Page 320 of Summer Heat
“Elbows on the steps,” he says.
I can obey him without thinking. There’s relief and shame, equal parts.
This position makes my breasts push out. I’m vulnerable like this, made into a living statue for him to touch and lick and suck. For him to bite, clasping my nipple between his teeth with a threatening growl.
“No,” I moan. “Please.”
His demonic laugh floats around me, as wild and effervescent as the moonshine from last night. I’m drunk on whatever he’s doing to me, held captive by his desire.
Then his hand cups between my legs.
He squeezes. “And here.”
I shake my head, because that’s different. Kissing my mouth, my breasts. Those are one thing. What he’s demanding is too intimate, and I fight him. He pulls at my jeans, and I twist away. His legs settle around me, locking my body against the stairs.
My hands clench the front of
my jeans. “No, no. Not there.”
“Elbows,” he says. “Steps.”
I cover myself for two breathless moments, shivering in doubt. Except I’m trapped against carved mahogany and muscled flesh. What choice do I have? I move my elbows back to the step behind me, pushing my breasts into his face. My cheeks flush in humiliation.
“Yes, sir,” he says, his voice gentle.
“Yes, sir,” I whisper.
His hands are clinical as they unbutton my jeans and pull down the zipper. He tugs off the jeans with a few rough pulls and tosses them aside. The panties go next. Maybe this part doesn’t matter. He’s seen it all before, and it’s dark in the room. So dark with only the embers to wink at me from the fireplace.
Except I can’t stop shaking, made so vulnerable by this position, by his command. Made naked by his very will. This is what it means to be owned by someone.
He pushes my legs apart. Not only a little, for him to touch me, for him to see. He pushes until the outsides of my legs touch the lip of the step. I’m completely exposed to him, spread open for him.
Blunt fingers nudge that slit—the one worth paying a million dollars for. Nothing’s ever been inside there. Not a man. Not fingers. Not even a toy. He doesn’t linger there but moves higher.
“Did you touch yourself?” he mutters.
I turn my face, looking at the black flames. “Yes.”
“Like this?” he asks, pinching my clit between his thumb and forefinger. The same way he touched my nipple. It feels too rough at first, almost painful, until the heat turns to pleasure.
It’s hard to talk when he’s doing that. “Not like—more circles.”
He draws a circle around my clit, and I buck into his hand. “Gabriel,” I whisper.
“Right here,” he says, voice as dark as the room. “I’m going to taste you right here, feeling your clit against my tongue, fucking you with my mouth until you cry. Do you want that, little virgin?”
I know the right answer, not only because he wants me to say it. Because I want him to do those things. I want to live. “Yes, sir.”
He bends his head.
The first touch of his lips to my clit makes me jump. Only his large hands holding my hips keep me steady as he nibbles his way around my clit. He dips lower, a few large licks over my sex that have my toes curling against the wood.
“You don’t taste sweet,” he says, pausing. “You taste like I’m fucking dying and you’re the only water around. You taste like goddamn air.”
He puts his lips back on my sex, and I can’t help the shrill scream that escapes me. God, what is he doing to me? I thought he might want me tonight—maybe we’d have dinner, some semblance of a date. Maybe he would come to my bedroom. I never expected to be caught in the library, to be spread open on the steps of a hand-carved staircase.
Every stroke of his tongue brings me higher, winds me tighter, until I’m rocking imperceptibly into his mouth. Little grunts escape me, matching the animalistic need in the air. I’m pushing against some cliff, held back by a barrier I don’t understand, I can’t name. I had an orgasm before, by my own hand, but this feels entirely different—a strange and uncontrollable beast.
