Deceiver

by Robin Lovett

  Like if she had her choice, that’s the first thing she would do. With me standing over her, her eyes drift down to where I’m past hard and turning to steel.

  Maybe I’ll let her—in this one thing—get what she wants, though not in the way she’ll expect it.

  “What are you going to do to me?” she whispers, her words catching against her rasping breath.

  For an answer, I wave her closer with my hand.

  She gets on her knees and comes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My gaze shifts from his eyes, hard with a merciless desire, to his cock, standing before me like a weapon aching to be unsheathed.

  But I dare not move. To provoke him further. I meant to play with him with my lotion striptease, but hadn’t counted on the intensity of his response.

  His eyes tell it all—how badly he wants me. To see it calls to an arousal in me that I didn’t know was there.

  And to learn it—I’m whimpering with the need for it.

  It’s like, if he conjures the desire, if it comes from him, I have to have it. I have to take all of who he is into me. My body, my whole self, will settle for nothing less than the totality of him.

  Sitting, watching, waiting for him to tell me what to do, is a torture I’m eager to bring to an end. Though, going by his eyes, it’s only the beginning of the torture he intends to enact.

  I am willing.

  He beckons me with his hand and I want to cry in gratitude, but I don’t dare make a sound. He has the power to change his mind and refuse me—and I couldn’t bear it.

  On my knees, I inch closer to him until he tells me to stop. My eyes come level with his cock, and I salivate. He knows what I want, I beg for it silently. I wonder if he’ll let me have it, just this once.

  He strokes my forehead, my cheek, and sinks his fingers into my hair. He tilts my head up to him and strokes my lips with his thumb.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  I could scream, that after all this he still feels the need to ask—but maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe with my explicit permission it will free him to release all restraint with me—which I want even more than the taste of his cock in my mouth.

  “Yes,” I drawl, using as much of my voice as I can with my gasping breath.

  He nods and glances at his groin then back at my eyes.

  I have to press his cock up and to the side to get his shorts unbuttoned, but once he’s free—before my eyes—the protruding length invades my vision. All I can think of is wanting that inside me, that moving in me, thrusting into my core with everything he has to give. Of wanting him in my mouth as far down as he’ll go, wanting all my words and communications stopped by his cock in my throat.

  I push the shorts down and off his feet. He stands before me a naked god of temptation. But I wait, knowing how he likes to dictate, knowing how I like him to control this. It’ll be like in the shower, his hands controlling my head while he ruthlessly fucks my mouth.

  He holds my hair and with his thumb nudges my mouth open, I release my jaw, hoping he’ll let me suck on him now.

  “Stay open,” he orders, and holding himself in one hand, my chin in the other, he rests the head of his cock on my tongue—only the head.

  I clench my jaw, instinctively wanting to wrap my lips around him.

  “No.” He squeezes my jaw open again. “Not till I say.”

  He rubs over my tongue, sliding back and forth. I brave a move with my tongue, circling him, licking him. “That’s it,” he praises. “I want to see what you do. You made it so fucking good last time and I’ve got to know what it is.”

  Keeping my jaw as wide as I can, I show him what I do to him with my tongue, swiping across the tip then tracing the rim. He moans encouragement, and I almost forget his order and close my mouth around him.

  “Uh-uh,” he scolds, holding my jaw open.

  My throat is so open, my mouth empty and waiting for him. I’ve never felt like my mouth was empty before—like my mouth was dissatisfied. It’s beyond a hunger for a meal—it’s an insatiable need to be filled. I offer it to him, and he won’t take it.

  Little cries seep from my throat. I move my tongue over him, the way he tells me. He lets me lick the length of him, but the need to have him filling my mouth—to have him accept my offering—is making my chest ache.

  Without warning, he releases my jaw and thrusts himself into the back of my throat. My lips close on him and I suck, greedily—not moving or pulling back, just breathing around the fullness of him dominating my mouth.

  I turn my gaze up to his, saying what I cannot with words.

