by July Hall
His jaw dropped. Then he said, his voice strange, “Do I do that a lot?”
“Or a little! Whatever!” She was shivering. She imagined what it would be like if he sat down next to her, took her in his arms, pressed her down to the floor, and… “Am I just the latest in a line?” She hadn’t meant to sound that hurt or that desperate. She tried to be cooler when she added, “I mean, it’d make sense. I wouldn’t be surprised. Right? You’re so…”
He took a step forward. Her heart began to pound even faster. “I’m so what?”
Sandra pressed her lips together. He had to be fishing for compliments or something. Didn’t he know how he looked, tall and lean and powerful? “You know how you are,” she mumbled. “They’ve got to be all over you. Which is fine.” It was anything but fine, but what right did she have to care? “I get it. I do. I just couldn’t be one of them.”
He stepped forward again. “One of them?”
“Yes!” She suddenly felt the sting of humiliation. “I’m not just somebody who…I want more for myself, I deserve better than that.”
His eyes blazed. “I’m not my nephew. I’ve never treated women that way. Do you think he learned that kind of behavior from me? Do you think he’s ever learned anything from me in his entire life?”
His outrage seemed totally genuine, and all of a sudden, the coiled tightness in Sandra’s chest relaxed. The rest of her didn’t. She grew warmer, and it wasn’t because of the fire.
“Oh,” she said softly. “Well, that’s…good.” Was it? Why did it feel like a barrier had just been knocked down, letting her get closer to something she shouldn’t approach?
“What about you?” he said. “And the men who must follow you around.”
She blinked at him. “The men who what?”
Mr. Magister stared down at her as he took one step closer. The closer he stood to the firelight, the more easily she could see the heat in his eyes. “They must,” he said, sounding almost like he was talking to himself. “Looking like you do, the way you hold yourself.”
“Hold myself?” What was that supposed to mean? She’d never held herself in a way that made anybody follow her around, as far as she could recall. Almost the opposite, really—she was the prim and proper young lady, the ice princess. Look, but don’t touch.
Mr. Magister didn’t seem as if he’d heard her. “You’re something out of a fantasy,” he said, his gaze darting all over her as if he wanted to see every detail at once. To her surprise, this didn’t make her fold up more tightly into herself. Instead, she felt herself uncurling, letting go of her knees and turning to face him, letting him see her more fully.
He sucked in a breath, and she could swear his pupils dilated like a cat about to pounce. He took another step forward into the room. She looked up at him and wondered what he saw in her face. She was practically kneeling at his feet.
“Whose fantasy?” she asked.
“Anyone’s,” he rasped. “You’ve got to be, don’t you?”
Sandra was starting to get dizzy. Nothing around her felt real. He couldn’t actually be here, saying all this. She asked, her voice trembling, “What do you fantasize about?”
His eyes widened. Suddenly he looked as he had on the couch, right before he’d kissed her. She gasped. He was scarcely recognizable, cold Mr. Magister, now standing before the firelight and staring at her like he wanted to eat her alive.
She wanted him to. Dear God, she wanted him to do every single depraved thing she’d dreamed about, and more.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he said. “Do you think I’m like whatever other men you’ve…” His hands clenched into fists, relaxed, and then clenched again in a rhythm of control.
Sandra bit her lip. “You’re not like anybody,” she said in a faint voice that didn’t seem to belong to her. “I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re—”
You’re so beautiful and perfect and I want you so much it’s killing me.
The thought stunned her, and she barely managed not to voice it aloud. But it was true. He was standing right in front of her, and if she didn’t have him, she felt like she was going to die.
And her school friends had talked about feeling this way, but they couldn’t have been right. It had to be bullshit. Nobody in the world could ever have wanted anything—anyone—the way she wanted him right now. It didn’t seem possible to feel this way and survive it.
She’d spent her life fighting her instincts. Now look where it had gotten her.
