He Claims Me (9 page)

Authors: Cynthia Sax

BOOK: He Claims Me

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I
STAND AT
the edge of our backyard pool, watching as a small brown moth flutters on the night air, flying toward the lights. Other moths already dance around the artificial flame, a plastic barrier safeguarding them from harm. My little moth is no longer alone. She has a family or friends. She belongs.

I pull my sundress over my head and drop the garment on the stone. My frizz free hair cascades down my bare back and my nipples tighten. The clear blue water of our backyard pool ripples, its coolness calling to me, tempting me.

I rub my hands over my gently rounding stomach, beads of perspiration forming on my skin. On this scorching hot night I am the goddess of fertility, honoring all of creation. I stretch my arms upward, reaching for the moon hanging low over my head. The stars sparkle. Water rushes down rock.

“Show us, nymph.”

I turn, facing my audience, allowing them to see all of meâÂmy no longer flat stomach, my sensitive breasts, the triangle of closely cropped curls between my thighs. Two gold keys dangle from the black ribbon encircling my neck, the gold catching the light.

“Beautiful.” Blaine's brilliant green eyes gleam. He sits in the lounge chair, dressed in his usual black suit and white shirt, paired with a pink tie, the color honoring our unborn baby. An unlit cigar rests in the terra-Âcotta ashtray. It has been there since he heard the news, Blaine refusing to smoke around me.

Behind him other men watch us, their faces and bodies shrouded by darkness. Blaine trusts them and I trust Blaine, the gold bands on our ring fingers symbolizing our unfading love. The men are his gift to both of us, their presence exciting me.

Blaine excites me. My pussy is as wet as the pool, my breasts aching for his touch. I cup my curves, offering them to him, and his lips curl upward, appreciation shining in his eyes. With him, I feel beautiful, confident in my sexual appeal.

“Sit down, Anna.” Blaine pulls a patio chair closer, positioning it to face him, to face our audience. The chair's back reclines slightly, the seat cushion is thick and the armrests are padded.

I lower myself into the chair. My knees brush against Blaine's pant-Âcovered legs and I tremble, the contact heightening my awareness of him, the cushion cool against my bare ass.

The natural ground cover rustles around us, members of our audience repositioning themselves, seeking a better view. The scent of fresh herbs mixes with sandalwood and musk, Blaine's distinctive cologne.

I pinch my nipples, the pain sharp and stimulating. Blaine's gaze lowers, tracking my movements, his eyes darkening and his dress pants tenting around his erection.

He wants me as badly as I want him. I play with my breasts, teasing and taunting him, moonlight reflecting off the gold keys. “You're overdressed.” My voice is husky.

“Tonight is all about you.” He reaches out and curls a tendril of my hair around his index finger. “Put your legs over the armrests.”

I obey his command, opening myself completely to him, to the mysterious men watching me. Blaine peruses me leisurely, thoroughly, sweeping his gaze over my bent legs, my pale inner thighs, my glistening pink pussy. I rest my palms on my knees, allowing him to look, to see all of me.

“I've dreamed of you this way.” His angular face softens. “Our child growing inside you and your naked body flush with desire. You're perfect.” I feel perfect, womanly and powerful. “Show me how you touch yourself.”

He knows how to touch me. I strum my feminine folds up and down, spreading my wetness, eagerly playing this sex game with him. I'm the hesitant virgin once again and he's my naughty secret, the billionaire I strip for.

I stroke my pussy with my fingers and rub my clit with my thumbs, the combination escalating my passion. As Blaine watches me, he loosens his tightly knotted tie and undoes the top button of his dress shirt.

“You're so wet, so responsive.” His eyes glow with approval. He leans forward, his head between my legs, his hot breath wafting on my inner thighs. “How do you taste?”

“I don't know.” I dip into my entrance, burying my right index finger up to the joint, and I swirl, caressing my inner walls, drawing more moisture from my core. My desire spirals higher with each twist of my wrist.

I extract my finger and hold it up to him, my pussy juices glistening on my pale skin. “Taste me.”

Blaine seals his lips around my finger and sucks, his cheeks indenting. His eyes roll upward, his expression blissful, a small smile curling his lips. My body pulses to the tug and pull of his mouth.

“Delicious.” He releases me, my finger licked clean.

I drive into my pussy with one finger, then two, then three, stretching myself to the point of pain. Blaine's head lowers even more, moonlight streaming down on his black hair, his lips a breath away from my sensitive flesh.

I rise into each thrust of my fingers, grinding my clit into the heel of my hand. A band of passion constricts around my chest and I pant, unable to inhale enough oxygen.

I work myself with a harshness only I can, knowing my own limits. One of the men watching us groans, the quiet sound thrilling me. In my fantasy, he unfastens his pants, the dark fabric pooling around his ankles, and he strokes himself as he watches, his cock big and hard, a dab of pre-Âcum on his tip.

Blaine is also hard, my husband wanting me, watching me. I pump my pussy and rub my clit, pump and rub, pump and rub. My thighs quiver, my arousal building, my control fraying.

Henley is likely standing in the darkness, the big man one of our most frequent watchers. I imagine his scarred hands wrapped around his cock, his gaze fixed on my breasts, his expression heart-Âwrenchingly serious.

Tremors roll over me, their intensity increasing until they shake my entire body, pushing me to the sweet edge of release. I grit my teeth. I can't hold on. I can't.

“Blaine?” I ask for his permission.

He lifts his gaze and meets mine, his tanned cheeks speckled with my pussy juices. “Come for me, Anna,” he orders, and I whimper with relief. “Come now.”

I slam my hand against my clit. The pain breaks me and I scream, bucking upward, smacking Blaine's face with my pussy, past shame, past everything. He cups my ass, holding me, not allowing me to fall alone into the abyss.

I twist in his embrace, tethered to the world by his hands. The waves of bliss lessen and gradually fade. “I love you, Blaine,” I murmur, my limbs limp and my form liquid.

“I love you, nymph.” Blaine gathers me in his arms and leans back on his lounge chair, nestling my naked form into his fully clothed body. “And I love you too, baby.” He kisses his palm and places his hand on my stomach.

My heart melts. I didn't think I could love Blaine more than I did mere moments ago but I do. He sees me. He loves me. He's giving me the family I've been searching for, and I know he'll always watch over us.

About the Author

CYNTHIA SAX lives in a world filled with magic and romance. Although her heroes may not always say “I love you,” they will do anything for the women they adore. They live passionately. They play hard. They love the same women forever.

Cynthia has loved the same wonderful man forever. Her supportive hubby offers himself up to the joys and pains of research, while they travel the world together, meeting fascinating Âpeople and finding inspiration in exotic places such as Istanbul, Bali, and Chicago.

Please visit her on the web at www.CynthiaSax.com.

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Also by Cynthia Sax

He Touches Me

He Watches Me

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

HE CLAIMS ME
. Copyright Â© 2013 by Cynthia Sax. All rights reserved under International and Pan-ÂAmerican Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-Âbook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-Âengineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperÂCollins e-Âbooks.

EPub Edition JULY 2013 ISBN: 9780062300348

Print Edition ISBN: 9780062300355

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