Owning Violet

by Monica Murphy

  “Like this?” I say just before I exhale along her neck. The whimper that escapes her makes my dick hard and I chuckle, loving every moment. I wield power over this woman and it’s a heady feeling. With Pilar, sex always felt like a battle. With other women, it felt like me using their bodies for my selfish pleasure, and then I’d discard them like yesterday’s trash.

  But with Violet, it feels like … more. Like I want to use and keep and possess and mark and fuck until I can’t see straight. She consumes me. Confuses me. Exhilarates me.

  I hate it.

  I want more of it. More of her.

  She settles her hands on my shoulders as if she needs to hold on for fear she’ll slip to the floor, her fingers gripping me tight. “Just like that,” she whispers as she tilts her head to the side, giving me better access.

  “Is that all you want?” I brush my nose against her neck, along her ear. She’s wearing her hair down, the long, wavy strands tickling my face, and I breathe deep the scent of her shampoo, soaking it in. “Or do you want more?”

  “More,” she says without hesitation. “So much more.”

  “We’ve hardly done anything,” I tell her, which is the truth.

  “I know.” And I can tell she mourns that fact. “But we can’t do anything here. Anyone could find us.”

  “I doubt that.” I kiss her, just behind her ear, letting my lips linger before I dart out my tongue to lick at her skin. A shiver moves through her and she tightens her fingers around my shoulders. “I’d give anything to have you sprawled naked on that table,” I whisper. “Your legs spread wide open so I can see just how wet you are for me.”

  “Oh God.” She swallows so hard I hear it, and then her hands are scrambling, shoving my suit jacket off my shoulders, down my arms, so I shake it off my arms and let it drop to the floor. “I want to see you.”

  I haven’t stood naked in front of this woman yet and when I do, she’s in for a big surprise. But I’m not going to strip completely now. I’m not going to take that big of a risk. “Not yet,” I tell her, stepping away from her eager hands. “Have patience.”

  She adjusts herself so she’s sitting on the edge of the conference table, pushing the chairs on either side of her away before she braces her hands on the edge of the marble tabletop. The lusty glow in her eyes is unmistakable, and I wonder if she gets as overcome as I do every time we’re in each other’s presence.

  I’m going to guess by the way she’s behaving that’s a yes.

  Crossing her legs, the skirt of her dress rides up, offering me a tantalizing glimpse of her slender thighs. She notices where my gaze drops and she hikes up her skirt farther, practically to her hips.

  “What are you doing?” I ask amusedly.

  “Offering myself to you,” she answers with no shame. She is definitely acting like a woman possessed and I fucking love it. “You said you wanted to get me naked on the table …”

  “Violet.” The stern note in my voice makes her pause in her movements, her eyes going wide. “I’m not going to fuck you for the first time in this room, on that table.”

  She looks downright disappointed, my newfound little hussy. “But I thought …”

  “I’d love to see you naked on the table, most definitely,” I continue, cutting her off. “But I want to watch you while you …”

  “While I what?” she asks eagerly.

  “Touch yourself.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Violet

  He did not just ask me to do that … did he?

  Oh yes. He did.

  “Ryder …” I shake my head, not sure how I can say this. I have never in my life masturbated in front of a man. Not even Zachary, and he was the man I thought I wanted to marry. It never even crossed my mind to share such an incredibly intimate moment like that with someone before.

  “Are you too shy, Violet?” The tone of his voice tells me he doubts I can go through with it. “Such a shame. I would’ve loved to see exactly what you do to yourself to make you come, but I guess I won’t be so lucky.”

  And until I heard that daring tone, his slightly condescending words, I would have said there was no way it could ever happen. Not with what played out between us earlier and how angry he made me. Then with the awful news Father delivered to me, which I still haven’t fully absorbed, and the gossip that surrounds me, all of it. I’ve had an exhausting day. One I’d rather forget about altogether.

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to just let go?” he asks in that same daring tone.

