Red Skye at Night (9 page)

The soft fabric of his shirt bunches in my fists as he slips his arms under my hips and around my back. He stands, lifting me easily. Harry doesn’t break the kiss as he lays me on the bed, then stretches out alongside me. He rolls, pulling me on top of him. For a brief moment I am the aggressor, but my supremacy is short-lived. He shifts again, this time tumbling me under him. My legs are spread, his hips holding them apart. The hard bulge of his erection is pressing against me, prominent even behind the constricting denim of his jeans. He has remained fully dressed, though not for much longer, surely. I release my grip on his shirt to grope for his jeans zip, but he wraps his hand around my wrist, raising my arm above my head.

“Tied up, Hope? Yes?” His tone is low, but laced with that thread of dominance I am starting to recognize as his signature.

“What? But I…” Surely he will want me to do…something.

“Do you trust me, Hope?”
Apparently he doesn’t.

“Yes, I trust you.” Unbidden I raise my other arm and cross my wrists above my head.

Harry smiles his approval and shifts to one side. He reaches for the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a tie. It’s soft, the fabric silky and smooth, striped in pale yellow and gray. I am momentarily surprised—I would have thought Harry’s tastes would veer more toward bold, bright colors in preference to muted pastels. He’s a man of contrasts and conflicting styles. I set that thought aside and concentrate on this moment.

Harry loops the tie around my wrists, binding them together before stretching my arms farther upwards toward the head of the bed. He fastens my bound wrists to the frame then rolls to his feet. He winks at me before returning to his case, still beside the door. He opens it and retrieves two more ties, one in a deep burgundy, the other a more subdued dark blue. He stands at the end of the bed watching me, the ties dangling from his right hand. I manage, with some effort, to lie still.

“Your ankles too?” He pauses to ask permission, only reaching for my right foot when I nod my consent.

Seconds later my ankles are secured to the posts at the bottom of the bed, my legs spread wide. I tug against my restraints, testing the feel of this. I am immobile, but not uncomfortable. Harry seems satisfied. He glances around the room, only now taking proper stock of his surroundings. He strides to the huge double wardrobe and opens the doors. He grabs two plump pillows from a shelf at the top and returns to the bed to dump them beside me.

“I’m going to shove these under your butt. Lift up.” He slides one hand under my bottom and raises me from the bed. He pushes both pillows under me. I was already stretched out tight—the effect of the pillows is to arch my body upwards and present me much more conveniently for his attention. He sits beside me, raking my body with his eyes. His inspection is slow, unhurried. He doesn’t touch me, but I know my pussy is moistening. I’m clenching, lying here helpless, waiting for whatever comes next.

Harry combs his fingers through my pubic hair, twisting the springy strands into tight little curls. “A natural blonde. Very pretty.”

“I think I read somewhere that men like you prefer waxed. Or shaved.” I blurt out the words, only clamping my mouth shut when it’s too late to bite them back.

“Men like me?” Harry drags his gaze from my blonde curls to my face. He smiles, seems amused rather than displeased by my unguarded remark.

Even so, I’m embarrassed now, unsure what to say, what it is I’m trying to describe. “Yes, men who, who…” I’m stammering. Not usually inarticulate, I can’t seem to find the words I need.

“Men who tie beautiful women to their beds before they fuck them.” Harry’s helpful comment is delivered in a deadpan, matter-of-fact tone, as though he discusses this sort of thing every day. Perhaps he does.

That’s one way of putting it.
I just nod, uncertain. I wait.

“I do, but it’s up to you. Waxing’s better, but painful.”

“I’ll do it. Tomorrow.” I don’t for a moment doubt the accuracy of his information. I’ve always had a fairly high pain threshold, though, and after all the surgery I endured in my teens I am quite unfazed at the prospect of a Brazilian wax. Far more powerful, and perplexing, is the motivation to please him—to be, or become, what Harry McLeod prefers. It occurs to me that my tolerance of pain might be tested very soon, though for tonight I cling to his promise to make me purr.

“Your choice. I’d suggest a salon, though, rather than a DIY job. At least for the first time. And talking of first times…?” He pauses to let the question hang in the air.

“I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you mean.” Where did that note of defensiveness creep in?

