When she thought she wouldn’t be able to stand it a minute longer, he pulled himself out of her. “Turn over on your stomach.”
She rolled over in a blind haze of need. His hands caught her hips and guided them off the edge of the table, stopping her where he wanted her. His denim-covered legs pushed between hers and her feet found the ground, but only the table held her up.
Then he was inside her again. She could feel the zipper of his jeans scraping against her bare skin, a reminder that he was still fully clothed. Her nipples rubbed against the terry robe with each thrust and the sensation made her writhe. He slid a hand over her belly and down between her legs to cup her mound so that each time he stroked into her she was pressed against his fingers. The on and off stimulation of her wet and swollen clitoris made her want to scream.
“Drake. I can’t stand it,” she sobbed out.
“You can. You’re going to come for me, again and again, as many times as I decide.”
He kept up the unhurried stroking pace but now the added stimulation on her nipples and his subtle rhythmic touch on her clitoris made her break. She came again and he drew the orgasm out and out, impossibly long, with his unbroken rhythm.
She collapsed, utterly spent. He was still thrusting into her and she accepted him, again and again, helpless to do anything else.
“Who owns you?”
“You do, Drake.”
“Good girl.” He pulled all the way out, nudged her feet together, used his legs to press hers tightly closed. Then the blunt head of his penis probed her again, seeking entry. “Open for me.”
The position made her impossibly tight. She wasn’t going to be able to take him like this. But she was soft and slick and she took the tip of him. He eased forward. He stretched her opening to the limit with his slow, steady penetration, filling her with his length until her body accommodated all of him and he was sheathed in her to the hilt.
He pressed deeply, giving her pressure where she wanted it most. She was barely able to contain him. The sensation of being filled so completely and the deep press of his possession undid her. She moaned, unable to keep silent.
“Feel how deep I am inside you,” he whispered.
Oh, she did.
“I’m going to fill you even more.”
“Not possible,” she groaned. He was going to split her like a melon. He was too big, too thick, too long, too hard.
“Very possible.” His hands dug into her hips, holding her fast. “Want to know how?”
She waited.
“Feel where I am.” His voice was an animal growl. “I am all the way in, and my cock is up against the opening to your womb.” He increased the pressure, letting her feel the extreme completeness of his possession.
“I’m going to come inside you. And when I do, I am going to swell even bigger. And do you know what you’re going to do?”
She shook her head.
“You are going to come for me one last time. You are going to milk my cock with your little muscles and while you’re coming, you will open there, deep inside, for me. And I am going to fill every inch of your body with every inch of me. I am going to come and come and you are going to take all of it, deep inside. I am going to fill you up.”
He was moving inside her as he told her in full erotic detail what he would do to her body and it was happening while he spoke. She felt herself spasming around him, felt him swelling, felt him so deeply inside herself and so completely a part of herself she thought she would break apart from the intensity of the pleasure while he pulsed and throbbed and poured himself into her and she took it all.
Drake smoothed the length of her hair away from her neck, baring the nape, and leaned forward to press a soft kiss there like a reward for her obedience. He withdrew from her and zipped his jeans closed.
She kept her eyes shut while he gathered her into his arms and held her close. He lifted her and she didn’t open her eyes to see where he was taking her. She was limp and spent and beyond caring what he did next. Her head lolled against his broad shoulder, feeling the fabric of his T-shirt against her cheek.
He had done all that to her and never even gotten undressed, never lost control. She realized now that he had barely given her a taste of how thoroughly he intended to master her body before. He had been breaking her in gently, keeping her in his thrall and not showing her too much at once, letting her think she could play on his level.
She’d thought she was devastated before, and it had only been the foreplay. Now he’d shown her exactly how outmatched she was in their game.
He carried her to bed and laid her down on her side. She watched through slitted eyes as he stripped off his clothes and climbed in beside her. He drew her head onto his shoulder, making a pillow for her, settled her hands on his chest, pulled her top leg over his, nestling their bodies into each other.
He settled one hand on her back and the other stroked her hair in slow unhurried movements. His chin rubbed the top of her head in a soothing animal caress. “Go to sleep now.”
Melinda slid into the refuge of sleep almost instantly.
Drake stared up at the ceiling in the darkness and continued to stroke her hair while she slept as if trying to offer amends. She deserved soothing. He’d taken her repeatedly without an ounce of gentleness when her body was unused to a man.
He didn’t need Hal to tell him he was irrational. He proved it to himself every time he opened his mouth, every time he got his hands on her, every time he got inside her.