  No. I never have. Not until he suggested it. When I’m with Ryder, it’s as if I forget myself. Lose my inhibitions, lose all coherent thought, and all I can do is feel. All I want to do is feel. Feel him. His hands all over me, his mouth on mine, his lips wrapped around my nipple, his tongue licking against my …

  “I’m not going to judge your performance,” he says. “Think of this as a gift … for yourself.”

  I frown at him, confused.

  “And a gift for me,” he adds with a small smile.

  His words make me realize that touching myself for Ryder, sharing this very intimate act with him, could bring us closer. Could also bring me strength, something I desperately need right now, what with everything else going on in my life.

  I hop off the edge of the table and turn so my back is to him. Holding up my hair away from my neck and back, I ask from over my shoulder, “Unzip, please?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t say anything, either, and I wonder if he’s preparing himself to be disappointed in me. That my self-consciousness is still determined to defeat me drives me crazy.

  I’m going to relish proving him—and myself—wrong.

  His warm fingers tug the zipper of my dress down until it stops just at my lower back and he reaches up, skimming his fingers along my exposed skin. I close my eyes and waver on my feet, letting the overwhelming lust I have for this man take over me. His touch feels so good, his nearness, the sound of his breathing, the scent of his cologne … it’s all too much.

  Yet not even close to being enough.

  “Thank you,” I whisper as I let my hair fall down my back. I open my eyes and stare straight ahead. A little shocked, but my determination wins out and I’m about to shrug out of my dress when he stops me, pushing my hair to the side so he can press his mouth to the back of my neck. His lips are warm and damp and they move across my nape slowly. Seductively. He licks me with his tongue, bites the side of my neck with his sharp teeth, and a shaky breath leaves me at the sting of pain.

  I don’t want him to ever stop. I’m addicted to his touch, his mouth, his words. The way he commands me, the demands he makes of me. He makes me feel like I’m someone else. A better, stronger version of myself.

  “Take the dress off, Violet,” he whispers against my neck and I shrug out of it, letting the sleeves fall from my arms and the top drop to my waist, before I shove it from my hips and the beautiful white dress I wore purposely today falls to the floor in a delicate heap at my feet. I step out of it just as I feel his hands brush against the center of my back, his nimble fingers quickly undoing the clasp of my bra.

  The nude lace and satin cups loosen around my breasts and his hands rest on my shoulders for the briefest moment before he’s pushing at the lacy straps so they drop halfway down my arms. The bra falls away, fluttering to the floor to join the dress, and when he settles his hands on my hips, I know what he’s going to do.

  He’s undressing me. Slowly. Carefully, with very few words, with hardly a sound. His strong fingers curl into the lace waistband of my panties and he tugs, drawing the silky fabric down, past my backside, exposing me to his gaze.

  “Beautiful,” he whispers as he bends slightly to tug my underwear down my thighs. His fingers brush against my sensitive skin and a little sigh escapes me when I feel myself go damp and fluttery in anticipation.

  I want him. I want him to touch me, want his sure fingers to plunge inside my body, his lips and tongue taking me straight to
oblivion. I want his hands to grip my hips so hard he leaves bruises. I want him to make me come so hard I see stars …

  But he doesn’t want that. He’s demanding something else from me. Something I want to give.

  No matter how much it frightens me.

  When there’s no more clothing for me to remove from my body he turns me around, his hands firm on my shoulders, his gaze direct on my face. He doesn’t look down, as if he’s afraid somehow he’ll offend me, when I want nothing more than his heated gaze on my skin, on the most intimate parts of me. The parts Zachary and the other men I’ve been with never really seemed to see.

  This man may be using me, but he sees me. Every single thing that makes me who I am, he notices. And he wants to see more.

  “Take off the shoes,” he says, and I kick them off, settling to my rather average height of five-foot-four. He towers over me completely since he’s well over six feet, and I keep my eyes trained on his, feeling a calming sense of compliance settle over me. I’m letting him be in control and I like it. Prefer it.

