Page 27 of His for Christmas
A large hand reached around and cupped my sex. “It will hurt more if you’re dry,” he said, his voice low and more menacing for how calm he sounded. Like he wanted me to hurt.
My clit pulsed at the warmth of him, desperate for more. I didn’t think dryness would be a problem—not with the way my body was already responding to him, slick and hot. But he could still hurt me.
He probably would.
I ground my clit down on his palm, seeking him, and he groaned. “You don’t care what I do to you, is that it? You get off on the pain, don’t you?”
I flinched, because I hadn’t been expecting him to call me out on it. I should have, though. I should have known he’d want to hurt me and make me want it and make me feel humiliated for it too. Should have known he’d wring every last drop of sensual torture from our play, or he wouldn’t really be Gage Thompson.
The female body was made to be invaded, made to be entered, but he fanned his fingers over my sex and then squeezed, making me feel small and owned and fucked without even slipping his fingers inside me. My muscles clenched around nothing, aching, bruised and needy. “God, don’t,” I moaned. “Please.”
“It’s really too late for that,” he said in his cool, calm CEO tones. The same tones he’d used telling Noah he was fired. “Give me your hands.”
My hands were the only things holding me up off this bed. If I gave them to him, I would have no leverage left, no protection. No control. And that was exactly the way he wanted me.
I reached back, and he clasped my wrists together, deft and sure. And just as quickly released me. I only had seconds to register my freedom before he took it back, reaching around me, grasping my cami—and oh God, pulling, yanking it. A strap tore. The sound ripped through the air. And then the ruined fabric was pulled back, wrapped around my wrists, holding me effectively, leaving his hands free to touch and roam and pinch.
A cry filled my throat, low and desperate.
He laughed softly. “So pretty. This is how I imagined you that night, when I saw you bent over my desk.” His lips found my ear, and he traced them along the curve. His voice came soft, then—I had to strain to hear. “And now I have you.”
“Please,” I whispered. But I didn’t just want his dark words, his harsh promises. I wanted him to touch me, to force me. I even wanted him to hurt me, as long as he took care of me too. Those steel bars had kept me imprisoned—and they’d kept me safe. He was steel, and he would hold me, keep me. He’d protect me.
He pulled back and pushed down my pants. Cool air washed over the backs of my legs. His fingers skated up my thigh, teasing the hem of my panties. I squirmed, aching for more, harder, now, but he held me still. He held me with his hands and my bunched up cami. With a single muttered word: “Stay.”
I stayed. I stayed while he hooked his fingers into my panties and dragged them down my legs. He pulled them taut around my ankles, spreading my legs just far enough to hold them there.
He was silent, but I felt his gaze like a touch. On my pussy, on my legs. On my ass. He watched me with total patience—the kind of patience that came with possession. There was no hurry, because he knew he’d have me for as long as he wanted. Because he knew he’d have me for a long time.
The first touch between my legs wasn’t from his hands. He kissed me. He pushed his face between my thighs, shoving them apart until I bent my knees. He licked and sucked at my pussy, only reaching the outer lips. Every nip and suck made me push back harder against his face, aching for more.
“God, I can’t—” My fingers grasped at nothing, at air.
“You can,” he said, returning to his torment. When he finally added a finger, it only got worse. And so much better, the sweet stretch of him, the brutal rhythm.
I choked on my next refusal when he stood. A zipper running down. A rustle of clothing. A tear of foil. My whole body tensed, ready for him, waiting.
He notched his cock against my opening, hot and blunt where I was slick.
Then he was inside me, shoving all the way in before I’d had a chance to breathe, too fast for me to even cry out. He impaled me, and I shuddered in a kind of sensual shock, pinned down by him, laid bare. There was nothing to do but take it, nothing to hold on to, no gravity at all except the hard, implacable length of him pushing me down on the bed.
