still naked, and he reached down to touch me now and again while he ate. Every tiny caress made my body react – a tweak of a nipple, a squeeze of my arm. Even a tap on my nose made me ache inside.
When he finished, he stood, stepped around me and put his plate in the center of the kitchen floor behind me.
"Turn around, but don't get up."
I did as instructed, noticing that his voice was growing thicker.
"Clean my plate," he said.
I looked up at him but couldn't read his eyes. How was I supposed to do that, if I couldn't get up? I stared at him, but he said nothing more.
When realization dawned on me, I gasped. "No," I said, the word slipping past my lips before I could think.
His blue eyes went hard again. Slowly, he reached behind him and pulled the belt from his back pocket. I hadn't even noticed it, but I did now. Pure fear shot through me.
"Please," I said.
He nodded. "Clean my plate. And Beth - don't say no to me again."
On my knees, my eyes never leaving the belt in his hand, I went to the plate. More crawling. The humiliation burned my cheeks, but I didn't stop until I was in front of it.
Gingerly, I put my hands on the floor and bent forward. On all fours, my body felt more vulnerable than ever, and I kept waiting for the leather strap to fall across my back. When it didn't, I leaned farther and touched my tongue to what was left of my favorite supper.
When I tried to flatten myself, he came around behind me and used a heavy boot to nudge my backside. I knew what he wanted, but it took me a moment to lift my rear into the air. Now I was open to him, and he could see my secret wetness. He could see the way my body was letting him control it.
The only way out of this was to hurry and clean the plate. Thankfully, there wasn't a lot, but when I was almost finished I felt something new.
His hands touched the small of my back, flattened there, and then meandered down the curve of my hips, not stopping until he gently squeezed the backs of my thighs. I moaned, feeling a fresh dew of dampness bloom on my folds. I trembled and held very still, not sure what he was going to do.
His thumbs came up and parted those folds, inspecting my desire for him.
"Please," I said, my head dropping toward the floor. "Don't…not down there."
"Down there? What an odd thing to say."
It felt like he was making fun of me, and my face flamed.
"Say pussy," he commanded, and my face flamed. I wasn't raised to say those words.
His hand lifte
d and then came back down lightly on the back of my thigh, just enough to sting me with the tips of his fingers. I squeaked.
"Say pussy," he repeated.
"Pussy." I could barely say it; the word felt wrong on my tongue.
"Again."
"Pussy."
"Now say 'please touch my pussy'."
For a second, I didn't think that I could. I struggled. "Please touch my pussy."
"What, darlin'? I didn't hear that."
I cleared my closed-up throat. "Please touch my pussy."
"Again." He squeezed my upper thighs again, parting me to the cool air, and even though I could barely say it, I wanted badly for him to do it.
"Please touch my pussy."
I was breathing hard now, either from the effort of saying it or the need that was growing inside. Both were overwhelming. I pressed my palms to my closed eyes, there on my kitchen floor, and repeated myself without being asked.
"Please touch my pussy."
I felt his thumb against my folds, my pussy, and then between them. When he slid it gently into me, I groaned and bucked back against his hand.
He laughed and pressed a little harder.
I felt humiliated because he was making me react with such a small touch, but it wasn't enough to make me stop pushing, looking for more. I wanted more, so badly and so suddenly that I was breathless with it. His thumb curled gently inside of me and stroked my inner walls, making me pant.
"Say please again," he instructed from behind me. "You're so pretty when you say it."
I licked my lips, almost not hearing him. My need was roaring in my ears now and making my heart beat hard. My belly and thighs shivered with desire. No. Lust, I thought. I had heard men say the word before and was surprised at how perfectly the term fit. This was lust.
"Please," I said, and I meant it. "Please make it stop."
"Make what stop?" I could hear amusement in his low tone.
"This burning. This need. Please?" Some part of my brain knew that I was being brash, speaking out of place here, but the words tumbled out.
He pulled both hands away. "Not yet."
I moaned with frustration.
"You aren't quite there yet."
"Where?"
He went back to feeling along the curve of my up-thrust hips without answering. I wiggled a little without thinking, trying to get him back to the place that soothed me. My pussy.
He spread me apart again, still looking me over. I didn't dare move away.
"What do you want?" he asked finally. He sounded so sure, so superior, that I almost cried. "The need. What do you want me to do?"
"I need release…"
"No. You need to cum. Say that."
I didn't say anything, and he squeezed harder on my rear.
"Say 'I need to cum. Make me cum, Sam.'"
I opened my mouth, closed it, and then took a deep breath, cringing at the words. "I need to cum. Please make me cum, Sam."
"Very good." He was speaking to me like I was a slow student. "There are more words that you need to know, because I like to hear filthy language coming from such pretty, innocent lips. Say fuck."
"Fuck," I whispered.
"Say 'fuck me, Sam'."
"Fuck me, Sam."
"Fuck what?"
"Fuck my pussy," I said. "Please fuck my pussy, Sam."
It made me uncomfortable, tasting such evil words, but I was being teased by his voice and his hands into not caring so much. I was soaked, felt my juices running down my thigh, and I was still panting, my breasts swaying gently between my arms. They ached to be touched. All of me ached to be touched.
His hand fell between my shoulder blades and pushed me gently to the floor. My knees were still under me, though, so my rear spread wider. He strummed a finger across my tightly puckered rear hole. I gasped and almost sat upright, but his hand stayed between my shoulder blades.
