Forbidden

by Connelly, Clare

  He has always been beautiful, but like this, hyper-masculine… My heart trembles in my chest. I watch him, practically drooling for him. His cock is hard and huge. I bite down on my lip, needing him to take me now. Needing him all.

  He turns to look at me for a moment. I stand as he left me, arms behind my back, my eyes on his dick. My cheeks flame but I don’t look away.

  He opens the bureau drawer and I ache to move closer, to see what’s within. But soon enough he begins to remove items. Little boxes and pouches and—I gulp—a paddle of some sort.

  He turns to face me, appraising me, and I smile. Just a small smile. I’m nervous, but the smile is enough… Enough to show him that I want this, that I want him.

  ‘Come here.’

  It’s a command. I like him commanding me in the bedroom. In real life he knows I’m no push-over. I have opinions and I like to argue them—it’s how we used to spend a lot of our time. Each conversation like foreplay. But in this instance I’m happy for him to direct me.

  I walk slowly, though. My knees are knocking together I’m so freaking turned on and excited.

  ‘You want this?’

  I nod.

  ‘Why?’

  The question seems almost torn from him. Tormented.

  ‘Because…’

  ‘Not an answer.’ He tsks, but his lips quirk into a smile. He reaches for one of the pouches, weighing it in his hands. ‘You’ll say “tennis” if you want to stop,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Tennis?’ I whisper, my lips quirking into a smile as I remember the games we’d played at his father’s Hampton’s estate. Our history is littered with so much pleasant detritus.

  ‘A safe word.’

  A safe word. Got it. I nod again.

  His eyes hold mine as he opens the pouch and I can’t help it. I look down. I don’t immediately recognise what he’s pulling out. Jewels? Earrings?

  It’s two diamonds surrounded by gold, connected by a chain. He lifts one so I can see it. It’s a clip, of sorts.

  He hovers it over my lips and then runs it lower, over my chin, between my breasts and sideways, clamping one diamond on a nipple. I gasp. It doesn’t hurt—it just feels like he’s squeezing me lightly between thumb and forefinger. I like it. A lot. He fits the second to my other breast and then he jerks on the chain that joins them together. His expression is droll when his eyes meet mine.

  ‘That hurts!’ I cry out, but the pain dies down and I’m left with a throbbing sensation that is heaven on earth.

  ‘You like that?’

  A moan is all I can manage, because I really do.

  ‘Turn over.’ The words are heavy and gravelled. ‘I’m going to spank you.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  HER ARSE IS PERFECT. I stare at it, feeling the weight of the paddle in my hand, my heart pounding so fucking hard I can barely breathe.

  You know why I got into this sadistic shit?

  Because of all those years I couldn’t have Astra. Because wanting her turned sex into something dark, painful, necessary. I didn’t want sex to be sweet and about love—not before.

  And now her arse is in the air, her head flat on my bed, her arms tied behind her back and the nipple clamps dangling from her perfect tits. I hesitate, because I don’t want to hurt Astra.

  But she moans and whispers, ‘Please, Manning. Now.’

  Fuck.

  I lift the paddle, feel its smooth handle, and touch her arse with my hand. So sweet and soft… I rub it gently and then bring the paddle down—not hard, just a flick of my wrist. She jerks, moans, wiggles her arse.

  I lift the paddle and spank her again—harder, hard enough to leave a mark. She moans and writhes, her hands still bound by the belt. Once more I bring the paddle onto her butt, and I’m naked, and my cock is right there, aching to join in, to be a part of the party. But not yet.

  Not yet.

  I reach around in front of her, finding the chain between the clamps and pulling on it. She gasps, the pleasure-pain a new sensation for her. All of this is new. I am her first.

  Her only?

  I’d better be her fucking only.

  I straighten, lifting the paddle.

  ‘Tell me you’ve been a good girl since I last saw you, Astra.’

  Her head is on one side so I see her bite down on her lip.

  ‘Tell me you haven’t let any other man touch you.’

