Whipped (3 page)

“Hands to your sides, please.” His tone was light, but carried scorching weight. She dropped her arms and waited for his next command.

But he didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Perhaps he wasn’t a boiling cauldron of lust. She was. She longed to touch him. To drag her palms over those bulging pecs, to explore the flex of his biceps. To taste his chin.

He made her wait. Sitting there, bare-assed, stewing in her juices. Punishing her, perhaps, for her earlier insouciance. It was a long, long while before he said, “Now, your shirt. Take it off slowly.” It was small compensation, that tremor in his voice.

Her fingers shook as she took hold of the hem and eased the material up, pausing, now and again, to assess his attention. Oh, it was fixed. On her. His eyes burned as she revealed her breasts, cupped as they were in black lace. She couldn’t resist thrusting them forward as she draped the shirt on the sofa back behind her.

She licked her lips and folded her hands in her lap. And waited.

It was nerve wracking, being bare before him but for a flimsy bra and a skimpy skirt, having him sit there and stare at her. As though he knew the effect he was having on her, his lips, those luscious lips, kicked up into a smile. He took another sip of his drink.

“Pull up your skirt.”

“What?”

He frowned at her question. “Pull up your skirt. Bunch it up around your waist. I want to see all of you.”

She swallowed an
eep
and did as he asked.

“Legs farther apart. I want you exposed.”

Holy God.
Her body, of its own accord, clenched, but she complied. She couldn’t not.

“Now, sit still.” He stood and ambled toward her, his drink in one hand. Like a lion approaching an antelope. Tina had the sense he wanted to pounce, wanted to gobble her up, but was keeping himself tightly reined.

She ached. Ached for his touch.

He stepped behind her and stroked her hair, just a skim. Then his fingers danced over her bare shoulders, leaving a burning tingle in their wake. His heat, his scent surrounded her as he bent. His mouth scraped her earlobe. The hiss of a hot breath. A nibble.

Sensation rained through her. Her nipples pebbled. Her clit thrummed. Her body was on fire. She gasped when he cupped her breasts, nearly arched into it, but remembered his command, and didn’t.

But when he thumbed a nipple, she could no longer hold still. Her whole body went on alert as exquisite pleasure shot through her, and she edged into his caress.

“Mmm,” he murmured. “Your nipple is hard.”

It was. Hard and swollen and sensitive.

He brought his fingers together in a gentle pinch. She winced.

“Ah. Yes.” With a hand to her forehead, he tipped her head back against the sofa, until she was splayed out before him. He meticulously arranged her hair in a fall over the back, running his fingers through it as though he was making love to her curls. Then he set his palm on her chest and stroked her slowly, teasingly gliding over her skin, leaving prickles of awareness around her breasts—but avoiding them—over her arms, her neck, her cheek.

He was teasing her, she knew it.

But it cost him.

Her gaze flicked to his face. His muscles were tight, his nostrils flared, his features stark as he focused on his work.

It seemed as though he explored her for hours, forever, just stroking her skin, awakening her, arousing her passion. She wanted to scream. She wanted to beg. She wanted to arch and undulate and demand more. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t be the one to break.

Finally—
finally
—as though he couldn’t resist, he cupped her breasts again and squeezed.

“God,” he mumbled under his breath and then, as though he’d caught himself giving in, he added, in a much more commanding tone, “Over to the bed.”

Chapter Three

Tina leaped to her feet and sprinted for the bed. Not that she was anxious for more—but she was. She didn’t leap onto it, though she wanted to, because he hadn’t told her to. Instead, she stopped just short of it and held herself stock-still. She peeped up at him.

“Take off your bra.”

Quickly she wriggled out of it, dropping it to the floor.

The sight of her breasts poleaxed him. Or at least he seemed stunned. He gaped at her, his eyes wide, lips working. Then his sharp white teeth came down on his lower lip. He thrust his hands into his pockets and strode behind her. “Now the skirt.”

She loved the tremble in his voice.

