Bound by Lust (11 page)

“Holy hell,” Gregory groaned. “I'm going to come in my pants if you do that again.”

A surge of feminine power rushed through her, making her feel suddenly, vibrantly sexual. She giggled, then licked the paintbrush again.

Gregory released her hair and dropped his hands to her shoulders. With a gentle pressure, he let her know what it was
he wanted. She slipped to her knees in front of him, studying the wet mark on his jeans.

“This is what you want?” he asked, unzipping his pants and releasing his erection. “You're sure?”

She nodded, staring up at him, suddenly shy. She'd never knelt like this in front of him, had never gone down on him in the light of day, even. When it came to sex, she was always unsure of her abilities, no matter how appreciative Gregory might be. Other lovers, the few she'd had, had seemed as content as she with the basics of sex. Something inside her yearned to please Gregory in a way she had never wanted to please another lover.

As she lowered her mouth to Gregory's penis and heard his corresponding gasp, she tasted the truth on her tongue. She hadn't been content, she'd never been content. She had simply never met a man who had awakened her desires the way Gregory had. At the core of her frustration was the knowledge that she wanted as much as he did—she wanted all the possibilities, all the variations, all the dirty, naughty things a good girl like her was never permitted to want.

She dared to peek at him from under her lowered lashes and saw that he was watching her. The knowledge should have intimidated her, but instead it emboldened her. She took more of him into her mouth, cradling him in the hollow of her tongue and tasting his arousal as it leaked from him.

“Ohh,” he sighed, a long drawn-out sound of pleasure as she drew him to the back of her throat and held him there.

Kneeling there with his dick in her mouth, she remained still and waiting. Wanting him to give her what he promised. Wanting the hardness and roughness that her body craved. She held him in her mouth, her tongue, lips, and throat caressing him. Then, as if he couldn't control himself, he flexed his hips
until only the head of him remained between her lips before thrusting into her mouth.

She groaned around him, wanting exactly this. Only he took it as a sound of protest and withdrew from her mouth, studying her with concern.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

She shook her head. “More,” she said easily. “Hard. Rough.”

Something flashed in his dark eyes. Something wild and feral, something she desperately wanted him to unleash on her.

“Now,” she said, crisp and firm. And then, softer, “Please.”

He held himself in his hand and pushed the tip of his dick between her lips once again. This time, it was he who controlled the motion. This time, he pushed to the back of her throat until she nearly gagged. This time, he gave her exactly what she craved.

“Like that, baby?” he asked, though he had to know her answer by the way she gripped his thighs and moaned.

“Good girl,” he said. “Take it all.”

She did take it all, and not just to please him. Gregory's dick in her mouth was both her submission and her liberation. She sucked him as she never had before, with wet slurping unladylike sounds, with whimpers of pleasure and a clenching between her legs. She needed him there, soon. She needed to be filled with the brushed velvet hardness that filled her mouth.

Gregory fucked her mouth as she'd requested, hard and rough, until her throat felt raw and his thighs trembled beneath her touch at the effort it took to keep from coming. She was tempted to let him finish this way, to complete her act of submissive love. But he made the decision for her, slowly withdrawing from her mouth, his erection glistening wet and beautiful.

“I want to fuck you.”

She nodded, feeling as if she could smell her own arousal.

“Tell me you want me to fuck you,” he said, kneeling on the floor in front of her, guiding her back onto the rug.

Her lips felt swollen, and along with his sweet musk, she could taste the iron tang of blood where she'd protected his delicate skin from her teeth and managed to cut her own lip. The proof of her newfound sensuality. And yet, she couldn't say what she wanted.

Gregory knelt between her thighs, stripping off her jeans and panties roughly. Then his shirt, her shirt, her bra. Until she was splayed before him in the sun splashed room, naked and wanting.

“Tell me to fuck you,” he said again.

She caught her breath, willing the words from her lungs. There was nothing but silence. She arched her back, hoping to entice him with her body, hoping he would spare her the embarrassment of saying the words.