No other man had ever had her this way and it made him wild to know that she was truly his. Whatever else might be between them, her body didn’t lie. It was his to possess to the limit of their agreement. Her desire was his and only his. Her body belonged only to him. She responded only to him and gave herself up over and over for him alone.
The way he wanted her was fierce, hungry, politically incorrect as hell. He wanted to subjugate her, dominate her, possess her until she—what? What was it that drove him, what did he need from her to satisfy the beast inside?
He’d thought he needed her to agree to his complete control of her and it hadn’t been enough. He’d thought he needed to have her, to get inside her and satisfy himself. Three times had not been enough to take the edge off his need. Making her respond to him and come for him had been closer, but still not all he needed from her.
She would tell him everything he wanted to know, he didn’t doubt that in the least. That wasn’t what made him snarl and snap inside. He didn’t even care if she was guilty or innocent, except in terms of his own conscience. He could overrule her and prevent her from doing any damage if she was guilty.
If she was innocent, then for the sake of his conscience he would let her go free. But not until he was done with her. Not until he’d had every bit of her he could get in the time he had. The beast in him would not give on that, and she had damned herself to it when she willingly agreed to his terms.
He could wish to be a gentler man for her sake, but he was what he was and he couldn’t find it in him to be gentle when the need to make her his roared inside him.
Oddly, holding her like this gave him something that calmed the savage need she’d brought out. She trusted him enough to sleep in his arms. She lay quiet against him and it soothed him to hold her close. She lay in the circle of his protection, his arms enclosing her and keeping her safe from everything except himself.
He stayed awake for a long time guarding her sleep and savoring the sensation of her total relaxation in his arms.
Melinda woke slowly, as if coming up through layers of dreams to a hazy state of awareness. The exhausted heaviness of her own thoroughly sated body was slow to respond to the shift in consciousness. It was so easy to lie there on her belly, something warm and soft tucked all around her, with the weight of sleep pressing her down into the mattress.
The memory of the previous evening did not inspire any enthusiasm for leaping up to greet the day. She burrowed deeper into the bed and th
ought about hiding in sleep a while longer. Like all day, maybe.
She didn’t want to face Drake. No, she didn’t want to face herself. He might have been the one driving her, but she was the one who had screamed and moaned her pleasure while he went down on her, then proceeded to do her standing up in three different positions while he stayed fully clothed and held off his own orgasm.
She had come for him, however, whenever he told her to.
The memory made her groan in embarrassment. Melinda groped blindly for a pillow, found one by touch, and tugged it over her head as if it would help block out the memory of her own total loss of control.
Okay, maybe it was Drake she couldn’t face. He had licked her between her legs and made her orgasm. How was she supposed to look him in the eyes after that? It was more intimate than nudity, a more profound sharing of her personal space than him palming her inside her pants to find out he’d made her wet. She hadn’t felt as thoroughly possessed by him when he entered her the first time as she had when he took her in his mouth and tasted her as if she was some pagan feast.
Although now that she thought about it, all of it added up to the reason she didn’t want to get out of bed and face anybody.
Drake was so attuned to her that they might as well have some sort of sexual telepathy link. He only had to look at her to see her reaction to him. She had no secrets at all. She couldn’t hide anything from him and he didn’t let her hide anything from herself, either. He knew when she was aroused and he made her acknowledge it.
Self-knowledge was not always a comfortable thing.
It had aroused her to let a stranger slide his hand into her panties. It had aroused her to undress piece by piece on his orders while he watched. It had turned her on to an unbelievable degree to lay back and invite him to climb on her when he ordered her to.
The truth was, she was enjoying this sex slave game to a degree that worried her. She had been…hot. That was the word. She’d been hot for him last night, and completely willing to let him do anything he wanted to her. He had played her body ruthlessly and she had loved every minute of it. She had even loved the fact that she was helpless to prevent her orgasms, as if pleasure was something he could force on her at will.
There was something humorous about that, Melinda decided.Help me, I’m being forced to feel really, really good . It didn’t sound like much of a plea for rescue.
So. Did she want rescue? Was she losing her nerve? Did she want to back out and quit this game? She rolled over and hugged the pillow to her while she thought about that.
If she backed out, she would have to live with the fact that they could have had two more days of touching and being touched and she had cheated them both out of it. It was already Saturday, and the clock was running.
It was bizarre and incomprehensible, but Drake wanted to put his hands on her every bit as much as she wanted his hands on her. Everywhere. Her uncharacteristic lust was not one-sided.
She wasn’t beautiful, but Drake liked looking at her face. Possibly because it showed him every stray thought that went through her mind and all of them fed his male ego.