  “Now I want you to lie on the table,” he says, his voice like velvet as he commands me. “Completely back.”

  I do as he says as he goes to the door, turning the lock into place with a loud snick. A sharp gasp escapes me when my bare butt makes contact with the marble table and I shiver.

  “Tell me what you’re feeling,” he says as he comes back toward the table.

  “It’s cold against my skin, the marble,” I say as I lie down just as he told me to do, my shoulder blades sharp and awkward against the solid surface. My hair spills out everywhere, the marble uncomfortable beneath my head, and I adjust myself as best I can.

  “I’m sure.” He sounds amused. Of course, he would be. “Spread your legs, Violet.”

  I widen them without hesitation, savoring the strangled sound he makes when I do. He must see how wet I am, how much I want him. I can smell myself, the heady scent of my sex filling the room, and my skin tingles in anticipation of what I’m about to do.

  “Scoot backwards,” he urges, getting me into position so he can see me better, I presume. “Bend your legs at the knees.”

  He settles into a chair right in front of me, and I prop myself on my elbows so I can see him. The lascivious expression on his face as he studies me between my legs fills me with such power I almost feel dizzy. He wants me. He wants to touch me.

  But he won’t.

  “Are you brave enough to do it?” he asks as he leans back in his chair, his startling blue gaze meeting mine. “Or will you chicken out?”

  He knows just what to say to both infuriate me and make me want to prove him wrong. “Watch and see,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as nervous as I feel.

  I push the nerves aside and lie completely flat against the table, giving up on getting comfortable. I stare up at the ceiling and blow out a long, steadying breath, close my eyes, and count to five.

  Showtime.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I touch my breasts, cup their heavy weight in my palms, brushing my thumbs over my nipples. Once, twice, feeling them harden. I don’t say a word and neither does he, and I’m fine with that. More than fine with that, because I don’t want to say something stupid and ruin the moment.

  I pinch one nipple lightly between my thumb and index finger, biting my lip to keep the little moan from escaping me when I feel the pleasurable pain shoot through me, and he notices. He notices everything.

  “Don’t hold back,” he murmurs in encouragement. “I want to hear you.”

  Ah God, he says things like that and I want to attack him. Demand that he be the one who brings me pleasure, not my own fingers.

  But there’s pleasure to be found by letting him watch and I remember that, envisioning his handsome face captivated with me touching my breasts, circling my nipples, pinching them both at the same time so that the sharp gasp that fills the room is completely unrestrained.

  I run my hands along my waist and hips, across my stomach, the light touch of my fingertips making goose bumps rise. A click sounds and a rush of cool air from the vents in the ceiling bathes my skin, making me shiver, making my nipples harden almost painfully, and I soothe them with my warm palms, clasping my hands over my breasts for a moment.

  “Cold?” he asks.

  I nod but say nothing, dropping my hands from my breasts and resting them on top of my thighs. My heart is racing so hard I swear he can probably see it pound against my chest, and I press my lips together, searching for the strength to finish this.

  Can I do it? Touch myself in front of him, do all the little tricks I know to bring myself to orgasm? It’s never as satisfying with my own hand, not usually. More like a quick relief, a way for me to release some tension before I go to sleep. A vibrator brings me the longer, fuller body orgasms, yet compared to Ryder’s mouth? His fingers?

  They’re in a league all their own.

  “Touch yourself.”

  His voice urges me on and I slide my hands to my inner thighs and stroke languidly, teasing myself. That’s half the buildup, the tease. The quick, featherlike strokes, the barely there caresses, all of it increases the throb between my legs until it’s all I can focus on, and I let my right hand drift until my fingers graze the thin strip of pubic hair that covers my mound.

  My body jerks at first touch, and I’m shocked that I can elicit such a reaction out of myself. That usually only happens when someone else touches me, not by my own hand …

  I’m spread wide open, so there’s no being coy here. I touch myself blatantly, streaking my fingers down my wet center, pressing my finger into the middle of my folds. They’re slick with my juices, I can hear my fingers as I search myself, circling my fingertips lightly, stroking over my clit.