“Fine,” he said, taking up the paint brush from where it had been discarded on the floor. “I'll show you want I want.”

He licked the tip of the brush as she had, his broad tongue gliding over the sable hairs and making her whimper. He dipped the brush between her thighs and traced the lips of her swollen pussy. The gentle touch of the brush tickled, made her aware of the sticky wetness that felt like it was trickling down between her legs.

He traced her pussy in gentle circles, avoiding her clit and the wetness between her lips. She squirmed and whimpered, legs spread and knees bent, utterly shameless in trying to get him to penetrate her or stroke her hard clit. He stubbornly refused, painting around her wetness, teasing her.

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

She growled in frustration, not even recognizing her own voice. “Yes!”

“Well?” he asked, brush poised over her undulating mound.
“What do you want?”

“Fuck me,” she said, her voice ragged.

“Hmm,” he said with deliberate consideration. “Here?”

She felt the brush at her opening, teasing the wetness that pooled there. She arched her back, taking the brush bristles into her, feeling the paintbrush slip inside her. It was too narrow to offer any relief, but she cried out at the sensation.

“Naughty girl,” he said, pressing the brush inward, painting the insides of her with her own juices. “Good girl.”

“Fuck me,” she said again. “Please.”

He withdrew the brush. “Not until you come like this.”

She didn't know what he meant until he dragged the brush over her clit, painting the aroused little nub with her arousal. She practically came off the floor as the bristles fanned out to cover her clit, at once tickling and arousing. She panted and whimpered, arms stretched over her head, body thrashing before him.

“Will you come?”

She nodded, bunching the rug in her fists as she concentrated on that point between her legs where the paintbrush met her clit and caressed it into orgasm. He dipped the brush between her thighs again and again, catching her wetness on the bristles and gliding it over her clit. She could feel her orgasm building, the still, quiet pool of arousal that had always been there, crashing over her in a tidal wave of sudden, nearly violent release.

She tried to close her legs around the insubstantial brush, but Gregory's hands were there to pin her knees back until they touched the rug, the brush suddenly replaced by the tip of his dick. Her clitoris throbbed against his hardness as she came in rolling waves, screaming and whimpering as he pinned her helplessly to the rug.

And then he pushed her legs back to her chest and slammed into her in one long, hard stroke. She gasped as he buried
himself in her so deep her still-tingling clit pressed against the hard ridge of his pubic bone.

Then it was his turn to remain still.

She stared into his eyes, wiggling her hips in invitation, wanting what he was giving her more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. She felt his dick throb inside of her, but he remained still. She saw the challenge in his eyes, knew what he was waiting for.

This time, there was no hesitation, no embarrassment, no holding back anything.

“Fuck me,” she pleaded. “Fuck me hard, Gregory. Please. I need you to fuck me so hard.”

And then he did. Arching up over her, pinning her hands above her head, he fucked her one long, hard stroke after another. She could hear her wetness as he fucked her, the obscene sucking sounds of her pussy drawing him in before he slid out to the tip and thrust back into her.

She pulled her knees up to her chest so he could go as deep as she could stand, feeling his balls slapping damply at her ass, covered in her sticky wetness. His dick filled her up, leaving her breathless and aching, wanting more.

“Good girl, good girl,” he breathed in her ear. “Take it all. Take my dick like a good girl.”

She pushed against him but was effectively pinned to the floor by his hands and his dick, getting fucked just as hard and rough as she'd asked for. She could feel her arousal building in the pit of her stomach like a knot being pulled tight. She clenched her muscles around his dick, her walls rippling along the length of him, pushing them both over the edge. Her stomach cramped painfully for a moment, and then there was sweet release, a gush of wetness from both of them as she screamed her release into his hard, unrelenting chest.

He kept driving into her as she whimpered and begged wordlessly, craving more and more and more. He fucked her until there was almost no friction because of all the wetness, until he started to go soft. Then he braced himself over her and looked at her sex-flushed face.