“How convenient, if something of a technicality. For my purposes, I rather suspect you may be.” He resumes his idle play with my soon-to-be-removed pubic hair. “Your ass too?”

“My… My what?” If I was defensive before, I’m preparing to repel all boarders now. This I had not anticipated.

“Did anyone ever fuck your ass? It’s a simple question.”

“No they bloody didn’t.” A simple answer, too.

“We’ll need to work on your attitude, Hope. And believe me, when I fuck your ass—and eventually I will do that—you will love it.”

I just stare at him, perhaps wisely refraining from further comment. Privately I have my doubts, but I prefer not to prolong this discussion. I’m considerably more interested in his immediate plans.

“Where do you like to be touched, Hope? And how? Do you like it hard and fast and rough, or do you prefer to take your time? Are you a slow burn, or a hot rush, I wonder?” He holds my gaze as he questions me.

My mouth is dry—I have no answers for him. I may not be entirely without relevant experience, though I’m beginning to realize that my frame of reference is more limited than I am entirely comfortable with. I prefer Harry not to know just how at sea I am so I decide to busk a little.

“I— There’s no hurry, is there? Slow’s better.”
Probably. Surely. And safer.

“No, no hurry at all. We have all night and I definitely intend to savor you now I have you where I want you. Even so, I think we need you to relax and an orgasm would do it. You’re going to come in the next thirty seconds.”

“I don’t… Oh!”

My protest meets a sudden end as he plunges two long fingers deep into my pussy. He twists and thrusts, his eyes never leaving mine. I gasp as he finger-fucks me hard. I’m clenching helplessly as he probes, stretching and exploring. He finds—what? Something, a place deep inside where…
Oh, God!
A jolt of pure lust thrums within me. I moan. He concentrates his relentless massage on that exact spot, inserting a third finger as I writhe against the restraints holding me still. He seems to know now exactly where to press, how to rub to draw out that response. He angles his wrist to lay his thumb across my clit and flicks it hard. Despite his earlier promise, I do scream as my body becomes rigid. He knows exactly what he’s about, how he’s affecting me. Controlling me effortlessly and driving my response.

“Come for me. Now, Hope.” His voice is quiet but the air of command is unmistakable.

Even before he completes the instruction, I am starting to shiver and tighten, hurtling past the point of no return. My pussy convulses around his questing fingers and I orgasm hard. I start to close my eyes, my head tilted back onto the quilt below me.

“Look at me. Watch me, Hope. I want to see your eyes as you come.”

I have to obey—no other choice. He holds my gaze, and allows himself a brief half smile the moment I finally relinquish control to him. A smile of confident satisfaction, of ownership. Of mastery. He knows it, I know it. Our deal is struck.

My orgasm is over almost as quickly as it began, a brief, clenching moment of pure passion, sensation in free fall. My inner muscles slacken their grip around his fingers and he slides them from me, though he continues to caress my clit with the pad of his thumb. The motions are slow, calming and relaxing, sweetly intimate. My body feels almost liquid, a puddle of warm desire.

“Good girl. Now we explore a little more, find out what turns you on.”

“You already did…” I manage to whisper my response, my throat dry as I regain control of all my senses.

“I think there’s more. Much more. Would you like a drink, Hope?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“No you’re not. We’re playing nice tonight, but in the future if you lie to me, especially about whether or not you’re fine, I intend to punish you.”

I’m still processing that as he stands and walks away from the bed, leaving me bereft. He goes to the fitted fridge tucked under the dressing table and opens it. He returns with a small bottle of chilled water, unsnapping the cap as he walks back to the bed. He cups the back of my head to tilt it upwards, placing the open bottle against my lips.

“A few sips now, then more if you want it.” He tips the bottle, trickling a gentle stream of cool water into my mouth.

I swallow gratefully, relishing the comfort of the refreshing wetness in my throat. How did he know when I didn’t, really?

“More?” He waits for my quick nod then repeats the action.

I gulp and swallow more of the water before turning my face away. He releases me, re-caps the bottle then places it on the floor.

“So, where were we? Oh yes, I asked you how you like to be touched. Are you ready to answer me now?”

“I, yes— I mean, well, everywhere.”

