Forever Him (An Obsessed Novella Book 1)

by Jeanne St. James

  When he reaches around me, I notice he’s reaching for a hair clip sitting on the edge of the tub and I can’t help but wonder why he has it, whose it is. A former wife’s? An old girlfriend’s? Or does he keep them on hand for his coffeehouse conquests? I quickly forget all that as he sweeps my hair up to the top of my head and, with expertise, secures my hair to keep it from getting wet.

  Before I can settle back against his chest to savor the soak, he brushes kisses down the side of my throat and around the bottom curve of my neck. I shiver fiercely. My nipples pebble painfully and the dusky pink peaks float just at the surface.

  “Is the water too cold?”

  “No,” I assure him. It’s he who gives me the goosebumps, not the temperature of the water. But the sight of my own breasts floating makes me slide slippery hands around them, cupping them, lifting, thumbing my own nipples. I lean back with my eyes closed as I play with myself. I know he’s watching because he’s still, quiet, only the sound of his breathing fills my ears. His cock is firm between us, growing quickly to its full girth and length. I wiggle back until I’m tight against him, his erection trapped between us.

  “You touching yourself is a spectacular sight, Lila.”

  I play the game of innocent as I tilt my head, give him a light laugh, and say, “Is it?”

  I pinch both nipples between my fingers and give them a little twist, crying out softly at my own actions. It feels like there is a direct line from the tips of my breasts to my pussy and I squirm a little against the smooth bottom of the tub. I squeeze my thighs together tightly because I want to come and I know it won’t take much to get me there.

  “Where else do you touch yourself, Lila?”

  “Everywhere,” I whisper, swallowing hard and leaning my head back against his collarbone. I lick my lips and inhale deeply as I feel my core burn hot for him.

  “Show me,” he says against the damp skin of my shoulder.

  I continue to cup one breast while I dip my other hand under the water. I push my legs wider to make room and slide my hand into the apex of my thighs.

  “Show me,” he says again, his voice low and raw.

  My lips part and a rush of air escapes me as I separate my plump folds and find my center.

  “That’s it, Lila. Come for me,” he urges softly, his voice in my ear an aphrodisiac I never knew could exist.

  I press and circle my clit until my hips jump and I finally slide two fingers inside myself with a gasp. With a last pinch to my nipple, I drop my other hand to assist. I play with my clit and I fuck myself, my hips dancing between his thighs. His chest now rises and falls at a quicker pace against my back and with a groan, he grips both of my nipples and twists them roughly. I cry out, arching my back. He pulls, pinches, and tweaks them with no mercy as I increase the pace of my hand, my fingers below the water. Waves rock back and forth, splashing over the edge of the tub and onto the tile floor. My breathing becomes short, ragged, and I move at a frantic pace. I’m right there, so close. I squeeze my eyes shut, concentrating on what his fingers—and mine—are doing.

  He’s whispering my name over and over. “Come for me, Lila. Come for me.”

  An explosive curse escapes me as my hips shoot up and almost out of the water. My core clenches with a ferocity I’m not expecting, causing my toes to curl, and my eyes to roll. I slam myself back into Kane and he takes the brunt of my action with a grunt.

  I don’t even pause to enjoy the afterglow of the orgasm. Before the sloshing of the water even slows, I’m twisting in the tub to face him and I impale myself on his erection before he can stop me.

  “Lila,” he cries out, stiffening, grabbing my hips with a grip that will leave marks. He holds me still and closes his eyes for a moment, fighting an internal battle. “No,” he moans as he opens his eyes and looks at me darkly. “No.”

  “Yes,” I tell him, not breaking his gaze. I pry his tight fingers out of my flesh and begin to move. I rock against him, my clit brushing against his pelvis as I work him in and out of me.

  His head falls back and his eyes shut as he tenses beneath me, fighting the urge to just let go.

  “Kane, Kane, you feel so good inside me. You fill me. You… complete me.”