His expression was so serious, she had to smile. At that, he smiled back and bent to kiss her.

“Was that, was it—?” Before he could get the words out in a coherent sentence past his own ragged breath, she was already nodding.

“It was exactly what I wanted. It was perfect.”

He rolled over, pulling her with him until her head was nestled in the crook of his shoulder, her body flung across his. “Yeah, it was.”

“Just like that,” she said, pressing a kiss to a bite mark she hadn't even realized she'd left on him. “Every time. Always. Fuck me just like that.”

“Hey, you said it,” he said, sounding startled.

She laughed. “I'm going to try to say a lot more things,” she promised. “I'm going to try to tell you everything that's in my head.”

He reached to the edge of the carpet and retrieved the paintbrush. “Well, if you can't find the words, you can always use this,” he said, tickling her spine with the bristles, gliding down her back until the tip of the brush nestled in the cleft of her cheeks.

She giggled and squirmed, feeling two things at once—the stir of his penis against her hip and a renewed tingling of arousal between her thighs.

“Tell me what you want,” she said. “Tell your very bad good girl how you want to fuck her.”

He put the paintbrush down and did exactly that.

 

 

 

 

 

H
e said he wouldn't sleep with her because he didn't want to get emotionally involved. This was a sex thing, nothing else, and he needed his distance if he were to keep seeing her as his dirty little slut. She agreed and said she didn't want to spend the night with him either. If she saw too much of his nice-guy side, she might struggle to believe in that dark, rough brute who glowered and snarled as he fucked her.

But, like everyone, they were busy people, and the no-sleepover rule got problematic. Worse, they lived fifty miles apart so spontaneity wasn't an option. Half their relationship (“If you can call it that,” he said, not unkindly) was conducted via email, Skype, and dirty phone calls.

They hadn't seen each other for a month. He had a cold, she had heaps of work on, he had family visiting, the usual. She suggested they meet midway in a hotel for an afternoon. No sleepover. They must have hotels in London where you can pay by the hour. You know, like those Japanese love hotels?

But London, she discovered, is not Tokyo. She complained she felt like a whore, contacting hotels to enquire about hourly rates. “Well don't bank on not being treated like one,” he said, making her try a little harder.

Eventually, she found somewhere, booked a room for an afternoon. “So seedy,” she said excitedly.

The night before she could barely sleep. Fifty miles away, neither could he. In the morning, she took extra care over her appearance. It had been six weeks. That deserved lip liner, at least. He selected underwear she liked, jeans his arse looked good in, the jacket she'd once admired. He shaved his head because she found it hot when he looked nasty and mean. He glared at himself in the mirror, turning his swag on. He was dom, but he liked to please. She'd told him it wasn't unusual.

She arrived first, checked in, dumped her bag of kit in the room. They met downstairs in the hotel bar, a warm but spacious area with leather sofas the color of good cigars, open fires, bare boards, and red brickwork. Firelight rested on thin metal sculptures and glossed the floor with amber puddles. Behind the bar, rows of tawny-hued spirits gleamed as they might in a country pub, a dangerous enchantment of nectars. It didn't feel like noon.

“See?” she said. “I'm a high-class hooker.”

“We'll see about that,” he replied, grinning.

They drank brandy, smirking secretively but saying little because there was too much to say and not enough time. Before long, he said, “I want you to go up to the room, strip to your underwear and kneel. I'll follow you in five.”

She took her brandy, feeling it was important to carry the magic of the bar to the privacy of their room. He watched her arse as she walked away, wanting to slap it. Upstairs, she drew the curtains, blocking out the rarely glimpsed underside of the
city, the back ends of shabby buildings, delivery doors, and fire escapes. The room, like the bar, was warmly minimalist, a cocoon of cream, browns, and aubergine. She turned up the dimmer switch, stripped and knelt, pleased that the thread of ribbon in her black bra was a near-perfect match for the bruise-purple stripe on the bed linen. Not that he would notice. Not that she cared. This was a sex thing, not a matching-bra-and-bed thing.