Slow Seduction (Struck by Lightning) (7 page)

“Well, well, Karina, if I worried you were going to be frigid, I guess those worries are gone now.” He chuckled. “Without taking your mouth from where it is, what I’d like you to do next is reach between your legs and make yourself come. Keep sucking me. Do I need to tell you to be careful of your teeth? No? Good. Now go on.”

My cheeks flared with heat as I did as he asked. Somehow sucking him wasn’t as personal as this. But I slid two fingers down my seam and wasn’t surprised to find how wet I was. My clit throbbed. I ran my fingers on either side of it and sucked a little harder to keep him firmly in my mouth.

It became tricky as I got closer, as my breathing grew choppy and little sounds of desire burbled up my throat. Concentrating on not biting him, keeping my tongue and head moving, while also trying to get myself off, was difficult. I think it was supposed to be.

He made it easier when he got impatient, I think, or overwhelmed with desire, and sank his fingers into my hair, taking charge of my head and moving me up and down on him. Now all I had to do was keep breathing and rubbing myself furiously.

I expected him to stop me before I could come. That was what always happened in these situations, isn’t it? Doms seemed to deny you at the last second.

Not this time.

When I started to come, I made seal noises, muffled by the cock in my mouth. 
Ngh ngh ngh.

“Keep going!” he hissed, his voice rough. “Make yourself come again!”

Ngh ngh ngh!

I didn’t really have a second orgasm so much as that first one didn’t end and instead went to the next level. He came with a shout, his cock jerking in my mouth as he shoved himself deep. It was too sudden for me to even try to pull away, and he held me firmly. As it turned out, it was probably better that I didn’t pull away. Everything I’d ever heard about it tasting bad or being difficult to swallow was negated by the fact his come went right down my throat. After he backed away from me, I coughed a little with a kind of tickling burn in my throat, but that was all.

I thought for a moment he was going to tug me up into a kiss. Maybe he almost did. Then we both came to our senses a little.

“Is your clit sore?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” I answered.

His smile was evil as he shed his clothes. “It will be. On the bed. On your back. Legs spread.”

Oof. My legs were weak from coming, and I stumbled a little as I climbed up onto the silky duvet. The bed had a long decorative strip like a pashmina scarf laid across the foot of it. He wrapped one end around my ankle, ran it behind my neck, and then wrapped my other ankle. As bondage went, it wasn’t very challenging, even when he pulled and bunched it behind my head, making my legs spread a few more inches.

The next thing I knew, he dove face-first into my pussy, licking and sucking and snarling like a lion at a piece of tasty meat. If that sounds comical, that’s because it was. I didn’t laugh though, figuring that would probably not go over well. And he was good with his mouth. I was coming again within minutes, bucking against his tongue and crying out. James excepted, I wasn’t used to men who actually knew how to please a woman.

He pulled my hips to the edge of the bed then and kept licking, this time sucking hard on my clit until it was trapped between his teeth and torturing the most sensitive bit with jabs of his tongue. I couldn’t really struggle with my flesh in his grasp like that, and I cried out instead and drummed my fists against the bed. He didn’t relent until I’d come again, even though I hadn’t thought I could, the pitch of my screams going up as I did.

When he let go, he stood with a triumphant grin. “And to think that frigid bitch Vanette thought you were too repressed to perform sexually. Come here.”

By “here” he meant his arms; he threw himself onto the bed, and I dragged myself up to put my head next to his on the pillow. He spooned me, but if I thought we were going to rest, I was wrong. His hand immediately worked its way between my legs and over my clit until he had a finger inside me.

I groaned as he stroked me deeply.

“Okay, Karina, truth time,” he murmured in my ear. “Why no sex?”

“Ngh. This isn’t sex?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”

Even though I had just come four times, the sensation of him touching me inside was so delicious. “Vanette was right. I’m saving myself for someone.”

“Some dom.”

“You could say that.”

“But you’re not a virgin. This isn’t your marriage bed we’re talking about.”

“No. I’ve had sex with him.”

“And is this prohibition his idea? Does he know you’re being trained by the society?”

“No. We’re…we’re separated right now.”

“Ahhh, so it’s your idea to try to be loyal to him while you’re apart.”

