by PJ Adams
Another kiss, brief and chaste, if there’s such a thing as a chaste kiss when your man is handcuffed to a bed and you’re leaning over him in gorgeous lingerie.
A brief pressing of lips, then pulling away as he craned his head up for more.
My lips, dragging down his body. Across his chest.
The tiny hardness of a nipple. I parted my lips, flicked that little nub with my tongue, making him tense, gasp.
“Is this what you want? A strong woman? One who will stand up to you. One who will dominate you, and be dominated?”
Swirling my tongue around his belly-button, all too aware of the straining hardness in his pants, now so close to my face.
I kissed my way down, teasing that sensitive area between navel and that hardness. Running a finger along his constrained shaft, as my lips and tongue and teeth worked across the line where his belly hair started to thicken, that tender line between abs and hip that made him twist and squirm at my touch.
I freed his top button, found the zipper, started to ease it down.
Kissing him through the fabric of his shorts, finding the base of his hard shaft, pressing my lips against it, around it, then kissing down, kissing him through his trousers, finding the swollen head of his manhood and pressing my mouth down against it.
Just as he pushed up against me, groaning, wanting me... I pulled away, turned, reached down to untie a shoe, pull it clear, and then the other.
Black socks, they came away easily, and now I had turned fully, straddling him, presenting my ass to him as I leaned down and ran my tongue around a little toe, across its neighbor, working the spaces between them, the sensitive skin beneath.
When I reached the big toe, I sucked it in, swirling my tongue around and across it.
Still sucking on his toes, I reached under myself with one hand, found the waistband of his pants and tugged. They wouldn’t come clear, so I turned again, took his pants and shorts in both hands and slid them down his legs.
His manhood jerked clear, long and hard and now flat up against his belly, reaching way beyond his navel, as I pulled his pants and shorts clear.
“Oh my,” I said, leaning back, kneeling between his spread legs, taking in the sight of his naked, eager body.
Slowly, eyes locked on Will’s, I moved forward, lowering myself. Finally, I pulled my look away from Will’s and glanced down. The veins on his long shaft stood out, pumped, pulsed, and his foreskin was pulled back, exposing the wet, purple head of his manhood.
As I approached him, my hair fell forward like a curtain. I swept it back, and dipped my head, my tongue finding the base of his shaft, pressing down, firmly against it.
§
He started to soften, started to shrink.
I closed my lips around him and pulled upwards, passing his length through my parted lips and then sucking that purple head into my mouth, trying to stir that hardness again.
I looked up the length of his body, confused. Had he been more hurt than I thought in the fight? Was he in pain?
He wasn’t watching me. He was looking past me, across the room, and that’s when I realized that something was seriously amiss.
“Please. Don’t let me interrupt.”
That soft, deep voice, so low I had to strain to make out the words.
I raised my head and Will’s flaccid member plopped out of my mouth and flopped down against his belly. And when I turned my head I saw Maninder standing in the doorway, his face a bloody mess, and his hands poised ready at his sides.
44.
“It was so good of you to secure him,” he said now. “That makes my task so much easier.”
“Don’t do this, Maninder.”
Will, was straining up against his bonds, those eyes locked on Maninder, now.
“Don’t hurt her.”
“I was always there for you,” said Maninder, stepping further into the room, towards us. “I have stood by you, protected you. Protected the family.”
“You can still do that. There’s always a place for you.”
“You see?” Maninder said to me. “He will say whatever it is that he thinks I want to hear. It is meaningless. These are not words that can be trusted.”
“So you protected them when Sally Fielding came back onto the scene?” I said. “Is that what happened?” As I spoke I shuffled backwards to the edge of the bed and then stood and turned to face Maninder. So much more dignified than if I’d remained kneeling over Will’s naked body, presenting my nearly bare ass to our intruder. “Just like you protected them before? Whenever they were threatened?”
He nodded. “That is what I do,” he said. “I have been with the family for more than ten years. I come from a poor immigrant family. My uneducated parents had expected streets paved with gold but only found bricks through windows and dog shit through the letterbox. The family saw something of merit in me and took me in, and so I have repaid them by protecting them, in whatever way has been necessary.”
“You were always a faithful servant,” said Will. “A member of the family.”
“Those words again,” said Maninder. “Those twisting snakes, ever eager to please. Really, they are wasted. Do you not understand? I have not spent ten years of my life, clawing my way out of poverty, just to throw it all away. I have a position of trust and respect. I am sorry. I really am.”