  His eyes pop open and he levels his gaze at me. Something has switched inside him. He watches me with an intensity that coaxes another shiver through me. The tight buds of my breasts brushing against his warm, wet skin, sliding up and down as I move.

  “What are you doing to me?”

  Making you mine.

  Before I can answer, he sinks his teeth into my neck and cries out against my damp skin. His hands find my waist and he holds me down as his hips rise. We grind together, unable to get any closer, though we try. And when I feel the strong pulses at the base of his cock, I come with him over the edge, until we both drown in each other.

  And when it’s over, I lay my head against his chest and he circles his arms around me, holding me close as our breathing calms, our thoughts return, and we realize the bath water is cooling and forcing us out and off of each other.

  Chapter Six

  I am being punished because I’ve been bad. I took advantage of Kane’s momentary weakness and we fucked without a condom. And now I must pay.

  Once again, I find my arms stretched over my head, but this time I’m not on the bed. Oh, no. The soft ropes now hold my wrists overhead. My toes barely reach the carpet, but they do. And my world is currently dark.

  Very, very dark.

  Of course Kane owns a real blindfold and doesn’t have to use a makeshift one. It covers my eyes completely, and it isn’t going anywhere. The air shifts as he circles me, probably contemplating on what my penance will be.

  I don’t fear whatever he’ll mete out. I certainly don’t worry. Instead, I look forward to whatever plan he contrives.

  More firsts, no doubt.

  And more fodder for my books. Not to mention, my fertile imagination.

  Something light sweeps across my ribs and over my belly. A feather, possibly, as it tickles along my skin. A brush here, a brush there. Over the hard points of my nipples, along the outer curves of my breasts. A brief touch to my lips, a stroke down my cheek. The only way I can describe it is titillating as he outlines the silhouette of my curves. From the top of my head all the way to my toes. If he missed an inch, I’d be surprised. I picture him in my mind’s eye with an oversized peacock feather in brilliant purples, greens, and blues. A blue similar to his fascinating eyes. The lack of sight makes me long to see their exotic color.

  When Kane tied me up, his instructions were that I was not to speak unless spoken to or asked a question. Otherwise, I’d be gagged.

  The blindfold I didn’t mind. The gag I wasn’t sure about, so I agreed.

  Now, as he sweeps the feather along the curves of my back, down the indentation of my spine, he tickles the crease of my ass and I do my damnedest not to giggle. I’m not usually ticklish, but being unable to see, and not knowing what he’ll do next, makes me more sensitive than normal.

  I gasp and he whips me with the feather at my outburst, which makes me want to giggle even more, so I bite my lower lip to prevent it. A feather whipping is the biggest oxymoron I can think of. It's no worse than a fly landing on me, though it actually feels so much better.

  “Lila, the feather is only the beginning, remember that,” his deep voice warns.

  Sure, sure. What’s next? A silk scarf?

  However, I suddenly become serious when I imagine that a piece of silk sliding against my bare skin would feel very, very erotic. And now the joke is on me because I want that. It makes me ready for him to move on from the light teasing of the feather.

  His warm lips press against the top of my spine and then he’s gone.

  My ears strain to hear his movements, to figure out what he’s doing, to discover what’s next. But his footsteps retreat out of the room.

  Damn. He’s left me alone suspended in the center of his bedroom. I tiptoe myself
around and turn my body to face the door. I’m tempted to call out to him, but remind myself that he very firmly told me to stay quiet.

  So I do.

  I can honestly say I’ve never taken orders from a man before, not even my father, but Kane is no typical man. And, because of that, I fear I’d do anything he’d command. My intent was to make him mine forever. I am starting to believe he’s quickly turning the tables.

  My ears perk as his long strides eat up the real estate between him and I. A clinking in a glass catches my attention. Maybe he’s thirsty since it’s been a busy day.

  I no longer know the actual time, but my body clock tells me it is at least late afternoon. The cup of coffee he offered me earlier now seems a lifetime ago.

  I sense him standing in front of me. I hear him breathing. I imagine him smiling with anticipation of what he’ll do next.