  She nods, but doesn’t try to look at me.

  ‘Is that a yes?’ The question has the strength of iron for how much her answer matters to me.

  She swallows, her throat bobbing. ‘It’s a yes.’

  Good.

  I lift the paddle, slap her other butt cheek, and then I spread her legs wider, so I can see her—all of her.

  Fuck me, she’s hot.

  ‘Just you, Manning. It’s always been you.’

  Is she crying? I swear her eyes are glistening, and for a second I think I’ve hurt her.

  But then she whispers, ‘I have dreamed about this, about being yours, for so long. Make me yours, Manning. Make me yours now.’

  I don’t need to be asked twice. I spread her legs and plunge into her, gripping her hips and holding her steady so I can go deep and hard. As hard as she likes it.

  Her moans are loud, so loud, and I reach around, ripping the nipple clamps off so I can hold her breasts in my hands, feel the weight of them in my palms, torment them with my fingers.

  ‘Manning!’

  She says my name, heavy and hot, and then cries out as an orgasm takes hold of her body, making her tremble, making her breath loud and frantic, as though she’s drowning.

  I wait until she’s subdued, just slightly, and then reach for a small velvet pouch. I remove the vibrator, passing it from one hand to the other. She’s still trembling with the force of her release. Good.

  I pull out of her—my cock groans—and slip the vibrator in my place.

  ‘What…?’

  She lifts her head and I see how flushed she is, her eyes wild with pleasure. I want to kiss her and hold her, but first I’m going to do what she wants. I’m going to make her mine. I’m going to make her all mine.

  ‘On your knees.’ The words are husky, drawn from the depths of my soul.

  She blinks and nods, darting her tongue out and licking that full, red lower lip of hers. She kneels at the foot of my bed and I lift the control for the vibrator, clicking it to the middle setting. She jerks in response, whimpering, pleasure overtaking her.

  ‘Suck my cock, angel.’

  She doesn’t need to be told twice. She moans as she takes me deep, her body convulsing with pleasure, and her pleasure becomes my pleasure.

  I’m deep in her mouth, hitched against her throat, her moistness surrounding me, and her hands lift to my arse, holding me there, deep inside, not letting me pull out.

  She’s taking control.

  She’s in charge.

  I grip her hair, but lightly—not to take over, just because I need to hold on or I might fall.

  She slides her mouth up and down my shaft and, fuck, I’m so close to coming I need to pull out. But her eyes lift to mine when I try.

  She digs her nails into my arse and I do the only thing I can—I lift the vibrator speed to maximum, so that she pauses for a second while an orgasm rips her apart.

  She whimpers around my length and then resumes, sucking me off in time with the vibrator, in and out, hard and fast, teasing my tip with her tongue when she pulls out and— Jesus Christ. I spill into her mouth and now I do hold her hair, gripping her tight, tipping my seed down her throat, my body shaking with the force of what I’ve just done.

  What we’ve just done.

  I turn the vibrator off and look at her. Is she okay?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I’VE DREAMED OF THIS, and yet the reality is so much better. So much more intense. I am weak from pleasure but strengthened by my power and prowess, by the way he lost control, by the way I made him mine. This is a two-way street: we are
each other’s.

  But I’m leaving after this. I force myself to remember that and my heart twists, my stomach lurches.

  No more of this?

  Can I really do that to him?

  To myself?

  ‘Are you…okay?’

  His concern chips away at my determination, fills me with something different.

  I am okay. Physically. But emotionally…?

  I nod, force a smile, pulling away from him.

  ‘That was fucking amazing!’ His laugh is a little off-kilter.

  I pout. ‘It’s not over, is it?’

  He laughs again—this time with more humour. ‘You’d better believe it.’

  He reaches for me, lifting me to my feet, and then he stretches around behind me, untying the belt with ease. His eyes hold mine, searching, and I fear my heart’s needs will be all too visible so I blink, and move my eyes down. He grips my chin, lifting it so I face him.

