Page 27 of At Her Pleasure
He couldn’t tell her it was okay to leave it off.
It was annoying that it bothered her. She hadn’t lived in chastity under some random possibility she’d meet him again. What was in his expression went beyond that, though. Whatever his reasons for having to use a condom, they deeply bugged him.
She’d look at that another time. Or not at all. He was here for a couple weeks at most. No need to get bogged down in emotional bullshit. She adjusted, bent and licked the tiny blood-speckled spot on his cock, tasting his musky heat. As she laved the abrasions with her tongue, she soothed, right before she scraped him with her teeth and made him flinch again.
“Fucking hell, Mistress…”
Breathy, almost reverent.
Binding his wrists had ballooned that raw energy inside him to a more intense level. He was a dangerous beast, but when it mattered, he was well-mannered. He didn’t try to push against her lips, though she could feel the pulse throbbing in his cock. She didn’t put him in her mouth, just teased him, spiraling licks around that impressively standing erection.
When he was swallowing groans and his powerful body was shaking, she rolled the condom over him, clasping the base in firm fingers. The head had been slick with precum, the shaft hot and rigid in her grip. Contracting muscles fluttered in her lower belly and cunt, her flesh soaked with need. Moving the elastic of her panties to the side, she posed just above him, his tip teased by her slick folds.
She waited to see how he would behave. He swallowed back what she had no doubt would be a direct order to fuck him. Even in his agitated state, he knew that was a mistake.
“Torture me all you want, Mistress.” His voice was strained.
Her tone was frost. “Do I need your permission for that?”
He shook his head, the shoulder with the old injury twitching. That position, knuckles stabbing into his back, metal cuffs against his wrist bones with her sitting on him, would be getting progressively more uncomfortable. But torture was an endurance sport, and she had an experienced sense of what a man could suffer for her without permanent damage. “I’m here for you,” he said.
The absolute right answer. She sank down on him.
It was good that she was well-lubricated. A little hum came to her lips as she took every considerable inch of him. Her head dropped back. She was in her own world, setting the pace. He was here to serve her. And he was doing a very good job.
“Mistress…” A harsh rasp, his gaze roving greedily over her face and throat, the thrust of her breast, the movement of her hips on him. “Oh, fuck…”
“You don’t get to come, Mick,” she purred. “This is all for me. I want you to leave this lot as hard as you are now. I want you to curse me for torturing you. I want you to be willing to do anything to be in my cunt again. Including not coming until I say you can.”
“You’re killing me, Mistress.”
She rose and fell. Oh God, he felt so good. But she kept it together enough to answer him. “That’s how it’s supposed to be. Your life is in my hands, Mick. Isn’t it?”
He managed a jerky nod. It was taking all his focus to obey her and not release. Any other man would have had no choice, but Mick refused to let himself disappoint her.
She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did.
“You don’t have my permission to die, either. Even if I do my best to kill you.”
She put her hand on his upper abdomen as she rode him, leaning forward to increase the dig of the metal against his wrists, the stab of his knuckles into his lower back. She stroked, clenched, rose and fell, becoming more aggressive.
She took her time, denying herself even as she kept feeding on his frustration, relishing the tension in his bunched muscles. The climax spiraled up faster than it usually did for her, so she was having to push it down, tell herself to wait, to wait…
“You want to come, Mistress. I can feel it. Your cunt is sucking on me. Let it go. Let me see it.”
His mouth tightened over a swallowed curse. He’d realized his error. Her lips curved. “Eyes shut, Mick.” At his mutinous look, she stopped moving. “Or I slide off and finish this with my own hand. Behind the straw bales, where you can’t see me.”
His eyes closed tight, but what came from his lips was her favorite endearment.
“Yes, I am a fucking cunt. A cunt fucking you, as long as I want.” She was breathless, and though his eyes were shut, the angle of his head suggested he was reaching for that sensory input, pulling it inside to keep. It felt as if he’d swelled to twice his size, the friction against her sensitive, slick tissues catching her on fire.
“Oh…” The orgasm rolled over her, arching her back, her throat, making her thigh muscles clench against his hips. A cry broke from her, the long, low sound of a woman being well-serviced by what a man could offer her.
Something even more than what she was used to, than what she allowed. Than she wanted to admit.
The waves kept coming, helped by her fascination with his incredible struggle not to come. She’d been sure he would lose that battle, but he didn’t. Even during the aftermath, she kept testing it, drawing out those waves, savoring every last ripple of sensation, every tight muscle of his jaw, around his eyes, in his neck, shoulders and chest. At last, she leaned forward, and breathed on his parted lips.
“Open your eyes, Mick.”