She didn’t have large breasts, but Drake liked to look at them. He’d made no secret of the fact that he’d liked touching and tasting them, too.
He got erect as quickly as she got damp. He liked the fit of their bodies. He wanted her and he showed her just how much. Maybe he enjoyed demonstrating his sexual mastery over her, maybe the fact that he could overwhelm her with his expertise was part of it, but he also enjoyed the fact that she liked it that way.
Maybe it made him feel as good to please her as it made her feel to know that her physical response pleased him.
Maybe this game wasn’t so unequal, after all.
In fact, hadn’t she read somewhere that in a dominant and submissive relationship, it was the submissive who set the tone and held the real control?
If she looked at it that way, she might even be ahead in this game. Not hopelessly outmatched by his superior experience and sheer relentless determination.
She had felt instinctively from the beginning that Drake would never do anything she truly didn’t want him to do. He wouldn’t use his sexual power over her to hurt her any more than he would use his superior physical strength to give her anything but pleasure.
She was just more vulnerable to him than she’d realized. The sensual onslaught he’d put her through last night had made her recognize that she craved more than his body and the pleasure he gave her with it. She craved his control and her reaction to it and that had scared her.
She had positively gloried in it. She had never in her life felt more alive, more like a woman, more devastatingly aware of a man.
The truth was, she wanted to be his to command because it made her feel so powerfully sexy to be his woman.
She wanted him with a crazed urgency that made no sense at all, but it was more than that. If she had only lusted after his body, she might have been able to resist him. He offered her something else she was powerless to say no to—the key to herself.
She wanted to be the woman she became with him, the kind of woman a man like him desired. She had been wild, wanton. She had been daring and exciting. He had been hungry and predatory because she had turned him on. Her. He showed her who else she was besides the practical, predictable, responsible person she’d always believed herself to be.
It was scary to feel herself changing into somebody new and different and almost unrecognizable, almost as scary as the too-good feelings of his hands and mouth and body on hers. Pleasure like that could be addictive. He was like some kind of dangerous drug and she had him all through her system.
And maybe she was in his.
Melinda didn’t kid herself that she could hold his interest, but she had it at least on one level for now. A man had to be very interested to perform that frequently and, well, enthusiastically.
It made her blush just to remember how enthused he’d been.
Drake’s interest might only be due to her inexperience and his urge to feed his ego by being the man who taught her the advanced erotic skills course, but it was still riveting to be the focus of that degree of interest. It meant he’d lose interest, of course, because the very thing that had attracted him was going fast. And that was part of what made their weekend out of time so perfect. She didn’t have to fear that she was becoming too involved with the wrong man because by Sunday night he’d be tired of her.
The fact that she might become permanently addicted to him in the process she could deal with later. Along with the fear that she might not be able to sustain this fragile metamorphosis into her emerging new self when the game was over.
The potential addiction wasn’t as worrisome a problem, because no matter what happened she was going cold turkey in two days. It was this new self she wanted time to be sure of.
Melinda pushed the pillow away, sat up, and decided it was pointless not to face the day. It was one of only two she had left to be the woman Drake Trahern wanted, against all probability and reason.
But first things first. Where did she get coffee in this palace of wonders? She didn’t even know where she was. When he’d carried her off to bed, she hadn’t paid attention to anything. She had been completely undone by him, by her response to him. She didn’t even know if she was up or down from the dining room, and that might not be where the coffee was.
Drake had said the voice-activated computer system was all through the house. Presumably that included the bedroom. She scrubbed her eyes free of grit and said tentatively, “Coffee?”
“What do you prefer—dark, medium, or light roast?” answered a voice from some invisible speaker.
“Dark. Ah, is there any French Roast?”
What she wouldn’t give for the strongest, darkest French Roast on the planet. A potful might clear her head. She’d been on a sexual bender after a lifetime of near-total abstinence and now she had a Drake hangover. Caffeine could only help.
“French
Roast is available. Where would you like it?”
“Can I have it here? In the bedroom?”
“There is a dumbwaiter by the fireplace. Estimated delivery in five minutes.”
Which was more amazing—that his bedroom had a fireplace or automatic coffee delivery? Melinda grinned and slid out of bed to explore.
The bed itself was interesting. The four-poster brass bed sat high off the ground on a raised dais with steps down to the main part of the room. There was something almost medieval about the design and position. A duvet with a cotton cover was the soft thing that had been snuggled around her when she woke up. It figured that he’d have a bed that looked like the stage for an orgy.
Charlene TEGLIA - Dangerous Games(ellora) Page 8