Sandra rose to her feet. She was already getting slick between her legs, and too far gone to be humiliated by it. It was how she felt. There was nothing she could do about it. He watched her, breathing more and more quickly, his hands clenching again.
She didn’t know what to do. Did she have to ask him? How pathetic would that be? But she would, if it would work. She would throw away every scrap of pride she had if he would fuck her to pieces right now on that bed.
“I should go,” he said, so quietly that she almost didn’t hear him. He didn’t seem to have enough breath to speak.
Sandra realized she couldn’t ask. She couldn’t think of a single word to save her life. She had to show him. A tiny whimper escaped her before she could stop it, and then, before she could stop herself, she took hold of her tank top and pulled it over her head, dropping it as she bared herself to him.
He made a noise like someone had just siphoned all the air from his lungs. His jaw dropped. What did he see when he looked at her this way? She wasn’t wearing any fancy lingerie. Without all the trappings, all the ornaments, would he find anything to want?
Shaking, she untied the drawstring on her yoga pants and let them fall to the floor at her feet. She was wearing plain black cotton panties. No satin or lace. Could he want this?
He was perfectly still. She had never seen anyone who held so still. His lips had pulled back a little over his teeth. Why didn’t he move, why didn’t he say something?
There was only one thing left to do. She tugged down her panties, shimmying her hips so that they dropped down to the floor with her pants. There was already a wet spot on them. It wasn’t her fault, she couldn’t help it. She lifted one foot, and then another, stepping away from her clothes, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet.
She had been nude before, many times, but she had never known what it was like to feel absolutely naked. He could see it all now, her tight pink nipples, her stomach, the neat triangle of red hair between her thighs. This was it, this was everything. Could he want this?
Maybe he’d at least kiss her again. That would be amazing, to stand naked and pressed up against him, even if he was still in most of his clothes. Anything would be amazing. Everything would be.
He was looking her up and down, his mouth parted, shoulders rising and falling with his breath. His gaze returned again and again to the thatch of red hair, and she wondered if that was what he wanted, or maybe all he wanted. She took a shaking breath and stammered, “Y-you can—”
He moved so quickly that she never finished her sentence. But he didn’t embrace her or kiss her or anything she might have expected. He went to his knees. He grabbed her buttocks, urged her thighs apart, and leaned in with the most heartfelt moan she’d ever heard.
Then he pushed her lips apart with his thumbs and began to lick.
Sandra immediately rose up on her toes, felt her hips arching toward his mouth, anything to get more of that. She didn’t even mean to, it just happened. “Oh God!” she cried. She had to clutch at his shoulders to stay on her feet. He better have enough strength for both of them, because she couldn’t— “Oh God!”
He wasn’t gentle, didn’t treat her like she was fragile. He went for her. His hands squeezed her ass and held her in place while he devoured her. His mouth seemed to be everywhere at once, kissing and licking her most sensitive places. She heard her voice moaning, like somebody else was doing it.
“More!” she gasped, though how could there be anything more than th
is? But she kept chanting, “More…more…” He dragged the flat of his tongue between her lips, rough and wet, and she cried, “God! Oh, please!”
She didn’t know what to beg for, but he gave it to her anyway. He flicked his tongue over her clit, slid it in a circle around her, then laved her again, again, again, and she came.
Sandra heard herself wail as she convulsed, still pressed to his mouth, thinking that she never wanted to be anywhere else or feel anything but this for the rest of her life. Yet it wasn’t enough. How could it feel so good but not be enough?
Before she could figure it out, he pushed her. She stumbled, nearly falling, but then the backs of her knees hit the mattress and she fell backward onto the bed with a squeak. He didn’t bother getting up off of his knees, just spread her legs even wider and looked at her, open and so wet for him. It wasn’t enough, she hadn’t had nearly enough. She whimpered. Would he fuck her now? She was more than ready. Didn’t he want to?
But instead, he bent back down, pressing his mouth to her once more. He had no mercy, holding her hips so rigidly still that she couldn’t move around. She had to lie back and take it, even though it was too much, it—
He stroked his tongue against her slit. Her toes began to curl.