  And what he does makes me scream in shock.

  Cold. Burning cold makes me shudder. Kane swirls what can only be an ice cube in patterns over my skin, leaving a trail of moisture in its wake. I shiver again as my nipples become so erect it makes my breasts ache. And he hasn’t even touched them yet.

  He runs the ice over my belly and down to the apex of my thighs. He teases my clit with the slippery cube and he slides it between my hot folds. It melts to a sliver in his fingertips and I’m almost relieved it’s gone.

  Another clink and I groan, waiting for him to start again. He steps behind me and slides the ice cube down my back, over my buttocks, down my thighs, and then back up. He presses it against my clenched anus and holds it there until it melts completely.

  Another clink and I jump as he cups my breasts, expecting the biting cold against my skin. But it’s not there and I wonder what he’s up to.

  And when his mouth takes my nipple, I wonder no more. The combination of the cold cube and my flesh on his tongue sends a shock-wave through me. I shudder violently and moan. The sensation feels extraordinary but I both hate and love it at the same time.

  He sucks one nipple then the other, replacing the ice cube in his mouth when needed, until the tips of my nipples become practically numb. But as the last cube fades away, his mouth becomes hot, greedy, and he pinches, licks, and sucks me until I’m flushed, squirming, and biting my lip to keep from crying out.

  When his teeth scrape each hard tip, I can’t hold back any longer. I release a sound of frustration, but no words. I haven’t broken the rule. Not yet, anyway.

  But maybe I should…

  I’m curious on what the punishment would be for breaking a rule during… punishment.

  Maybe Kane with a K owns a cane with a C. I tremble at the thought. And as I imagine him lightly caning my back, the globes of my ass, my breasts, my core clenches fiercely in an orgasm. How can that be?

  “Fuck, I just came,” I cry out and then gasp at my outburst. Shit.

  As he pulls away from me, my mind races with all the things he may do. Nipple clamps, whipping, paddling, gagging… I run out of options because compared to Kane, I’m so vanilla. I don’t even know everything involved in kinky play.

  Or he could dole out the worst punishment I can think of… refusing to touch me at all.

  The last I could not bear. I will die without his touch. I will wither up into nothing and blow away like dust in the wind.

  I want to apologize for breaking his rule, but I don’t want to speak out of turn and make it worse. I wait for him to say something, anything, so I can respond. But he doesn’t. I wish I could see his face, to judge his thoughts and mood, but I only see darkness.

  If I tell him to stop, he will release me and remove the blindfold and I’d be able to drop to my knees to beg his forgiveness. But if I do that, he may very well steal the last part of me I’m keeping to myself, what I’m still holding onto tightly…

  My free will.

  Whenever he releases me from the ropes, I will want the power to walk away. Though I may not do it, I still want the choice.

  However, he’s supposed to belong to me. Not the other way around. I admit to myself that my powers of seduction must be severely lacking. The truth is, I’m the one held enthralled, not him.

  He’s good. He knows what he’s doing. Me, apparently not so much.

  I hear him move through the room, opening and shutting a door, and I hang there hardly breathing, my ears straining in an attempt to figure out his intent. My mind races at the possibilities.

  But I could have never thought of what he does to me. Something cups my pussy. Not his hand. Something plastic with a rubber edge and shaped similar to an oxygen mask. He seats whatever it is tightly to my flesh, and then I hear a pumping sound—manual, not electric—and the air extracts from the cup around my mound. My skin tightens and my lips swell as if they’re being pulled through a tight tube, though that’s not exactly right. The more he pumps the plumper my pussy becomes, the wetter I become, the more sensitive my clit becomes.

  If this is punishment, I’ll take it any day.

  I could consider my chastisement as him not having his fingers or mouth on me and just an impersonal piece of plastic. But the blood rushes to the surface of my skin as he pumps two more times and my flesh fills the cup. I feel and hear him unhook something—what I can only imagine is the tube and hand pump—and he disappears.