  He reaches between my legs and pulls the vibrator out. It’s covered with my juices, glistening with proof of my arousal. He drops it carelessly to the bed, and the control too. The nipple clamps are on the floor and the paddle is beside them.

  I lift my fingers to his chest, touch him, and he inhales sharply. His cock is already stirring to life against my belly. My smile is sardonic. I shouldn’t be surprised. Manning proved his virility to me in New York. He has an insatiable appetite.

  As if to prove it he grabs my wrists and pulls them down, removing my touch from him—but only so he can lift me over his shoulder and carry me back to the bed. He drops me down on it and then brings his body over mine, his weight a pleasure that sears my soul.

  ‘You’re kinda kinky—you know that?’

  His eyes sear me. ‘This whole thing is kinky, right? Stepsister?’

  I lift my hands to his face, cupping him. ‘We’re not related, you know. There’s nothing wrong with this.’

  ‘Try telling that to Carter.’

  I frown. ‘He doesn’t know about us…’

  ‘No.’

  He kneels between my legs, touching my clit possessively, his eyes hooded as they run over my body. He pushes a finger inside me almost as though he can’t help it. As though he’s fascinated by what his touch can do to me. I try to keep a clear head but I’ve been set alight and every touch is a new accelerant. I bite down on my lip.

  ‘And he never can.’

  I look at him for a moment as his words sink in. This is why he left? This is why he’s been avoiding me?

  ‘But…but surely that’s up to you and me. It’s up to us…’

  ‘There is no “us”, Astra. Not after this.’

  I gasp. It’s exactly what I planned but it was supposed to be my choice. My hurt to inflict.

  I blink now, realising that the pain is all mine. I am wounded by his words, his clinical detachment.

  I can’t think straight, and it gets even harder when he removes his hand and slides his hard cock inside me, bringing his lips to mine and kissing me.

  We have never kissed.

  Not even that first time. We fucked again and again, hard and desperately.

  Now his mouth moves over mine and his tongue duels with mine, demanding my surrender, my compliance and my agreement, whispering promises my heart tries to ignore.

  ‘You’re my fucking stepsister,’ he says into my mouth as he thrusts hard inside me.

  I spiral over the edge, gripping his shoulders, trying to hold on and failing miserably.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come here.’

  I am in free-fall—and I think I am alone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SHE SQUEEZES MY COCK hard inside her, her legs wrap around my back and I’m falling to earth with the power of her perfection and her possession.

  But there’s hurt deep in her fevered eyes and inwardly I wince.

  Why the fuck am I doing this?

  Wanting her and not having her was hard enough, but having tasted her sweetness I am ruined.

  I want this night to last for ever—this secret, illicit, hidden night of pleasure. The stars cover the earth but each is made for her and me. This night is solely ours, hers and mine. No night will ever be like it again.

  I drop my lips to her throat, kissing her salty flesh, rolling my tongue over her frantic pulse-point. My fingers hunt hers, lacing through them, spreading her arms wide so her breasts lift up. I drop my mouth to one and she gasps; I feel it reverberate through her chest as her insides clench around me.

  I chase the other nipple, my tongue delighting in the glide of her skin beneath me, and my cock pushes inside her, stirring her to a desperate longing.

  She calls my name, over and over again: ‘Manning, Manning, Manning, Manning!’ I groan, lifting my mouth to hers, catching her hunger, her flames, her ache. She sobs into me and I understand—I understand the desperation behind that sob.

  Her needs are matched by my own.

  I have spent years wanting her and knowing I can’t act on it, and now I can’t think of not having her whenever I want. I can’t think of not hearing her cry my name out like this nightly.

  Her moans reach fever-pitch; she explodes and I chase after her, spilling into her with a guttural cry, an angry, hoarse admonition against the circumstances that make this forbidden.

  I collapse on her, my body heavy against her sweet softness, and then I roll onto my back, bringing her with me, not ready to break our connection yet.