And with that, he took another step forward and reached for the leather belt around his chinos.
§
“Don’t do it!”
Will’s body arched and he heaved at his restraints, but the cuffs were strong and the bed-frame solid.
I backed away as Maninder came around the bed towards me.
“It is a power thing, I know,” he said. “The act will be barely sexual at all.”
The tone of Maninder’s voice was almost conversational, as he unthreaded that belt from his pants.
“It is about possession, ownership. It is about submission. I will have you, and he will watch, and I will own you both.”
He dropped the belt and started to undo his flies.
My back was against the wall now, my only escape the balcony, but that was no escape I could survive.
“You touch her and you will live to regret it,” hissed Will, still twisting and heaving. “You hear me? You hear me?”
I took a deep, steadying breath, and somehow found a moment of inner stillness.
Train hard, fight easy.
§
He was close now.
I’d had to let him come round the bed towards me. He’d dropped his pants, and I could see that he was hard, his dick stretching at his briefs.
That moment of stillness, a breath held deep, a calmness in my head.
And then a blur of motion as I raised my right knee in front of me, my foot and shin hanging loose. Then that explosion, my leg straightening, whipping out like a striking snake, all my strength behind it as the flat of my foot made high contact around the shoulder, the neck.
My shoes. My gorgeous Jimmy Choo stilettos, the spike lodging wetly, so that when I tried to retract my leg quickly, before Maninder had a chance to grapple it and pull me off balance, that stiletto heel stuck, and I staggered, stretching painfully.
I stumbled, and my leg came down, leaving the shoe in place.
Catching myself, bent over, my hands on my knees, I peered up.
Maninder had a startled look on his face, one hand raised to his neck, the stiletto still impaled and then, like a tree toppling, the momentum of my kick took him backwards and he staggered, stepped back, caught his foot on the threshold and then he hit the balcony railing and kept going.
His body pivoted at the waist, his feet flying up, and then he was over, arms flailing as he fell.
45.
“It’s okay,” said Will, his voice confident, strong, even as he lay there naked and shriveled and still locked to his bed. “Sit down. Catch your breath. Okay? Just sit for a minute.”
How was it that he was the one in control wh
en he was locked up like that?
I kicked off my one remaining shoe and sat on the edge of the bed, hugging myself, realizing that I was trembling uncontrollably.
“I... I killed him.”
“You defended yourself,” he said. “You did what you had to do. It’s okay, Trudy. It’s all okay. That call I made earlier: I have people here who will clear up...”
He didn’t need to elaborate. I thought I was going to be sick, and I couldn’t get that damned shaking under control.
I turned to him then, finally able to look.
“It’s okay,” he repeated, and those eyes were no longer those of a predator, but of a protector, a lover, an inspiration. “It really is okay.”
The shaking. I wasn’t scared. Not any more. I was in shock, perhaps. My veins coursing with adrenalin, my head buzzing.
“You think?” I finally said.
He nodded.
“It will, Trudy. It really will.”
§
Those eyes.
A lover’s dark eyes.
He had relaxed, slumping back against his bonds.
I moved around, so that I was looking up the length of his body, finding his eyes, then, slowly, sensuously, working back down again.
Adrenalin rush. The fight or flight response.
He was soft, shriveled, withdrawn, his balls retraced, pulled up tight in nature’s attempt to protect its valuables.
As I watched, he started to fill out once more. His scrotum slowly lost its tightness, his balls dropping forward in their loosening sac. His cock plumped out, started to grow, flopping sideways against one thigh, and then creeping upwards as it grew.
I leaned forward, my hair trailing down, and then, just as his hard shaft reached its full length and came to lie hard against his belly I dropped my head, found the base of that shaft again, sandwiched it between my lips and drew myself up along his length until my tongue found that swollen head.
One hand around his shaft, I raised my head. “You like it like this?” I asked. “You like a bit of excitement?”
And then I plunged my head down, sharp and fast, taking him deep, my mouth tight around him.
§
It was quick and it was intense, that adrenalin thing, that fight or flight sex.
Bobbing my head up and down, fast and hungry for his climax, he was close almost as soon as I took him in my mouth. The explosion of juices in my throat was sudden, hard and I had to swallow repeatedly, as he pressed up against me, starting to go soft in my mouth so that as I sucked I took more and more of him inside and then his entire length was in my mouth, and his body sagged.
I wasn’t done yet. He might be a man who could get whatever he wanted, but now I knew what I wanted, too.
