Page 26 of His for Christmas
“Will you tell me if I go too far?” he asked, almost conversationally, in the same tone he might use to wonder if we’d have a white Christmas. Will it snow? he’d ask. Will I know when I break you? he’d wonder. After the fact, when it’s too late to matter.
Being with him was putting my trust in him. “You won’t.”
He shut his eyes. He could handle touching me, holding me, pounding me, but the trust was too much. And just right. When his eyes opened again, they glinted with lust—and hard steel. “Then we’ll pick up where we left off.”
And I knew he didn’t mean after in the elevator, with my lips around his hot, pulsing flesh or my legs spread wide for him. He meant before that. He meant the very beginning, in his office.
My voice came out small and somehow more confident than I’d ever felt. “You were making me come.”
“That’s right,” he said, approving, the same way he’d tell me I’d turned in the reports on time or followed his directions exactly. The tone of command and condescension sent a wash of humiliation through me—quickly followed by arousal. This man was power. He was threat and generosity wrapped into one sleek package, and I wanted more. I’d never get enough.
“Turn around.” His voice was rougher now. Colder.
I turned willingly, nerves fluttering in my stomach, a tight knot lodged in my throat. Tonight was a test, whether he meant it that way or not. He’d either bend or break me, and if he did the latter, I feared for him more than myself. He’d never forgive himself if he hurt me, which was why I needed to be strong.
I reached to flip off the lamp. A brush of air was my only warning before hands gripped my hips. He pulled me back, pressing my ass flush against his body, his erection an iron bar, threatening and hot even through our clothes.
The soft fabric of my cami gave way to his rough hands, slipping under my breasts and plumping them up.
He groaned, looking down. “The first time I saw these..”
His hands seemed large or my breasts seemed small. His hands tanned and rough against my pale skin. In every way he was stronger, darker, more powerful. I shivered, overpowered and subdued before I’d even thought to fight back.
“What did you think?” I asked, imagining that night when he’d thought he was a prostitute. And he wasn’t that far wrong. I’d been desperate then—to keep the job, to survive. Desperate to please him, the same way I felt now. The same but different, because this time I knew I could say no.
“I thought you were more beautiful than I had any right to. And I felt better that I was paying you, because at least then you’d be getting something in return.”
“I’m getting something. I’m getting you.”
A low laugh. “We’ll see if you still think that when I’m through with you. When I’ve bruised and bitten your pretty little tits. When you think you can’t take it in any deeper or harder, but I force you to.”
My inner muscles clenched, preparing myself and wanting at the same time. I could have told him I wasn’t afraid, but we were beyond that, into the place where he threatened me because it turned me on—and because it turned me on too. He didn’t need my reassurance; he needed my fear, and my body responded with obedience, sending my blood racing through my veins, my breath coming fast.
“What else?”
“Do you want to know what I’m going to do to you? I’m going to bend you over this bed, with my hand on your back to keep you down. Then I’m going to slide into that hot, wet heat of yours and get myself off with the friction of your cunt.”
I moaned, afraid and hungry. “Wait,” I said uselessly.
He didn’t wait. When I tried to stand, but his hand touched my lower back, holding me down, bent over.
Exactly like he’d said he would.
My hands braced on the bed, but it wasn’t enough. Not when he shoved a hand underneath my cami and squeezed—not a careful caress like he’d done before. He squeezed my soft flesh until an anguished cry left my lips, and then he didn’t let up. He found the nipple between his thumb and forefinger and pressed, deliberate and cruel.
“Like this,” he muttered, and I wasn’t sure if the question was meant for me or himself.
But then he pressed harder, and a whimper escaped me. “No,” I whispered.
That seemed to be what he wanted, because he started to move then, using my breasts like handles, pulling me back onto his cock, jerking himself off with the softness of my ass. Breathy, pained sounds filled the air around me, and I realized I was making them—almost a song, a sick kind of rhythm.