  She puts her head on my chest and her breathing is deep and rushed, her pulse frantic.

  ‘Did you know I was coming to Paris?’

  I’m still for a moment, my heart lodging in my chest.

  Be calm. She doesn’t know.

  ‘Yes.’

  She seems to digest this for a moment. ‘You weren’t going to try to see me?’

  Oh, I saw her all right. I saw her in a way that is safe and allowable. But that’s not what she means. She means like this.

  ‘No.’

  I hear the tiny catch of breath in her throat and close my eyes against her pain. Pain was inevitable here, from the moment I weakened in New York. Only by resisting her did I make us safe from that.

  ‘So if I hadn’t come here…?’

  ‘You did.’

  I shrug a little, as though it doesn’t matter, and lift my hands to her arse, curving them around her flesh, pressing my fingers into her lightly. Possessively.

  I have no idea yet how tenuous my possession of her really is…

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SHE IS VERY GRACEFUL. Before she became a prodigal violinist she was on track to be a ballerina. Her body seems to be made of music and grace, so that when she stretches away from me, lifting herself up to a sitting position and then standing, it is as though she is one-woman show, a symphony in motion, a swan-like performance.

  I stare at her, my heart grinding in my chest as she turns around slowly, her back to me. Her body is familiar to me—as familiar as my own. I know every dip and curve…all her marks.

  I did my best not to look when we were growing up. To ignore the way my eyes would be dragged to her of their own accord. But once she moved in with me in New York she was eighteen, and I seemed to lose my will-power completely.

  I couldn’t stop fucking looking. Staring, more like. Staring while she practised her violin, staring while she read on the sofa, staring while she swam in the infinity pool, and all the time I was learning her body so I could superimpose it into my fantasies.

  But now her body has changed.

  Her body has altered—and at my hand.

  Her arse cheeks are red, glowing from the paddle I administered to her.

  I sit up straighter, my pulse accelerating.

  ‘Astra?’

  Her eyes float to mine slowly, and there is something in them I don’t comprehend. There is a strength, but that isn’t new—Astra is the strongest woman I know. This is something different. Something I can’t fathom.

  ‘Yes, Manning?’ Words like
steel. An irrational sense of unease grips me. I push it aside.

  ‘Shower with me.’

  *

  He massages soap all over my body, foaming it against my skin; the water is warm and strong, landing on me like my own personal waterfall. His hands linger on my arse and his eyes hold mine. I feel vulnerable and raw, exposed.

  This is so perfect, and yet it is the cruellest of experiences—because I am already haunted by my inevitable departure, by the plan I came here to enact.

  The time is almost ripe.

  I must go now, while there is still a shred of me that has the strength to do so.

  Or soon…

  He kneels down, his eyes on mine, and my fingers tangle in his hair, pushing it back from his brow, raking it away so I can see all of his face. His handsome face. A face that has tormented me for years.

  I brace myself for what’s to come—his lips against me, tormenting me anew with sensual need.

  But he doesn’t.

  Instead he begins to lather my legs, starting at my ankles, swirling the soap around my calves and behind my knees, lifting to my thighs. And then his fingers splay at my hips and he spins me around so I am facing the marble wall of the shower. His hands lift to my arse and he touches me gently, running his fingers over flesh that is sensitive and erotic.

  I push my butt back, closer to him, and he laughs—a husky sound of surrender. Water washes away the soap and then he kisses me, his lips warm.

  I tremble, glad for the wall—glad for its support, glad for its strength to build up my own.

  He thinks he can fuck me and tell me it’s over? While he’s still fucking inside me?

  I love Manning with all that I am, but right now I hate him a fair bit too. Bastard.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘DON’T RUSH,’ I CALL, catching his reflection in the mirror.

  He’s still in the shower, his back against the marble wall, his eyes focused dead ahead, his expression brooding. Is he thinking about me? Us? This? Is he wondering what just happened? Is he worried about how to get rid of me?

  I don’t know and I can’t care.