"Ass," he said. "Say ass, Beth."
"Ass," I whispered. He strummed again, and I knew that I had never felt anything so filthy and delicious in my life.
"Ass," I repeated.
My body was on fire, pressing hopelessly against every touch he dropped onto my skin. My legs were straining to hold perfectly still for him, but when his thumb slipped into me again, without warning, I almost collapsed. He pressed into me and then removed it, too soon. I ached.
When he touched me again, I stiffened, because he was at my ass again, pressing that same wet thumb into the pucker. It almost hurt, but no quite, and I was surprised to feel a new kind of heat roll through my body. I groaned, wanting to pull away and push toward him at the same time.
Sweat dripped into my eyes as he pressed harder and then into me, just a little. My mouth was open now, and all I could do was gasp at the sensual passion that burned through me. It mixed with my shame and my desire to form something more powerful than I had ever experienced before.
"You like that, don't you Beth?" he said, his own voice a barely-controlled growl now.
All I could offer was a whimper.
"Good girl."
He removed his thumb and sat back away from me, and then stood.
"Go to bed, Beth."
Surprised, I looked up to see him standing over me. I started to stand as well, but he stopped me with a hand on my head again. It was gentle, and I realized that in all of this, he hadn't taken what I thought he wanted. He hadn't just used me and left, the way I figured. In fact, he hadn't really taken anything, except for maybe my pride. So why was he here?
Not taking his hand away, he gently curled his hands into my hair and pulled my head back until I was looking up at him. He studied my eyes, which were begging him to do something, begging him to fuck my pussy and make me cum. The silence between us sparked with tension. After what seemed like forever, he said, "Crawl to the bedroom, Beth."
It was almost too much. He was making me lick his plate, serve him, crawl. Was he just playing, treating me like a dog so that he could enjoy my humiliation? Was he laughing at me, seeing what he could make me do before I crumbled? Showing off his power over me?
I didn't know why, but for some reason I didn't think so. He wasn't hurting me or being cruel. He wasn't just playing, either. There was no lightness in his voice, only concentration. I had never met a man like this before. Of course, I had only met one man before in this way, and he was five years gone now.
The wood chafed my knees as I crawled toward the dark hall and the small bedroom beyond, and I felt his eyes on me the whole way. At the threshold, I noticed for the first time that the sun was riding low in the evening sky. A shiver ran through my body as I wondered what the night would bring.
Until this moment, staring in at my own bedroom from my place on the floor, I had forgotten what a dangerous situation I was in. Sam had ignited a million sensations in me, and I was so busy processing it all that I had lost track of the bigger picture: this man had no right to be in my home, touching me this way.
Even as the thought crossed my mind, though, I knew I didn't want him to leave. Not right now.
"Climb into bed. Lie on your back and grab the headboard," Sam instructed from just behind me. I did as he said, quickly, sighing at the cool sheets and hooking my fingers around the iron rungs above my head. He stood over me, watching.
"Are you going to tie me up again?" I asked, not sure if I should but wanting to know.
"Not unless I have to. You're willing obedience pleases me more than rough bindings."
"Why?" I couldn’t help it. I needed more clues about what was going on here. I was hanging onto my bed, spread before him like a feast, and I didn't understand any of it – not even my own body's wayward reactions. My eyes searched his face, but it gave me nothing in the way of answers.
Instead of answering, he sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked my cheek with his hand. I fought the inexplicable urge to turn my head and kiss it. I could not let down my guard again. I couldn't fall under whatever spell he was weaving.
&nb
sp; It was strange, being so naked and yet so near a fully clothed man. It left me a little off balance, and I suspected that that was why he was doing it. It also underscored the intimacy of the situation, and I felt it down to my toes.
His hand fell to my throat, and his thumb found and stroked the soft, pulsing hollow at its base. My head pressed back into the pillow. It was almost scary, but I was lost anyway. The crawl from the kitchen had only heightened my longing. I didn't know where this was going, but my body was willing, in spite of my brain telling me to find a way out. I was amazed that this was even happening, this schism in my desires.
When he felt lower along the outer cup of my breasts, I arched toward him, pressing myself up off the bed to offer them. I wanted more of those calloused hands on me, more of his hungry gaze, more of everything, until I was bursting with satisfaction.
Tweaking and playing with my hypersensitive nipples, teasing me until I moaned again, he caught my attention and held it with his eyes. I was pinned to the bed and couldn't have looked away if I'd tried.
He smiled when he saw my distress, my craving. His effect on me, after so much flow and ebb, was instantaneous. I said, "Please?"
He didn't answer, but turned on the bed so his hands could roam farther. I squeezed the iron rungs as hard as I could. When he pressed my thighs apart, I could smell my own musky heat. He dipped a finger in, made me gasp, and then held it up to me. "Have you ever tasted yourself, Beth?"
I shook my head, surprised again.
His finger came down and brushed across my lips. "You should."
I opened my mouth and touched the tip of my tongue to my own juices curiously, tasting the creaminess and a hint of salt. I wrapped my lips around his finger and sucked on it. He hissed and then murmured, "Good girl."
When he was done, he stood up and turned toward me, then kicked his boots off. As I watched, he unbuttoned and removed his shirt, then unfastened his pants and let them slide down lean, hairy legs until he could kick them off. When his underwear followed his pants to a corner of the room, he stood and it was my turn to hiss.
Star-Crossed Curves: BBW Erotic Romance Boxed Set Page 47