  The wind ruffles his hair, the sun beating down on his face, but it doesn’t soften him. It sharpens the angles of his face.

  He pumps his hips, short and slow, gradually accelerating. I hold his eyes for as long as I can, watching him stare back at me with all the brutality I know he’ll be serving me soon. It’s a reminder that this is just the warm-up.

  My knees go weak, and I grasp his legs for balance. He lengthens his strokes and with every one as he pulls from me and re-enters from root to tip, I grow hotter, wetter, my inside swelling, wishing there were more of him. Wishing I could have him in my mouth and between my legs at the same time.

  “Greedy, baby, aren’t you?” He teases, as though he can read my thoughts. “Soon. Soon.” He strokes my face as though to say, if you’re good.

  His rhythm quickens. Harder, faster, groans leaping from his throat. I relish it—him using my mouth, him gleaning all the pleasure he can from me—but an anxiety takes hold. I don’t want him to spend it. I want him to save it.

  I beg with my eyes, Please don’t finish, please. He doesn’t heed me, rather he goes faster, my neck flexing in time with his hips. In my mouth, his cock twitches and pumps.

  I moan around him a nooooooo, expecting his come to flow out onto my tongue.

  But with a loud groan, he stops, closes his eyes and holds my head still.

  I watch him seize control, his forearms tensing, his jaw grinding. But it works. He doesn’t come. He pulls out of my mouth as hard as he was when he entered it.

  I sink backward, on the edge of consciousness, having trouble remembering I am anything other than the woman who wants to be fucked by this man.

  He points to the towel I laid out behind me. “Lay back.”

  I scramble backward, eager to get where he wants me. The sea air brushing over my too-sensitive nipples, caressing my overheated skin.

  He kneels in beside me, grabs the strap of my G-string, and pulls. Not to let it slap back, but to just keep pulling, farther and farther until it snaps.

  His hands brush the strip of fabric away and down my hips, then he stares at me, naked.

  I’m melting. The slowness of him this time—every other time he’s been like a steam engine, full speed ahead, from the time our mouths meet.

  Except our mouths haven’t met yet.

  Maybe that’s the problem.

  More like he’s doing it on purpose. He stares at me as if waiting to see what I’ll do. I squirm beneath his gaze, melting from the inside out. Between my legs, I’m throbbing. I can’t help but touch myself, to press there, to try to ease the ache somehow.

  He grabs my hand and takes it away.

  But to my relief, he sneaks a finger into my fold and circles my clit.

  I fall back, breath heaving, relieved. Except . . .

  I’m not relieved. His finger is a light devastating touch, a wretched tease when his cock is hard and within reach.

  I whimper and try to grab for him.

  He holds down my wrist. “No.”

  “Please, Blake.” He continues his inching, delicate circles that may as well be rakes of nails down my skin for as satisfying as they are. My pulse is screaming through every inch of my skin, my blood simmering through my limbs and flooding where his finger is moving. I’m desperate for sensation—to be overwhelmed with feeling—and all he gives me is his fingertip.

  His g
aze is patient. And vindictive.

  Unable to stop the empty orgasm he’s serving me, my back arches instinctively. Wishing I could stop it, wishing I could keep from coming, to spite him and his torture. “I hate you,” I gasp.

  His lips bend in a malicious smile. “You want to come, right? Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s not—I need more—ah—” I scrunch my face, a brutal groan echoes from my chest. Every muscle in my body tries to reject the climax, but it becomes worse. It tears through me, empty and dissatisfying, but no less brutal and wrenching than every other time he’s made me come.

  I’m limp, eyes closed, breathing with the deck at my back. The sun beats down on me with a warmth that mocks my need to be touched.

  He lays his hands flat on my belly, his palms broad, his fingers gripping my sides. I hold my breath, trying to hide how good it feels for him to touch me, to not reveal how badly I need him to give me more.

  He runs his hands down my torso to my hips, then back up to my breasts, cupping them, kneading them, my nipples grateful for the contact. I lay as still as I can, measuring my breathing, keeping my reaction to myself.