Slowly, she undid the snap, drew the zipper down, and shimmied out of the short garment, letting it pool around her ankles. In what she knew damn well was a provoking pose, she crossed her arms over her chest and tossed a pouty look at him over her shoulder.

He growled low in his throat and stepped closer. “Never,” he said, unhooking her hands and gently drawing them to her sides. “Never cover yourself without permission.”

Something in his tone, something deep and wounded and yearning, touched her. Her playful mood evaporated, burned away by the heat rising between them and, perhaps, his touch.

She dipped her head. “Yes Sir.” A whisper.

“That’s better,” he murmured. He took her long hair in his fist and arranged it over her shoulder, off her back, and then he set his palm on her nape. His hand was large and hot. And, as he had over her front, he explored her. It was enchanting, enervating, annoying. As though he had all night to revel in each and every pore, as though he had forever.

She shook as her awareness of him rose. Over her shoulders, down her sides to the small of her back, the curve of her ass. Her thighs, her calves, her arch of her foot. He touched her everywhere as she stood, naked and still, before him.

It was excruciating, divine. The pleasure snaking through her was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. To her mortification, a tear beaded in the corner of her eye. She wanted to swipe it away, but did not.

Because he’d asked her not to move.

“Bambi.” His voice broke when he finally spoke. “Lie on the bed, on your stomach, and stretch out your arms.”

Without a glance at him—she was far too raw to attempt it—she did as he asked.

“I’m going to slip this around your wrist.” He showed her the strap. “Are you okay with that?”

She loved how he was careful and gentle. Even though she’d agreed to all this. She nodded, turning her face away. He eased the strap on and tightened the slip knot, then threaded the long strap under the bed. He came around to her other side and waited until she met his eyes. Tenderly he dabbed the tear from her cheek. “Are you all right?”

She nodded.

“I’m going to tie your other hand now. When I do, you’ll be helpless. Completely within my power. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir.” A whisper.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes Sir.”

He stared at her for a long moment, as though he couldn’t drag his gaze away, and then slipped the strap around her wrists. Slowly, he tightened it. “Test it. I want you to know how helpless you are.”

She did. The bonds were tight, but there was some wiggle room, though not much. A shiver of arousal, of erotic fear, walked through her. She was helpless. She was. Bound to the bed on her belly. Exposed. But she knew him. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

“Ready?”

“Yes Sir.”

His hand came down on her ass with no warning and with it came a slash of fierce heat. One, two, three smacks and more, until her bottom was on fire, her body ablaze. She wriggled and writhed and moaned and cried out, but he continued to besiege her. Every once in a while he would stop and begin that tantalizing journey again, his palm flat on her skin, over her scorching ass, her thighs, her back, gently, druggingly. And then he spanked her some more.

At some point—she’d lost track of time completely—his other hand slipped beneath her, found her aching clit and stroked as he continued to rain heat down on her. The counterpoint of pleasure and pain was agonizing, blissful. He teased her, bringing her to the brink again and again, until she gasped and pled and begged for more.

When he flipped her over, it was a surprise. She hadn’t even noticed he’d released her hands. By the time she realized what had happened, he’d tied her up again, this time on her back. Her breasts thrust up, nipples high, swollen, aching.

He made a little noise in the back of his throat and dipped his head, taking one, then the other in his mouth. Velvet suction.

“God,” she wailed.

“Hush.” He found her again, dancing his fingers over her slit and dabbing in. “You’re so wet,” he said. “So ready.”

“Yes.”

He stroked her clit, then skated around it, not touching it, until she wanted to snarl and curse and demand he satisfy her. She was so close. So fricking close. He set his thumb over the top of her thrumming button, anchoring it while he stroked the underside with his finger, squeezing her with a torturous rhythm.

Her body seized.

The orgasm he’d been staving off for far too long would not be denied.

She cried out as she came, something feral and wild and desperate. And, even as she succumbed, he sank two thick fingers in deep, stroking her there while toying with her clit.