“Yes.”

“A very noble, if inconvenient, idea.”

“What’s inconvenient about it?”

“That I want to fuck you so very much.” He rutted against me, and I could feel him regaining his erection. I stiffened in his arms, but he murmured to me, “Don’t worry. I keep my promises. Although now that I think about it, you didn’t say I couldn’t fuck you in the rear.”

“I…you’re right…I didn’t.” Argh. Had I created a loophole?

“You’re very tense, Karina.”

“Um.” What was I supposed to say? I’m sorry? Wait, can I get a do-over? I’m not sure I want you to fuck me up the ass? “It’s just that I suck at this submissive stuff.”

He nuzzled the back of my neck, which was rigid as a board. “Karina, Karina. I’ll be the judge of whether you, ha-ha,
suck.
You did not suck at sucking, by the way.”

“I didn’t?”

“No, I was quite pleased.”

“Really? Then I did it. I pleased you. Literally.” He wiggled his finger inside me and a wave of lust ran through my body. “Ah, stop it! You’re trying to weaken my resolve.”

“I’m not. I promised I wouldn’t fuck you and that means even if you begged me to now, I’d know better than to do so. We’ve moved on to discussing whether you forgot to count anal sex, too, though?”

“It’s hard to keep track of what we’re talking about when you’ve got your hand up my snatch!”

He laughed and said, “I know. That’s the whole point. But you’re right. I’m undermining my actual goal, which is to hopefully figure out the puzzle that is you.” He slid his hand free and dragged his damp fingers across my belly. “Up. Into the shower with you. We’ll discuss this more when we’re clean.”

He slapped me on the bare ass then and I yelped. “Oh, you infuriating, confusing man!”

He rolled off the bed and sauntered toward the bathroom. “Ha. More infuriating and confusing than the master you’re saving yourself for?”

“Yes!” I threw a pillow at him and he danced out of the way, laughing.

Washing up was a brisk, genial affair. Despite the room’s luxurious size and the fact that there was a Jacuzzi tub for two, the shower stall was not large enough for both of us. We took turns; he went first. Damon made small talk while he scrubbed himself.

“So have you had a chance to see the sights? Parliament, all that?”

“Not yet. I’ve been working days at the museum—plus some nights, as you know—and I’m helping my landlords renovate in exchange for rent in the evenings.”

“Oh, painting, that sort of thing?”

“Demolition, mostly. This week, anyway. I’m going to try to get to York next week, though.”

“For sightseeing?” He stepped out and toweled his hair, leaving it a mass of glossy black, not unlike Perseus’s in those Burne-Jones paintings.

“I hear it’s really nifty. The old medieval city and all that. Plus lots of chocolate shops.” I got into the shower and shut the door. The glass was clear, not frosted, so he could see me perfectly well, and the stall was open at the top, so I could hear him as long as my head wasn’t under the spray.

“Really? I was only there once, for a big to-do at the Minister. That’s the big church there. Always figured I’d go back, but, you know, it’s a big country.”

“I’m planning to take the train.” The water was still hot from him using it.

“Train is definitely the best way to get around. Ah, here’s a tip. Don’t be confused by the so-called National Rail. Unlike in America, there are lots of train companies. They’re like airlines.”

“That would explain why there are so many train stations here.”

He laughed. “I suppose. Never really thought about it.”

I ducked my head under the water and when I came out he was in the bedroom, dressing. He had put on a casual shirt and what looked like soft pajama bottoms or sweatpants. He was pulling on a pair of socks.

My bag and the pile of my clothes that had been by the door were nowhere in sight. I had a towel wrapped around my head but didn’t see anything else for me to put on. “Do you have something you want me to wear?”

He looked up. “Your skin. I want you to be completely comfortable in your skin. Although, you’re actually far more at ease about it than I thought you’d be, Karina. I was expecting you to be all shivery and blushing when you crawled over to me.”

“I wasn’t?”

“Not like you were ashamed of being naked, or degraded by it. Which you shouldn’t be. You’re gorgeous. It’s no crime to be beautiful and it’s no shame to show it off. Something the Greeks understand much better than the English.”

“It’s also a lot warmer in Greece,” I pointed out.

