Caught for Christmas (Stripped 3.50)

“I’m not a martyr, if that’s what you think. I’m doing this because it turns me on. Just looking at you turns me on, hearing your breathy little moans turns me on, touching you turns me on.”

My throat is suddenly dry, and I swallow. “And then?”

“I’m not done with you, Bianca.” It’s like he’s making a vow. “I haven’t even started.”

A shiver runs through me, and I force myself to meet his gaze. He promises so much in that one look. Pleasure. Fulfillment. He promises a future, and that’s how I know it’s a lie.

And strangely enough, that’s how I can trust it. I know all about lies. I grew up with them. I survive on them. It was that awful earnestness that I couldn’t handle, when he thought I might have been a different girl, a better girl—when he might have believed in me. Now he knows the truth about me. There can be no future. Only this.

“Then start,” I whisper.

He was waiting for that—for desire, for permission. I know, because he doesn’t wait any longer. As soon as the word is out of my mouth, he dips his finger into the top layers of cream and presses it into my mouth. He isn’t hesitant. He doesn’t wait for me to let him in. He just pushes his finger inside, smearing heaven on my tongue.

Then he’s leaning down, his face inches from mine. I can feel his heat, his breath.

His mouth closes over mine, hard and demanding. This isn’t a gentle kiss. It isn’t a question.

It’s a promise, just like the look in his eyes. He tastes the chocolate cream, and he tastes me with equal fervor, tilting my head back so I’m trapped against the chair. His hand cups my jaw, tilting me up to open to him, to surrender completely.

It feels as good as I always dreamed. Before I even knew West, when he was just some fantasy of a man who cared. He pleasures me, using his tongue to tease me and taunt me. And at the same time, he possesses me, claiming me with every press of his lips and stroke of his thumb against my cheek. I’m surrounded by him. Everything that came before—the savory meal and the sweet dessert only built to this moment, when I’m tasting him for the first time.

There’s something specific about the way he kisses me, the movement of his tongue, the rhythm he uses. It feels like sex, like he’s already fucking me even though we both have our clothes on. I squirm in the seat, pressing my legs together to assuage the ache.

He notices, pulling back. His lids are low. “You hungry, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t mean for food.

I can only nod. Please.

His lips curve in a lazy smile. “Me too.”

He bends and kisses me again, and I’m lost to his mouth, his uniquely male taste. Only vaguely do I feel him touching me over my arms and down my sides. And then sudden warmth of large hands cupping my breasts. I gasp, but he’s already gone, already moving downward, tracing a path over my body.

One hand slips beneath the band of my soft black pants. The touch of two fingers against my sex makes me jolt against the tape, but my wrists are still bound to the chair.

“Shh,” he soothes against my mouth. “You want this, baby. I can feel how wet you are.”

I whimper, squirming in my seat, pressing myself farther away—and then pushing right up against his hand in shameless need. “Don’t make me wait.”

It’s the worst kind of torture, feeling his strong hand hold very still. It’s like he’s punishing me for refusing him, and I can only rock against his hand in rhythmic plea.

“We’re done waiting,” he says softly.

He pulls his hand away and stands.

Chapter Ten

“Wait. No.” It was one thing when I thought he was going to fuck me. I’ve had men fuck me before. If they’re gentle enough, I might have even enjoyed it.

What West is doing with his head between my legs is something different. Something sweeter.

“What’s wrong?” His eyes meet mine, and I can see the hunger in them. He doesn’t want the food from the restaurant, though. He wants me. My body, which is spread open to him, already wet.

“I don’t do this.” My voice is too high-pitched. Too scared.

A rough laugh. “You don’t have to do anything. I’m going to do all the work, baby.”

In another life that’s what this tape and this chair could have meant: letting him do all the work. Relaxing enough to give him control. But we aren’t in that world, where I’d have a choice. It’s a luxury—choice—and I’ve spent my whole life backed up against the wall, hungry and desperate and fighting to survive.