She’d thought she’d come before. That was nothing compared to this. Her crisis rose again and peaked. Bliss and insanity raged through her as she lost all purchase, all connection, all awareness but for the driving force of his thrusts, the manic response of her body.

The bed dipped as he rose, and she forced her eyes open. She wanted, needed to watch him. Never wanted to let him out of her sight again. Her breath caught as he whipped the shirt from his body, revealing a thickly muscled chest and a back covered with scars. She longed to stroke them, explore them, as he had done with her. His pants came next. He unzipped them and kicked them off in a flurry, forgetting to remove his shoes, which slowed him down. He kicked those off too and then reached for the box of condoms. His hands shook as he opened it, pulled one out.

When he stood, her lungs seized. His cock, outlined in his black briefs, stole her breath.

She wriggled against her bonds, anxious, desperate to touch him, taste him. “Oh my God,” she gasped.

He glanced at her, but didn’t pause. He pulled his briefs off—and man, was he magnificent. His cock rose high, full, heavy, insistent. The thick vein, running its length, throbbed. With quick moves, he rolled the condom on. While she hated to see such beauty covered, she knew it was coming for her and she couldn’t wait.

As he knelt on the bed, she shifted her legs apart.

She wanted him. She wanted him in. Now.

But he brushed back her hair and kissed her on the forehead. “Are you okay?” he asked in a gentle voice.

“No,” she snapped. His eyes flared in surprise. “Do it,” she said. “Fuck me.”

His cheek bunched. His lips parted. His throat worked. Ah. Yes.

Yes.

Without a word, he settled between her legs, cupped her ass in his hands and lifted her.

And then he drove home.

The bliss nearly destroyed her.

One thrust was all it took and the insanity claimed her once more.

Holy fuck, she was a hot little minx, Dane thought as he plowed into her waiting body. So slick. So hot. So ready.

It had been a delight, warming her up. Her skin had rippled to his touch. Her ass had turned an enchanting pink beneath his palm. And how beautifully she’d come. How responsively. He’d barely touched her and she’d been moaning and thrashing.

She was a professional. He knew that. It could be just good acting, but he didn’t think so.

A man could tell.

The way the flush rose on her neck, the way sweat sheened her forehead, the way the tiny hairs rose on her arms. All signs of arousal. True arousal.

He lifted her higher and changed his thrusts, hitting her from one angle and then another until he found that one spot that made her coo, and the other that made her whimper.

God, she was tight. When she came again, she clasped him in a heinous grip that nearly made him cross-eyed. He loved the sight of her, beautiful and bound and coming beneath him. It was, no doubt, a sight burned on his brain forever.

Damn, was she a wild fuck.

She arched up into his lunge, locking her legs around his waist, and annoyance curled through him. He wanted, needed more. He paused in his furious thrusts and released her wrists.

Yes. Yes. This was what he wanted. He wanted her touching him.

And God help him, she did. The moment she was free, her hands flew to his chest, stroking and exploring and raking him with her claws. Her fingers fluttered over him as he worked away in her, his plunges coming faster and faster as his intensity grew, as the pressure in his belly, the burn at his core, threatened to overcome him.

He wanted her to come again. Just one more time…

He shifted and pushed her thighs farther apart, pummeling deeper, harder, faster. A knot formed at the base of his balls. His cock swelled. She groaned and sank her fingers in his hair and yanked his head down for a kiss. She took his mouth, invaded him with her tongue in tandem with the cadence of his cock. Consumed with a desperate urge to fill her—everywhere—he had to respond. But when he shoved his tongue into her mouth and she sucked just as she came, just as she clenched his cock—the twin sensations decimated him.

He yanked out—a torment—and plunged in again. And the torment became a torrent. A flood. A rush of bliss and absolute serenity.

She felt it too. She probably felt it too. Because she sighed and collapsed and murmured his name.

He collapsed as well, at her side, exhausted, spent. He curled his arm around her and pulled her closer. “Don’t go, baby,” he said. “Don’t go yet.”

She smoothed his brow and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I won’t,” she said. “I won’t.”