  But then I feel his mouth at mine, and I can’t not react.

  I bury my fingers in his hair and suck on his lips with all the fervor I feel. His measured control falters, his mouth the revealer of what is really going on inside him under his calculated torture of me. As if the hard-on still protruding from his groin wasn’t obvious enough.

  I sneak my hand lower down and grip him. I squeeze and stroke his cock, and he clutches me, bringing my chest to his.

  His control is all an act—it’s always been me who’s really in charge.

  * * *

  The need for control, over her, over myself, fires through my brain, but stronger than my willpower will ever be is my need for this woman.

  Whoever she is, whatever it is about her—I don’t know and I’m not sure I want to know—she breaks me until control is the last thing I want. I want to let go.

  She’s naked in my arms, my hands feast over her skin, touching all of her as much as she begged me before. I should keep it from her, but I can’t even keep it from myself anymore.

  Our tongues fight in the constant battle that rages between us—the one that’s become familiar. A battle I’ve come to crave as much as I crave the victory. But whose victory I want, mine or hers, I don’t know.

  It’s crazy that I could want her to win over me as much as I want to win over her. But both of us cannot win. Or if we can, I don’t know what that looks like.

  Our bare chests meet, and I’m sucked into the gulf of sensation that is her skin against mine. There is no other place where I will find such ecstasy—except touching her. But I need it all, not just her front but her back.

  Releasing her mouth, I flip her over and run my hand over her back, my mouth gnawing at her neck. One arm still cradling her front and her breast, the other roams over her hip and the fleshy cheek of her ass. I dig my fingers into it and rub it. I stare at it—her rounded backside like something out of my most wanted fantasies. The flare of her hips, the strength of her thighs, I want them opened for me.

  Her hand moves over my cock, stoking me, provoking me to give her what she wants. Which is almost the same as what I want, but not quite.

  “Fuck me,” she rasps, turning her mouth to my ear.

  I pull out my wallet and hand her a condom. She accepts it with reverence, like I’ve bestowed a great gift on her, and puts it on me. The tightness of the latex reminds me of not using one last time, and I hope with the extra barrier this time I’ll be able to maintain some rational thought, though it’s fast slipping.

  She reads my thoughts, and likely the greediness of my hands on her ass, and gets on her hands and knees. Her hair brushes off her neck in the breeze, and the sight of her offering herself to me is the end of my reason.

  I spread her. She curves her back, exposing herself to me, swollen and glistening, visibly eager for me.

  I notch into her and grit my teeth. “So tight, so wet,” I rasp, and slide in, inch by inch, too overtaken with the heat of her to go fast. She wraps me like a vise, and I swear she’s squeezing me on my way in—little pulsing spasms, almost like she’s about to come again.

  My hips meet her ass and I pause, forcing myself to breathe. If I don’t, I’ll be done in seconds. I’m still too primed from her mouth—not coming then was a feat of unnatural force. It hurt, it still hurts, but I want to enjoy this.

  She tries to rock forward, to move me inside her, but I grasp her shoulder, holding her ass against my thighs. “Don’t move,” I order.

  She sags her head with a moan but obeys.

  Sweat dots my brow while I try to keep a hold on myself. I know as sure as my cock has disappeared inside her, that soon as I move the rest of me will disappear too. One thrust of my hips, and she will own me body and soul.

  And I realize . . . I’m not sure I care.

  To be owned by this woman, to have my fill of all of her all the time as often as she lets me, would it be so bad? I know in my rational mind panic bells are sounding, but there is no rationality for me while inside her except to feel and be—be who she makes me to be.

  I thrust once, and she cries out yes and more.

  A second time, and I growl. A split happens inside me—a severing, a dissolving of something important, something I used to define myself by, something I don’t need here. So I get rid of it, not caring about the consequences.

  The need to drive into her takes hold of me. The rhythm, the carnal base rhythm, goes off in me like a bullet spinning from a gun.