  “Jesus, you’re wet,” he says, his voice hoarse.

  Triumph surges through me and I arch my back, eager to give him more of a show. He sounds as if he’s in absolute agony and I love it. Thrive on it. I prop my feet flat on the table and thrust a finger deep inside my body, then two fingers, but that’s not what really gets me off. I’m doing this for his benefit. I’m putting on a show just for him.

  “Do you like that?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious. “Fucking yourself with your fingers?”

  “I’d rather have your fingers inside me,” I tell him breathlessly.

  “I’m sure.” His voice deepens and I hear the chair creak as he shifts. “Show me what you like.”

  “I am.” I press my thumb against my clit, remembering how he did the same to me last night, and a tiny but powerful shudder moves through my body.

  “Do you ever touch yourself while you’re alone in bed?” he asks, and I nod my answer. “Then show me how you get off, Violet. Make yourself come for me. That’s what I want to see.”

  I withdraw my fingers from my body and slide them up, over my clit. It’s swollen and tingly, indicating I’m already close, which is like a miracle. It usually takes me long minutes before I’m even near orgasm, but this moment has everything to do with Ryder watching me and nothing else.

  Increasing my pace, I circle my clit again and again, rubbing it faster, feeling the rush rise within me. I squeeze my eyes closed tight and lift my hips, my fingers working furiously over my clit, the sound of my heavy breathing joining with Ryder’s, and then I’m coming. The orgasm wracks my body with uncontrollable shaking and I cry out, the throb and pulse of my clit, of my empty inner walls, making me wish I could experience this climax with him inside of me.

  But I guess I’ll settle for the next best thing. The man himself, sitting in front of me, watching me masturbate.

  This is truly by far the craziest thing I’ve ever done.

  I’m lying on the table with one arm draped over my eyes, trying to catch my breath, when I feel his fingers grip my ankles and his breath tickles my sex. And then his mouth is there, licking and sucking, his lips latching onto my clit, driving me into another orgasm that bolts through me like a streak of lightning, hot and quick
and a flash of white that sends me spiraling completely out of control.

  His mouth leaves my sex and then he’s tugging on my hands, puling me into a sitting position so he can wrap his arms around my waist. I circle his hips with my legs and press against him, feeling his hard, hot length strain against his trousers. He kisses me, his mouth ravaging mine, his lips and tongue tasting like me, and I revel in it. Kiss him hungrily, like I’m starved for him, which I am.

  “That was so fucking hot,” he breathes against my lips. “I couldn’t resist tasting you.”

  I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers in his soft, silky hair as I kiss him slowly. Deeply. “I want you,” I whisper after I break the kiss.

  He moves against me, slow and sensuous, driving me crazy. “How bad?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Ryder thrusts against me again. “Not here. Not now.”

  I withdraw from him completely at his words, letting him see the pout on my face. Frustration replaces my arousal. I don’t want him to deprive me. My body is on fire for him. I just had two orgasms and I still don’t feel satisfied. “Then when?”

  “Soon. Tonight.” He brushes the hair away from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. His beautiful lips are curved in a slight smile and I drink him in, savoring his every handsome feature. I’ve never really looked at him this closely before, but now I don’t hold back. I reach up and touch his cheek, drift my fingers down until I’m caressing the strong line of his jaw, tracing his lips with my index finger, fascinated with what I see, what I feel. His stubble-roughened cheeks scratch and I lean up the slightest bit, settling my mouth on his.

  But he breaks the kiss first, his hands going to my shoulders as if he somehow needs the distance, and I can’t help the hurt that I feel.

  “Why do you push me away?” I hate hearing the sadness in my voice.

  “Because you need to get dressed. What if your father comes looking for you?”

  “He won’t.” I lean in to kiss him again but he presses his fingers against my lips, stopping me.