I pulled back and he slipped out between my lips.
I paused until those dark eyes found mine again, and then I moved up against him, lying flat against his body, my breasts crushed against his hard ribs, my thighs between his, that now-soft bulge pressing against my belly.
He craned his head down and I kissed him, his juices on my lips as his tongue gently probed between my teeth, found my tongue, pressed and slid and danced in my mouth, and then I drew up one leg, passed it over his, and then the other until I was straddling him, that bulge now against my own wet mound, separated from me only by the thin satin of my thong.
I started to press, started to arch my back, to roll my hips, to press my mound against that bulge.
Impatient, I reached down and pulled his shaft up against his belly again, so I could grind against its length, each slight movement sending stabs of pleasure coursing through my body.
And a pressure built, deep in my abdomen.
A tightness.
A heat.
A heat that blossomed and expanded and washed over my senses as my entire body heaved in climax.
It was quick and it was intense, that adrenalin sex.
It was urgent and animal.
And I’d never known anything like it.
§
Later. Much later. I’d kept him locked to that bed all night.
They call it the Stockholm Syndrome. When a kidnap victim becomes so attached to his captors that he adopts their mindset and becomes one of them.
But Willem Bentinck-Stanley was no kidnap victim.
He was here by choice. He was here of his own free will.
He was a successful globe-trotting man, accustomed to the corridors of power. He was strong. Oh, he was strong! He was not the brainwashed victim of some syndrome or other.
And so, he lay there, his body no doubt sore and aching, but he did not protest, he did not fight, as, outside that penthouse bedroom, morning broke over the city.
He was here by choice.
§
“Do you need to stop? Do you need a break? Just say the word, and I’ll unlock you.”
“Make love to me,” he said, meeting my look with those predator eyes. “Now. I’m not done with you yet.”
About PJ Adams
Writing under other names, PJ Adams is a successful novelist, with several novels published by major publishing houses and optioned for movies. As PJ Adams, she writes in the genre closest to her heart, erotic romance – love stories with that added heat.
Writing as Polly J Adams, she writes best-selling erotica, relationship stories crammed full of explicit sex. Among Polly's most popular stories are the Knee-tremblers and Indulgence series about a young woman's relationship with the wealthy owner of a New England sex club.
You can find out more about PJ/Polly and her writing on her website, on http://www.facebook.com/pollyjadamswriter and on Twitter as @PollyJAdams.
More from PJ Adams
Four Temptations
Four inter-locking story lines in one short novel: three women... one pivotal night... four temptations...
1. The Tipping Point: Rebecca's husband has walked out, leaving his best friend Simon to pick up the pieces. Rebecca has never seen Simon as anything other than a friend until now; certainly not as a lover. But now the seed of possibility has been sown, should she? Shouldn't she? And can she even resist?
2. Words of Love: Is Rebecca's friend Maggie really considering getting back together with her old flame two years after a vitriolic break-up? Does even a small part of her believe that they can make it work this time round?
3. The Other Woman: Ellie is in her early twenties. She's slim and blonde, she has perfect cheekbones, big blue eyes, perfect shape, legs to die for. She's Rebecca’s worst nightmare and her husband’s wet dream.
4. A Woman Scorned: They say revenge is best served up cold. Maybe. In Rebecca Swaine's experience revenge is best served up in a public place with a large glass of Pinot Gris. A steamy, passionate story of love and revenge.
Three women... one pivotal night: Four Temptations.
Stories of passion, risk and love. Explicit erotic romance from the bestselling author of The Object of His Desire.
Purchasing links can be found on PJ Adams’ website:
http://pollyjadams.blogspot.com
~
Damaged Goods (A Dangerous Passion, part one)
They said he was a rock star. They said he was an Arab oil sheik, or a Russian arms dealer. Or maybe a footballer. They said he was all kinds of things but in truth nobody in the village knew much about the enigmatic stranger who had moved into the Hall.
Holly Colcroft lives in the village with her bankrupt father, making ends meet with a succession of casual cleaning and waitressing jobs, and dreaming that one day things will take a turn for the better. When Holly gets the call to go and help clean up after a party at the Hall she hopes that it might lead to longer-term work; she finds the place in chaos, and a man emotionally scarred by his past. Might Holly be the woman to save him, or is this a passion too dangerous?
Explicit erotic romance from the author The Object of His Desire.
Purchasing links can be found on PJ Adams’ website:
http://pollyjadams.
blogspot.com
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