  I am it. It is me.

  Pound, pound, pound. In. In. In. Again, again, again.

  It swallows me—like she swallows me. There are no lines. This is not some mating ritual. This is a claiming. As sure as she now owns me, I will own her—totally.

  She is mine.

  And no one can say anything about it.

  I rake the insides of her—taking what I want, giving what I need, revealing nothing and everything. There is no part of me that is not immersed in her. There is no part of me that will know how to stop—ever.

  She pushes back into me. Her head goes down, her ass gets higher, every part of her tenses and strains for more, and she cries out again and again—musical cries designed by nature to tell me that everything she needs is all I will ever want.

  It starts—to call it an explosion would be paltry. It’s a remaking. A creation of destruction. An annihilating rebirth. The part of me that was me, she takes away. The part of me that was empty, she fills.

  I awake collapsed over her, lying on her back.

  I have a thought that I must be weighing too heavy on her, but to move would be to remember I’m alive—and I don’t want to.

  I’d rather stay deadened to consciousness and consumed by sensation.

  But she whimpers, and it’s not the sound I expect.

  I shift my weight to my forearms and brush her hair from her ear. “What is it?”

  She mumbles, nonsensically, but I know. I can understand her longings the way I understand myself.

  Confusion strikes me. “But you came.” In all her spasming, tensing, and vocal sounds—she certainly came more than once.

  “Yes, but—but—” She bucks beneath me, like it’s a reflex, something beyond her control.

  She’s not done. She still needs more.

  A possessive instinct to satisfy her takes over, an instinct to satiate her past her desire.

  I know what she needs.

  My limbs still vibrating from my release, I roll her gently to her back. She flinches like her skin is oversensitive, and her legs flail like she’s in agony.

  I make soothing sounds, telling her as well as showing her that I’ll take care of her.

  I hold her thighs for her, spread them, then sink my head between her legs. She tastes of the thickest honey, drenching my cheeks. She’s so fully aroused, her folds so swollen and se
nsitive, one stroke of my tongue has her seething.

  She’s still so open from me, I insert fingers into her with ease, tonguing at her clit with increasing intensity.

  She arches into me. I press my face into her until my tongue would be inside her clit if it could. She holds her breath for so long, I worry she’ll pass out, then the orgasm shakes through her core so hard her whole body spasms around me.

  She gasps like it’s the first breath she’s ever taken. I keep my hand in her until all the aftershocks wear off. I look up to see the most blissed out expression lighting her eyes.

  Our gazes connect and what I thought of before as gratitude in her gaze has morphed to . . .

  I turn away, staring out at the water, willing myself to forget what I just saw.

  When I look back at her, she’s closed her eyes, her breathing slow.

  That tender look in her eyes, it was just the satiated, post-orgasmic high. That’s all.

  It wasn’t anything life-changing.

  Any more than the lift in my chest—one I’ve never felt before—is a transforming thing. No. It’s just sex. Mind-blowing sex.

  That’s all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I sleep in the sun. All afternoon.

  After a few hours—or a few years, I have no idea—I feel his hands on me, covering me with more suntan lotion. I don’t open my eyes or say anything, just feel him caressing my skin with his hands.

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say his touch was loving—but I do know better, so I just pretend. Even when he puts a padded mat on the deck and rolls me onto it. Even when he slides my sunglasses over my eyes.

  Atop the soft cushion, I sleep more, lulled by the salty sea breeze and the gentle rocking of the boat in the current.

  That I could feel safe with him—safe enough to sleep like this—doesn’t cross my mind as strange. Though perhaps it should. That he could fuck me like his life would be over if he didn’t should perhaps alarm me, but it seems so on par with the intensity of my desire for him that it feels normal.

  There’s nothing normal about it—nothing resembling the other sexual experiences I’ve had. Not the way he touches me with sensitivity and desperation. Not the way he gripped my hips when he was inside me, his fingers grasping and holding on for dear life. Or the way he knew what I needed at the end, when even I didn’t know.