“True. The warmer climates certainly encourage one to show one’s skin. Look at Brazil. Hmm, but then again, Finland, Sweden, they love their nude saunas…” He stood and went back into the bathroom, emerging with a hand towel. He gestured for me to follow him into the parlor, where he put the small towel down on one of the two padded dining chairs. “Here’s something you might not know about sauna etiquette. When you go inside the sauna stark naked, you always bring a towel, so that you don’t leave a stain on the seat. Whether sweat or other.”

I sat on the towel while he picked up the phone and ordered tea and dessert.

He took the other chair then, and ran his fingers through his still-damp hair. “Now, where were we? Ah yes, your demeanor. I was expecting you to be less comfortable with nudity because most Americans are.”

“You’ve seen a lot of nude Americans?”

He gave me a wolfish grin.

“Okay, fine. But did you miss the part about me doing performance art? I think that kind of got me over any nudity issues I might have had.”

“Ah. You hadn’t actually said you were bare-arsed, so I didn’t make the assumption. Hmm. I would have liked to have seen that performance. Were you entirely naked?”

“I was. Although my face and upper body were hidden from the audience. I was…” How to describe it? “Sort of inside a sculpture, with my ass and legs hanging out.”

“All in the name of art?” he teased.

“Ha. I guess. And because my partner wanted me to.”

He nodded. “Let’s talk about this partner.”

Yes, let’s,
I thought.
You try to figure out the puzzle of me, and I’ll try to figure out the puzzle of James.

“I take it he’s a dominant man, but is he a sadist?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, did he like to hurt you?”

“At least sometimes. Like the riding crop, or paddling me, or spanking me. But it wasn’t the main focus.”

“And it doesn’t sound like he was into humiliation, or your shame about nudity would be intensified, not lessened,” he said. “What kind of dominant was he, then?”

“Um, is
control freak
one of the types?”

He snorted, holding in a laugh. “Yes, dear, I suppose you could say it is. Describe to me what you mean by that.”

“Aside from the whole public exhibition side of things, he seemed to get off on—and I mean that figuratively and literally—controlling me. And himself, actually. Having rules and plans. Asking me to do things and having me obey.” That first night we’d met, if I’d laughed and said no way when he’d asked me to go looking for the marble in his pocket, what would have happened? He would have laughed, too, and moved on. He would have gone home alone, like he said he had planned to.

It struck me then how much I had derailed James’s plans by saying yes. And what had spurred him to invite me into the game? He had once told me, in a romantic moment, it was because there was something special about me. Did I still believe that?

Did he?

“Your mind is somewhere far away,” Damon said softly.

“Sorry. I got caught up in thinking about him.”

Damon pursed his lips, examining me. Then the door chimed. “Aha. Stay where you are.” He hopped up.

The room service deliveryman was Asian, and he averted his eyes from my nudeness, concentrating on lowering himself so that the tray on his shoulder settled neatly on the table. He then transferred the various items onto the table with brisk movements. Damon signed the check and closed the door behind the fellow, who scurried out.

“I think he was more embarrassed than I was,” I said, as Damon sat back down.

He plopped a sugar cube into his teacup. “Perhaps. Or at least he felt he should act like it. I’m sure hotel employees see honeymooners looking much more compromised than you.”

“What if he comes from a country where they’re more repressed? That was kind of cruel to him, then, wasn’t it?”

“First of all, how do you know he’s not English?”

“Well…Oh.” It hadn’t occurred to me until then that there were the equivalent of Asian-Americans in other countries. “You mean, Asian-English? Asian-British?”

He chuckled at me. “I know. Not the English stereotype at all. London is nearly twenty percent Asian. In fact, less than half of London’s residents are white British.”

“How do you know that?”

“Demographics are part of my business,” he said smoothly. “I believe we’re about forty-four percent white British in the city. When you add in white Irish—”

“Irish is different?”

“Yes, dear,” he said with a snort, “and all the others who count as white, the total is close to sixty percent. But that still leaves four out of ten London residents something else.”

“How many Greeks?” I asked, only half-joking.

He had the answer right on the tip of his tongue. “Probably about thirty thousand total. London has the most Cypriots outside of Cyprus itself. But how did you get me off the subject? We’re supposed to be talking about you.”