Page 59 of The Cruiser
ChapterTwenty-One
A one-way delivery system.
Sweet, simple, divine torture.
His tongue sweeps end-to-end before drilling me with one deep, exquisite stab. I gasp, my back arching like the crack of a whip blistered against me. The cool iron rods of the bed frame clenched between my fingers feel sturdy, but if Italian furniture makers don’t take a note from their couturiers’ page and build stuff that lasts, things might get ugly.
“Okay?” he asks.
Is he kidding? Wine sluices through my veins and I’m a pulsating jumble, ready for more.
“Don’t stop. Even if I tell you to.”
Allowing Morgan to possess me—his rules, his world—is an endless state of erotic damnation with no beginning or end. He’s relentless but times it all perfectly, backing off, going hard, switching fingers for tongue. Fucking me in long, profound stabs. He knows every button and where he needs to be, or I guide him if he doesn’t. The pleasure squeezes my screaming muscles into a ball, with only a vague blur of light visible through my crossed eyes. I’m distantly aware of the bed frame clanging against the wall and at some point I beg him to stop, the pinch of blissful pain a knife’s edge.
But he doesn’t stop.
He’s allergic to that responsibility.
He enforces our contract like a brute.
“I’ll stop when you can’t talk,” he mutters.
Settling in like a newborn on a nipple, he latches onto my swollen nub. Already sore from the nonstop tension, my body tightens again as he sucks and sucks, ratcheting my arousal into an apex of surrendering indulgence.
“Oh god, Morgan,” I moan.
I can’t shake out of his grip, more bruises a given. The soles of my feet start to burn. My womanhood spreads wider, and my fingers cramp from clutching the frame so tightly.
And then I’m falling. Falling back from the cliff I’m this close to tumbling off.
“What are you doing!” I pant. “Jesus Christ. Keep going.”
Looking down, a nasty grin spreads within his stubble. “I will,” he says. “In due course.”
“For fuck’s sake, Morgan.” I rattle the bed frame against the wall, a prisoner in my own game. “I said, don’t stop.”
“Someone’s testy.”
“You…” I bite my tongue. He’s divine, is what he is. A human heat-seeking missile. Playing me to perfection. “Please. Keep going.”
“Waiting is good for you,” he says, his hands cupping my ass. “It builds character.”
Chafed and raw from his stubble and voracious pillaging, my inner thighs beg to differ. My reflection in the window is bedraggled chaos. If my clit was any more swollen, I could tee off with it. This is not character building.
My body sags in defeat. “Please.”
“Are you in a rush?” he teases.
“When the tables turn, you’re going to be very, very sorry.”
He laughs and corkscrews a finger deep inside me, sending a tingle all the way to my quivering ass. “Look at me, Vandana.” I drag my eyes down to his villainous ones. His pupils are dilated, full of black, full of sin. He pulses his finger up and down, in and out, thumb pad circling on my clit like a plane spiraling to a crash. “Are you threatening me?” he asks, casually.
I bite my lower lip in agony, everything clenching. “Maybe.”
He drives his finger deeper, enjoying my cry. I am so turned on, so unused to his rules of play. Cruel, but lovingly administered. I bounce up and down on his digit, trying to rocket my way higher again.
He pulls out, smacking my ass. “You’re not in charge.”
