Claiming Cleo (Masters Club 2)

He met her gaze in the mirror, his eyes flashing. “Keeping your hands on the counter, step back, spread your legs shoulder-width and offer that ass to me.”

Cleo did as directed, heart racing.

Master Jack flipped up the back of her dress so she felt a cool draft over her bare ass and the flame between her legs. Positioning himself behind her, he spit on his hand and rubbed it over the head of his cock. Placing one hand on her hip, he used the other to guide himself into her.

She groaned with pleasure as the hard, silken shaft eased inside her. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes as this longtime, much visited fantasy was suddenly brought to vivid life. Jack Hartford was inside her!

Her cunt sucked him greedily in as he gripped her other hip and pulled her against him. Unable to help herself, she pushed back wantonly against him.

Leaning over her, he murmured in a low sexy voice, “I loved showing off my dirty little cunt for everyone to see. That’s all you are right now, isn’t that right, Cleo? My dirty little cunt, who exists solely to please and serve me.”

“Yes, Sir,” she gasped, reveling in the erotic debasement of his words. “That’s all I am, Sir. Just your dirty little cunt.” Why did those words, which would have enraged her in a different context, thrill her masochistic soul to its core?

He slammed into her, his cock filling her almost painfully. One of his hands left her hip and rose to curl around her throat as he fucked her from behind. She gasped at the sudden, dominant gesture, her limbs turning to jelly. He held her up with his cock and with his hard, strong body, which pressed against her from behind.

Her swollen, blood-engorged labia rubbed together in such a way that it felt as if her clit was being directly manipulated by his fingers. With each powerful thrust of his cock inside her, she slipped closer and closer toward climax.

His eyes had closed, the tendons in his neck straining. All the while, he kept his hand on her throat, not so tight as to choke, but tight enough that she couldn’t get away.

A mewling cry of lust was torn from her lips as he moved faster and faster inside her, his hips swiveling and thrusting with perfect friction. His hand moved from her throat to clamp over her mouth.

“Hush,” he gasped, slamming into her. “No sound. You can come but do it quietly.”

She stared at the tableau in the mirror, transfixed. Her deep-seated, secret fantasy of being raped by a strong, fierce, sexy man was being brought to life before her eyes. His large hand covered half her face as he rutted against her. Her entire body shook with lust as he held her fast. She mewled against his hand as a blinding orgasm short-circuited her brain. He came a second later, nearly lifting her off the floor as he pumped his seed into her willing body.

They remained like that for several long moments, locked in their primal embrace, their hearts thudding in syncopated time to their ragged breathing.

Her eyes moved over his image in the mirror as she came slowly back to herself. His expression was hard to read. Was that pain that flickered in his eyes? Was he wishing she was a different woman—one he could never have again?

Noticing her gaze, Master Jack’s face smoothed, creasing into a wry smile as he stepped back from her, his hands falling away.

She remained as she was, palms still pressed hard against the counter so she wouldn’t sag to the floor on her still-trembling legs. A trickle of his come coursed in a warm thread down her thigh, but as he hadn’t yet released her from her position, she remained as she was.

She watched Master Jack in the mirror as he tucked himself away, re-zipped and buckled his trousers. Moving to the other sink, he washed his hands and ran them through his tousled blond hair.

“Get yourself cleaned up and return to the table,” he directed as he dried his hands on a small towel. “Leave the dress as it is, those lovely breasts on display,” he added, apparently fully back in control. “Our crème brûlée is waiting.”

Chapter 9

Jack left Cleo to her ministrations as he wove his way back to their table. While his body was singing with pleasure, his mind was in a confused turmoil of lust, tenderness and guilt.

He had been ready for the hot and sexy encounter, the perfect culmination after an hour of extended foreplay at the dining table. But he hadn’t been prepared for the raw power of the moment, the connection between them far more than just a playful, intense scene.

Yet, like a tongue probing for a missing tooth, his mind insisted on making a comparison to Annette. Was this better than it had been with his wife? And, if so, was he being disloyal to her memory?