  Literally disappears.

  Out of the room. Gone. Not a word, not a whisper. Nothing. If I thought my mind was spinning before, it’s now out of control like a Tilt-A-Wheel. My shoulders now ache from being stretched overhead and my pussy throbs fiercely with each heartbeat. And I hear nothing but silence.

  He could invite in the mailman and there would be nothing I could do about it. He could take photos of me in this vulnerable position and post them all over the Internet. Or email them to my parents. He could be on the phone right this moment inviting a friend over to fuck me while he watches. Or, hell, a dozen friends.

  Or he could be gathering sheets of plastic and his serial killer tool bag. And this might be the last I’m ever heard from again. Disappointment rushes through me at the thought I might never finish the book series I was working on this morning in the coffee shop.

  Then I snort at my ridiculous notions. But it’s true that my arms are getting tired and my pussy continues to get plumper within the confines of the contraption.

  Seconds seem like minutes, minutes like hours. Even though there isn’t an analog clock in the room, I hear an imagined ticking in my head as time slowly moves forward. When I’m about to give in and call out to him, he returns.

  “Thirsty?” he asks.

  He asked so I'm allowed to answer. “Yes.” My voice sounds rough and raw. And before I can say more, I feel the press of a glass to my lips. Ice water flows down my throat and moistens my dry mouth.

  “This will be my last reminder, Lila, that you can say stop at any time.”

  Once he lowers the glass, I shake my head. I say, “No,” and envision a look of satisfaction and pride crossing his face.

  “I want you to enjoy and appreciate everything I do to you.”

  “I am. I do,” I reassure him. “But I’m ready to be released.”

  “Are you asking or telling?”

  I think only for a second. “Asking.”

  “Then I need you to stay up there just a little longer. I’m certain you’ll find it worth your while.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” And I realize I just did.

  He hesitates before responding. “Yes.”

  “Would you ever let me do these things to you?”

  Again, a pause, but longer this time. I start to think he won't answer when he does. “That would have to be negotiated. And, no matter what, I would need to school you on techniques first,” came his low answer. Even though I can’t see him, the sudden deeper pitch in his voice most likely matches the darkening of his eyes. I wonder what excites him more. The possibility of allowing me to do these sorts of things to him? Or the idea of him “schooling” me?

>   He runs a finger around the seal of the plastic contraption to break the suction and, if it were possible, my skin practically sighs with relief.

  But even so, my folds remain swollen with every nerve ending alive and jumping.

  “So luscious, Lila. You should see yourself. Beautifully plump and pink, shiny with your arousal.”

  He holds my hips as he sinks to his knees before me and slides his hands around to my buttocks and down the backs of my thighs. And, not expecting it, I squeal when he yanks me off of my feet. For a moment, almost all of my weight hangs from my extended arms. But before I can protest, he hooks my legs over his shoulders and takes the majority of my weight.

  I cry out as his mouth finds me, and there’s no mistaking the benefit of that pussy pump. I twitch at each stroke of his tongue on my clit, each lick along my labia. He sucks at my sensitive nub and I quickly climax with a gasp. But he doesn’t let up, he continues sucking and licking, nipping and scraping, and his fingers slide around back to my ass. He separates my cheeks and plays along my crease, teasing my hole. And I can’t take anymore.

  I can’t take anymore.

  No more.

  I yank at the ropes, wishing I could cup my own breasts, pinch my own nipples. And a strange mixture of frustration and satisfaction floods through me. Frustration at what he’s not doing, satisfaction at what he is.

  However, I know he can’t be everywhere at once. This is where my own two hands could come in use, or even a friend of his. With that, my brain comes to a screeching halt at the latter. Ms. Vanilla is thinking very non-vanilla thoughts.

  My smile turns into a grimace as his fingers play along my cleft and find their way inside me. Not just the two fingers in the front, but his pinky slides into my rear. And he works me into a frenzy, his mouth tight on my nub as he works his digits in and out of me without caution, without any sense of gentleness.