Surely it was too much—
He moaned and let go of one of her hips, and slid two fingers—those long fingers—inside her. He found the rough, spongy patch there and began to rub it. Sandra’s breathing went hysterical, and he brushed his mouth over her again, barely touching her.
“Oh,” she panted, “oh God, please…”
His eyes fell shut as he placed his mouth on her clit. He took it almost delicately between his lips. Then he began to suck.
She screamed. She heard her voice echo off the walls. He kept moving his fingers and tongue, drawing her orgasm on, never letting her come down. Would she be able to stop? Was she actually going to die here? It was too much, this pleasure was too much for anyone to bear, least of all her—she’d never known it was possible to feel this way, she’d never known—
“I can’t!” she finally sobbed. “No more, I can’t, I…oh my God, oh God!”
“Sandra!” he gasped, sliding his fingers out of her and then kissing her stomach. He kept kissing his way quickly up her body, his beard rough against her skin while she quivered beneath him.
“Oh God,” she whimpered, unable to say anything else even though she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to church. Her throat ached from crying out. “Oh my God.”
“Sandra,” he repeated, as if it were the same thing. He rose to his feet and loomed over her. He slid his hands beneath her back and lifted her like she weighed nothing, hauling her to the middle of the vast mattress. Then he lay next to her and took her back in his arms, kissing her as desperately as if it was the last chance he’d ever get.
Gradually she began to return to herself, though the room still seemed to spin a little. She was shivering. Eventually her muscles began to unlock, and she started to relax. The shock was wearing off. Everything felt so warm now. She still ached between her legs. Outside, the thunder rumbled once more.
He kissed her again, and she found herself sucking on his bottom lip, her eyes falling shut at the salty flavor. So much for the idea that men didn’t like doing that. At least one man did. At least one man liked it and was very, very good at it.
“Do you like how I taste?” she managed. Maybe she was dreaming again. She could say whatever she wanted if she was dreaming.
“Darling,” he choked, pushing his face into her throat. The endearment, so unexpected, lit her up with a new kind of warmth. She sighed in sudden, absolute bliss, and slid her arms around his neck, and then slid one leg over both of his. She had to get as close as she could.
Then she felt his erection pressing against her, stiff and throbbing through his pants, and realized she wasn’t nearly close enough.
He grabbed her hip again. “Wait,” he gasped.
Wait. Not stop. All right, she could wait. She was the one who’d just melted into a puddle, and if he wanted to slow down, she could be patient. “Okay,” she said dreamily. She kissed him, barely brushing his mouth with her lips, just as he’d done between her legs. He gasped. “Whatever you want.”
He made a sound she didn’t recognize. Maybe it was his version of a laugh. It didn’t sound entirely happy, though, and Sandra thought that was just wrong. She’d never felt so good in her life, all thanks to him, and he ought to feel good too. She dragged the pad of her thumb against his chin and then up over his cheek. She liked the texture of the bristles. She was glad, though, that he’d managed not to rub her raw with them in other places.
Very considerate of him, really. Sandra should be considerate of him too. “What do you want?” she asked.
“You. I want you.” His eyes were glazed with need. “Oh God, you’re driving me out of my fucking mind.”
She’d thought she was sated. She was wrong. At his words, Sandra forgot all about being considerate and kissed him again, arching into the glorious heat of his body, wishing so much for his bare skin.
“Out of my mind,” he repeated. His hands cupped her breasts, rough and urgent, and she groaned. “I can’t stop.”
“Don’t stop,” she whimpered, and he lowered his mouth to her breasts, licking and sucking one nipple while he pinched the other with his fingertips. “Oh God.” He sucked more strongly. “Oh, yes!”
“I can’t stop,” he repeated, moving to her other breast. He’d already teased the nipple until it was unbearably sensitive, and at the hot lick of his tongue, she cried out. He did it again and again, and yet she pleaded more, more. How could she ever get enough?
