Three Guilty Pleasures (Blindfold Club 6)

I’d show her how serious I was. She swallowed so hard, I heard the click in her throat. Was she thinking about the blindfold club? How she would lie on the cushioned table and let anyone have her for the right price?

It defied logic that this appealed to me, but my body was simpler. The concept had blood rushing to my cock, which swelled in my jeans. I wanted our first night back. I needed to do it right, but now we had these rules preventing it. I’d disliked the rules at first, and then began to enjoy them. It forced us to be creative.

We’d fucked each other in every way imaginable, except for the ways that were expressly forbidden. And I would have done it regardless, but the rules made sure I took care of her pleasure and placed its importance over my own.

The table was plain black and something I’d probably picked up at IKEA years ago, but it was sturdy enough. It barely shook as she sat on it, her legs dangling, and her hands curled over the edge as she stared up at me.

As I undressed her, she let my hands roam and explore. There wasn’t a spot on her body I hadn’t already touched, but it didn’t matter. Each time I was as eager as the first. I striped her of her shirt, bra, and jeans, but left the delicate pair of pink lace panties in place.

“Move back and lie down,” I said, placing a hand in the center of her chest and pressing gently, until she followed my command. She shifted on the wood, settling into a position that was still probably a little uncomfortable, but she didn’t complain.

My chest tightened as I gazed at her. My kitchen was well lit and boring, unlike the intimate, sexy club. She wasn’t blindfolded, or tied down, or even completely naked. But it was close enough, and I struggled to keep focus.

“Don’t move,” I commanded.

I left her, my footsteps swift as they carried me into my bedroom and to the bottle of scented oil I’d bought on my lunch break earlier in the week. When I returned to the kitchen, she was exactly as I’d left her, prone on the table, her palms flat against the wood. I approached and stood by her side.

She turned her head to me, her gaze landed on the bottle, and a coy smile warmed her lips. Tara approved.

I unscrewed the cap and poured a handful in my palm while she watched.

A puzzled look flashed on her face. “Is it scented?”

“Vanilla.” I chuckled.

Her laugh cut off as I turned over my palm and let the oil drip from my fingers, drizzling onto her skin. Her eyes hooded when I put the bottle down and set my hands on her, streaking the oil across her chest until it was glossy.

I repeated the process slowly all over her body, warming the oil before dispensing it. Pour. Drip. Slide.

My hands had the same sheen as her skin, and I kneaded the muscles in her calves, one leg, then the other. Tara wobbled between pleasure and satisfaction. My massage turned her on, but it also relaxed. She became pliable in my hands as I worked upward.

I stroked her thighs, working loose the muscles.

I probably spent too much time on her breasts. I loved the way they looked as they slipped through my fingers. The only spot I didn’t pay attention to was covered by her skimpy panties. Shit, they were sexy.

“I’m going to want this again,” she whispered, “on Saturday night.”

“About that . . .”

My palms slalomed over her curves, down her flat stomach, and to the tops of her thighs, only for me to slide them inward and ease her thighs apart. I turned my palm down and ran my hand between her legs, my knuckles brushing over the lace and her clit hidden beneath.

Her breathing picked up. “About that, what?”

I’d been standing beside her, but now I rounded the table, seized her ankles, and dragged her closer to the table’s end. She gasped in surprise, but again, she didn’t protest. Did she trust me not to hurt her? Her knees were up and together, and I put my hands on them, slowly pushing them apart as I spoke.

“I want to meet them.”

I’d proven myself, but I was desperate for more. I wanted to see this side of Tara, because I wanted all of her.

I didn’t give her a chance to respond. I threw my hands on either side of her hips, leaned down, and licked the crotch of her panties.

She jolted. “That’s against the rules!”

“Is it?” I did it again, dampening the lace further. “You still have your underwear on.”

When her legs tried to close, I put my palms on her knees and pinned them to the table. It was gentle enough she could easily overpower me if she wanted to stop, but firm enough to remind her she liked when I took control.

“Oh, fuck.” She recoiled off the tabletop, her body bending upward as she bucked from the sensation. I traced the pattern of lace with the tip of my tongue. This walked the line of being wrong, but I didn’t fucking care. If I’d been in competition with them, I’d clearly won. Maybe it was time they took some orders from me.