On My Knees (Stark International Trilogy 2)

Of course I cannot. I have ceded that control, after all. I am in Jackson’s hands, and he is relentless, and I am wondering now about the wisdom of telling him to take me far. To take me hard.

Because so far, I am barely managing even this relatively mild touch. How will I survive a full-blown onslaught of sensuality?

He lifts the pendant now and then touches the tip ever so softly to my nipple, which is already so sensitive and tight that even this butterfly-kiss contact rockets to my cunt and—oh, dear god—I feel the tremors of a building orgasm rise through me, set off by nothing more than Jackson’s teasing of my breasts.

“Oh, yes,” he says, then very gently strokes his fingers over my sex. “I think someone likes this.”

I say nothing. But I do whimper a bit.

I hear him chuckle, and then he moves on, teasing my other breast similarly before easing the vibrator down my belly. I arch up, wanting both to escape the relentless sensation and to silently beg for it to continue.

When he reaches my pubis, he pauses, then lifts his head to look at me. It’s a challenge, I think, and I stay silent. Neither protesting nor begging, despite wanting to do both.

His small, smug grin suggests he knows exactly what I am thinking. My pubic hair is waxed into a thin landing strip, and he teases me by tracing the edge before finally trailing the tip of the vibrator around my clit. Close, but not on the most sensitive part.

I writhe, testing my bonds, needing to escape or control this growing, wild sensation. But I am bound and there is no escape. There is only submission. And excitement. And pleasure so keen it is disguised as pain.

“Please.” It is the only word that means anything. “Please.”

But he doesn’t listen. He torments me for another minute, an hour, a year. Until finally—finally—he brushes the tip of the vibrator over the sensitive tip of my clit and I explode as a knife edge of pleasure slices through me, cutting me to ribbons and then sending those shards up into the sky, higher and higher until I finally, blissfully, fall back to earth, my body still tingling. Still hyperaware.

“Oh, god, oh, Jackson.”

I am still trapped, and I struggle against the bonds, wanting to touch him, but he is having none of that.

He strips quickly, and he’s so hard that I think his erection must be painful. “Hard, you said? You want to be fucked hard?”

“Yes.” I buck my hips. “God yes, please.”

He doesn’t disappoint. He slams into me, and I am so wet and aroused that he enters me fully in one deep, amazing thrust. Over and over, his body pounds into mine, and the friction on my still sensitive clit sends me spiraling up over and over—one, two, twelve, a million—I have no idea how many times I come, but I seem to be nothing more than an explosion of light and sparks. No longer myself, but simply pure pleasure.

And when I finally do drift back to earth—when he unties me and pulls me close—I realize that he did exactly what he promised. He took me somewhere I have never been. And in doing it, gave me the most profound sexual experience of my life.

“That was wonderful,” I say, though the word sounds weak. “Profound. Life-changing. A religious experience.”

He laughs. “That is very good to know.” The vibrator necklace is on the mattress beside us and now he picks it up and puts it back over my head. “And I have to say, I very much like you wearing this.”

I raise a brow as I trail my finger over the delicate chain and down to the pendant. “Like a slave collar.”

His eyes widen just a bit. “And what would you know about that?”

“I read. I watch movies. I surf the internet.”

“Do you?”

“And what do you know?” I counter, thinking about his trunk, the contents of which I still haven’t inspected. But leather cuffs are rather telling, as far as I’m concerned. And, yes, I am intrigued.

“I think there are some very interesting things that can be adopted from the BDSM repertoire,” he says as his finger strokes my collarbone, then my breasts. He flicks his thumb over my nipple, and I can almost see him thinking about the possibilities.

After a moment, he looks up at me again. “As for the collar, that’s a symbol of ownership. Do I need to mark you as mine?”

I lean forward to kiss him. “You already have.”

His expression hardens. “Your tattoo. On your back.”

I cringe and shake my head. “No. God, no.” My words are vehement, and he relaxes. “I was lost when I had Cass do that tat. It was a way to keep you without keeping you. And that wouldn’t satisfy me now. Not even close.

“No,” I continue, taking his hand and pressing it to my chest. “You’ve marked me here. You’ve marked my heart, Jackson. And we both know that I belong to you.”