He slid his hand between their bodies again, back between her thighs. “You’re so wet,” he panted.
“You made me come,” she said, dimly aware that she’d abandoned any filter between her brain and her mouth long ago. “I came so hard. I’ve never come so hard.”
“You…oh my God.” He sank two fingers back inside her. She gasped. “Jesus Christ. Do it again.”
“I can’t,” she said, even as he began to press his thumb to one side of her clit, which was so sensitive now that she couldn’t bear a direct touch. How had he known? “Oh! I can’t…I can’t…”
“Come for me,” he gasped into her hair. His words made her arch against his hand with a wail. “I don’t sleep anymore. You’re all I think about. Do it again!”
How could she? She’d never been so overwhelmed with sensation. It was too much. She couldn’t get enough. She spread her legs even wider and begged, “More!”
He gave it to her, moaning and rubbing the pad of his thumb around her clit, never quite touching it. It was perfect. She let go yet again, crying out in release. Then she melted back into the bed. Her whole body quivered. Maybe she really was about to faint.
“Do you know how you look?” he said, his voice so rough it no longer sounded like him. “Do you know what you do to me?” He rose to his knees over her, and his hands went to his belt buckle. “What have you done to me?”
Sandra didn’t know what to say. Her words had deserted her again. She was still trembling in reaction, half-convinced this wasn’t real. That didn’t seem to matter. Whether this was a dream or not, Charles Magister was about to fuck her, and…
“I want you,” she whispered. For a moment, he stilled, staring down at her. “Please, I want you now. Please?”
He didn’t speak. Instead he tore open his belt and tossed it away from the bed before unzipping his pants. The whole time, he looked down into her eyes, his breath ragged in his chest. His eyes were so green, and how could she have ever thought they were cold? They burned, and she had never seen anything so beautiful.
“Please,” she repeated, splayed before him like an offering. “A-anything you want, just, anything you want…”
“You’ve driven me mad,” he gasped, shoving his pants down his thighs. “I’m out of my mind!”
She
had about one second to look down and realize that she had not expected the size of him before he was on her, pushing inside with a savage groan.
She clutched at his back, squeezing her eyes shut as he drove in to the hilt. Too much, and so fast— “Ah!”
He froze at that and then held rigidly still. “Did I hurt you?”
Had he? She couldn’t tell. There was no pain, but she was so full, and he was so hot inside her. She kept her eyes closed.
“Sandra,” he rasped, cradling her face in his hands. He kissed her cheeks and repeated, “Did I hurt you?”
“B-big,” she whimpered, trying to think, unable to. She could only hold on to him. “Oh God. You’re inside me.”
He shuddered, and pressed a long, hot kiss to her forehead. “Yes.”
She managed to breathe, in and then out, steadying herself. It helped, and when she realized how tense she was all over, she took another deep breath and relaxed.
And then it felt amazing.
She closed her eyes and released a long sigh, getting used to the feel of him inside her, reveling in it. It was just right. Everything she wanted. Absolute perfection.
“Oh God,” she breathed again, and slid her hands up and down his back, creasing the heavy cotton of his dress shirt. “How does it feel?”
“It…it feels…oh, fuck.” He fisted his hands in the duvet, and pressed his face against her throat again. His lips moved against her skin when he said, “If…if you need me to stop, I’ll…”
The hell he would. That thought better not ever cross his mind again. Sandra sighed again, tilted her hips, and wrapped her legs around his waist, letting him slide even farther inside.
“Christ!” he cried. Deliberately, she clenched herself, squeezing him in a slow rhythm that sent waves of pleasure through her own body. “Sandra!”
“You feel so good,” she murmured in his ear. “Oh, you feel better than anything.” She clenched again. His hips jerked. “H-how do I feel?”
“Silk,” he choked. “Silk…hot and wet…” He began to kiss her throat. He sounded almost delirious. “More than I imagined—more than I could ever dream—”