Page 50 of Sexting the Boss
My eyes roll back. I swear. I scream. I claw at the restraints.
Then his hand releases one of my wrists. Then the other. I collapse forward, but his arm snakes around my waist, catching me, hauling me back up as he fucks into me even harder.
“Now,” he growls. “Now you can come, Lila.”
I do. Violently. Without warning. Without breath.
My body seizes and clenches and writhes around him, every nerve detonating, every inch of skin singing. My orgasm rips through me like a full-body scream, and I scream with it, wild and hoarse and honest.
He follows with a groan that turns into a growl, his hips jerking forward in a final desperate push. I feel him spill inside me, feel the pulsing warmth, feel his fingers dig into my waist as he rides it out with a raw, broken sound I’ll never unhear.
He stays there for a long time. Buried. Still. Breathing like he’s been through war.
Then he exhales hard and kisses the back of my neck.
He stays buried for a moment longer, his breath fanning against the back of my neck, one hand still locked around my waist, the other flexing where his fingers dug in.
Then, slowly, he pulls out. I whimper at the sudden emptiness. He hushes me softly, lips brushing my shoulder.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Stay right there.”
His hands move with purpose now, not rushed, but steady—first loosening the cuffs, unbuckling the straps, releasing me from the frame. My arms drop with a dull ache, wrists tingling as blood rushes back into them, and I collapse against him, spent and boneless.
“Easy,” he says, catching me. “Arms around my neck.”
I do as he asks. He lifts me clean off the ground like I weigh nothing, one arm under my thighs, the other across my back. Myhead drops to his shoulder without thought. His scent is warm now—salt and heat and something that still makes my stomach twist in the best way.
He carries me out of the playroom without a word, through the hall, into the soft light of his bedroom. The sheets are already pulled back. The air smells faintly of eucalyptus.
He sets me down gently on the edge of the bed, brushes my hair back from my face, then kneels to pull off my heels one by one, careful not to jostle my legs.
“Color?” he asks softly, looking up at me.
I nod. “Green. Just sore.”
That earns me a quiet smile. “Good.”
He disappears for a moment. I hear water running, something clinking in the kitchen. When he returns, it’s with a warm cloth in one hand and a bowl in the other.
“You’re going to eat this before you crash,” he says, tone leaving no room for argument. “And then you’re going to sleep in my bed, where I can keep an eye on you.”
He sits beside me, shifting so I’m nestled between his legs, back against his chest. The first bite is offered with the spoon already half-lifted.
It’s stew—chicken and rice, gently spiced, still steaming. He feeds it to me slowly, one careful spoonful at a time, letting me chew, watching me swallow, brushing the corner of my mouth when something spills.
“Good girl,” he says when I finish, and the praise lands deeper than it should.
He sets the bowl aside and grabs the cloth again, warm and damp and clean. I hiss when it touches between my thighs, and his grip tightens gently on my knee.
“I know,” he murmurs. “You did so well. Let me take care of the rest.”
He wipes me down with steady hands, cleaning me with more reverence than I expected, checking for marks with his fingers as he goes. Every now and then, he pauses to press a kiss to the inside of my knee, the top of my thigh, the base of my spine. Not sexual. Not possessive. Just…grounding.
When he finishes, he helps me into one of his shirts—soft, worn, impossibly large—then tucks me under the blanket, wrapping the covers around me before sliding in beside me.
His arm comes around my waist instantly, tugging me against his chest. His heartbeat is steady. His body is warm. I melt into it without resistance.
“You’re safe,” he says, voice a low rumble at my ear. “Right here. With me.”