“Everywhere? Here then?” He turns, reaches for my foot. He trails his fingertips lightly over my instep.

My toes curl and I try to drag my foot away. I hate being tickled. “No! Not there. That tickles, please, stop…”

Mercifully he does. “Here then?” He reaches above my head for my wrist, drawing his fingers slowly down my arm, past my elbow and into that little hollow in my armpit.

This is another of my ticklish zones. I know even before he reaches the edge of my breast what he intends to do. I try to squirm away but of course I can’t. His smile is pure wickedness as he feathers his fingertips across my sensitive skin and I squeal for him to stop.

He does stop, but not for a few, agonizing seconds. He leans over me, a gleam of lustful mischief in his beautiful blue eyes. “So, ready to tell me exactly where you do want me to touch you or do I continue to find out for myself?”

Bastard.
He said he wouldn’t hurt me, but he never mentioned tickling. I close my eyes, I know I have to be explicit or be prepared to endure more of his teasing. “My nipples. I like that. I think.”

“You think?”

“Yes. I do. I mean, definitely.”

“I see. What would you like me to do to your nipples?”

I’m about to respond with something non-committal but pull myself up in time. Instead I err on the side of caution. “Stroke them please. And, and lick them.”

“Now you’re getting the idea. Like this?”

I arch my back in stunned delight as he takes my right nipple between his finger and thumb then rolls it firmly. This is my reward for speaking plainly. I suspect I could make a habit of it. The bud has already hardened from my orgasm, but pebbles more under the pressure of his fingertips. He increases the intensity, squeezing the sensitive tip. I wince, and he releases me.

“Too much?”

Yes.
“No. No, that was fine. Please, could you…?”

“I could.” He takes my left nipple between his fingers and repeats the treatment, at the same time dipping his head to take my engorged right tip between his teeth. The bite is soft, gentle, the merest scrape of his teeth across the hard nub. It feels exquisite, and my pussy spasms in delighted response.

“Oh, oh God. I need, I…”

Harry slips his free hand between my legs and plunges his fingers into my wet and welcoming pussy. If I were able to gain any purchase against the bed I’d be thrusting against his hand. As it is I have to rely on him to provide the friction I crave. He’s on it, seems to know instinctively what to do, how to send me spinning back into orbit. He’s rubbing that inner spot again, stretching and stroking as he continues to pleasure my nipples with his tongue, teeth and fingers. My climax starts to gather once more, tightening and clenching deep in my pussy.

He releases my nipple and raises his head. “Not yet.” His tone is more of a growl, but his meaning crystal clear.

Earlier he commanded me to come. Now he’s commanding me not to. I obeyed him the first time, effortlessly. Now I’m not sure I can.

“Please, Harry.”

“Wait.” That relentless growl again, then he returns to his task. He ramps up the pressure now, though, opening his mouth to take my nipple and some of my breast inside. He sucks. Hard. My pussy reacts predictably, starting to convulse around his questing fingers.

“Hang on, Hope. Count to ten, slowly, then let it go.”

“I can’t. Please, I need to…”

“You can. You will. Concentrate.” His determined snarl halts my whimpering.

I do as I’m told, counting in my head. I reach five, start to believe I can do this. Harry has other ideas. His thumb connects with my clit again, circling the throbbing bud once, then again more firmly. He draws the pad of his thumb across the tip, and I’m finished. My strangled squeak of “Seven” is the last thing I manage to utter before my senses are swept away again by the hot rush of my second orgasm.

More powerful than the first, the sensation overwhelms me. I’m shaking, shuddering under the uncompromising, sensual onslaught of his mouth and hands. Harry seems to know what I want, what I need. He intensifies the pressure of his lips, thrusts more firmly with his fingers. My orgasm rushes through my body, starting at my core and radiating outward to my extended limbs, setting my nerve endings to tingling as it slowly recedes.

Only when I am quite still, no longer spasming under his hands, does Harry slide his fingers from my body. He stretches alongside me as he did before he tied me up. He props himself on an elbow to look down at me. I open my eyes and smile at him.

“Seven?”

“I tried. I’m sorry. It was just too—”

“No excuses, Hope. You’re a slut. That’s the plain fact of the matter.” He says it without rancor, the warmth in his eyes at odds with the harshness of his words.