Page 53 of Strict Confidence (Rochester Trilogy 2)
I grasp him in my fist and glance up at him. His teeth are gritted. It looks like pain, but I know it’s something else. It’s that singular ache I feel between my legs, wanting so much it hurts.
This close, in the tiny pocket of universe between him and the wall, all I can see is his cock. All I can smell is his salt-musk. I place a hesitant kiss on the side of his erection.
It jumps in my hand, startling me.
“Don’t play with me,” he says, his voice low.
He’s never been this way with me, this intense, this severe. I should be afraid, but somehow it emboldens me. I’ve brought him to this pitch. “Or else what?”
“Or else you’re going to get fucked.”
A shiver runs through me, even though I don’t fully understand the warning. I thought that’s what we were doing here.
Then he pulls from my hand. He fists his own cock, fucking himself.
“Open,” he says, and now I understand.
He’s not going to let me suck him. I won’t be able to lick or kiss. I won’t be able to play with him. Instead I’ll be given his cock. I open my lips, and he pushes forward. My mouth is flooded with salt, with arousal. I’m full, gasping, almost gagging, and then he pulls back.
“Again,” he murmurs. That’s the only warning I get, the split second of knowledge before I’m filled again, my eyes watering with the pressure against my throat, tears running down my cheeks. He holds longer inside my mouth. When he pulls out, I’m gasping for air.
“Again.”
This time it goes too far. My throat convulses around him. My hands fly up, without thinking about it, without planning. I don’t want to stop him necessarily, but my body reacts. I try to pull back but the wall blocks me. My hands push at his thighs. It’s like trying to move a brick wall.
He pulls back, looking down at me, shaking his head. “No, ma’am.”
His tone is gently admonishing, playful and serious at the same time. It’s humiliating for him to chastise me this way, but my body reacts as if he swiped a finger across my clit. I’m immediately hotter, wetter. My thighs clench together.
“Give me your hands,” he says.
I lift them, and he pins my wrists to the wall on either side of my head. Then he pushes forward again. His progress is slow but inexorable. I try to open wide, to submit to him. Don’t fight, don’t fight. There’s a moment of panic, but he mutters words of praise and encouragement.
“Breathe through your nose.” The words are like a low, almost inaudible music in the room. “Relax. You can do this, sweetheart. You can take me.”
Tears run down my cheeks. I feel them drip off my chin and fall onto my chest. He holds himself inside my throat. I swallow around him convulsively, again and again. My lungs burn without air. A circle of darkness closes. Then he pulls out and air fills me up, almost violent in its return.
“Or maybe I won’t survive,” he mutters, his midnight eyes glinting down at me.
A hand fists in my hair. He uses it as a handle to lift me up off the floor, up and up and up until he can kiss me again. His teeth rake along my bottom lip—a flash of pain—and then he’s stripping me down. Fast. Efficient.
My shirt comes over my head. My yoga pants. Nothing withstands him.
“More,” he says. Nothing else. Just more. He’s going to take more.
“Yes,” I breathe. Take me. Take everything.
He’s breathing harder as he skims his hands over my shoulders, my breasts. This is as sweet as he’s willing to be right now. As slow as he’s willing to go.
I don’t want him to be careful with me.
He’s not.
He moves us over to my bed, turns me to face him, and pushes me up onto the mattress. There’s no hesitation now. He moves me how he wants me, and oh, God, it’s such a relief.
Finally, finally. I don’t have to think. I can just feel.
He spreads my legs apart, arranging me however he wants. And he wants me open.
Two fingers tease at my entrance. It’s like he’s testing how wet I am. How swollen. How ready. Then he shoves two fingers inside, fast, unrelenting, and my whole body bows with shock. Even as aroused as I am, it still feels like too much.
He kneels beside me, leaning over me. I feel dominated, whether I’m against the wall or against the bed. It’s my own personal cliff. He walks me to the edge, then pushes me over.
He finds a spot inside me that makes me gasp.
“What are you doing?” I manage to pant.
“Writing you a message,” he says, sensual knowledge in his eyes. He knows exactly how he’s making me feel, how hard it is to stay still.
