d.
“Make no mistake, you’re not getting a gentleman. Do you remember what else I told you?”
“I can’t think about this now. I need—”
“I need you to answer the question. Maybe this will refresh your memory.” Before she could guess what his version of a memory refresh might entail, he pinched the base of the condom and pulled out completely. Her cry of frustration died in her throat because the next instant he flipped her over onto her elbows and knees.
A wide hand splayed over the base of her spine. Though she couldn’t see his face anymore, she imagined his hot stare roaming over her. Trembles started somewhere in her knees, and migrated all the way up to her arms. Could he see her shaking? Feel her entire body shuddering with need?
“I told you we’d play by my rules, and I’d be very exacting.” Something big and blunt took a slow journey down the cleft of her ass. “Is the conversation coming back to you now?”
No. “Yes…” She lowered her chest to the cushion and raised her hips, biting her lip to keep from begging when he lined himself up flush against her threshold.
“Are you ready to continue?” He teased her opening, and she became a slave to instinct, rocking backward with as much force as she could manage, and absolutely no grace. Luckily, his reflexes were as good as they’d been last time around, in the closet, and he steadied her with a hand under her abdomen.
“Much as I appreciate the demanding woman you keep hidden beneath that polite demeanor, Miss Wayne, I’m afraid she’s not in charge. I am.”
He was toying with her, but his voice lacked genuine amusement, and something about the hard quality warned her his frustration might well be self-directed, but heat stormed into her cheeks anyway. An impulse to shove him away and haul her desperate, horny, and highly compromised ass into a cold shower shot through her, and she went so far as to raise herself up onto her arms, but then he moved—just enough to remind every raw, tingling nerve ending what he could do to her—and all thoughts of stalking off evaporated. She wasn’t going anywhere. The mortifying truth was she’d say whatever he wanted, do whatever he demanded, as long as he put her out of this misery.
The hand at her stomach smoothed down and caressed her thigh, gently massaging the taut muscles. “I know what you need, and I’ll satisfy you until you’re hoarse with gratitude.”
Both the words and touch reassured her. He’d put an end to this torture. Soon…
“All you have to do is say the magic words.”
Oh, God. So much for soon. Resigned to her fate, she stopped fighting the slope of the chaise and rested her forehead on her crossed wrists. The position offered more comfort than remaining braced on her arms, but conveyed an element of surrender she found impossible to ignore.
“Magic words,” he prompted.
Heat swept into her cheeks again, but she told herself it was just blood rushing to her head. “Please.”
“Please, what?” The question came out a harsh, almost angry whisper.
“I don’t know…please tell me what to say, and I’ll say it. I promise. Just tell me…” Desperation put a quiver in her voice, and she broke off. He must have heard, though, because he showed a measure of mercy, and gave her another inch. Fingertips trailed up her thigh and brushed her sex. She cried out.
“Yes, you do know. Think back to the night in my suite. I told you I wouldn’t give you any relief until you parted those sinful lips and said…”
The lightbulb went off. You’ll be on your knees, begging…The words rushed to her lips and she stammered because she couldn’t get them out fast enough. “P-please fuck me, Mr. St. Sebastia—”
He was inside her, fully, before she finished the sentence. Bigger, harder, deeper than he’d been before. His fingers swept down her center and massaged her where their bodies joined. Noises embarrassingly close to whimpers snuck past her lips as he moved his fingers in devastating circles over the part of her stretched to capacity.
“Again,” he ordered, circling his fingers, and then, finally, his hips. The slow slide of his body into hers unlocked her tongue, and this time neither pride nor uncertainty held her back. She angled her knees to get her hips as high as possible, and said, “Please, please fuck me, Mr. St. Sebastian.”
He fulfilled her request without restraint, surging into her over and over. “Keep saying it.”
She gripped the cushion for an anchor and absorbed every thrust, but no matter how hard or fast he moved, the pressure at her center kept building. Between the rapid percussion of their bodies slapping together, she repeated, “Please…please…please…”
He braced an arm against the top of the chaise, and rewarded every plea by strumming his fingers between her legs, timing the rhythm to match the speed of her begging. Eventually her lips couldn’t move as fast as she needed, and all she could produce were inarticulate cries.
“Please what, Chelsea?”
His clipped words told her the strain affected him too. For some reason, he needed this from her, and, God help her, she needed it, too. She drew in a shaky breath and prepared for more personal growth and self-discovery. “Please, Rafe.”
The reward was instant and staggering. He trapped the throbbing bundle of nerves where the ache centered between his thumb and forefinger, and squeezed. Air backed up in her lungs. Light flashed behind her eyes. For one impossibly long heartbeat she knelt there, enduring the sweet agony. Then the pressure splintered into shards of pleasure and tore through her in a devastating cascade.
“I lost count, Miss Wayne. Was that three or four?” Rafe’s voice rumbled in her ear, low and unmistakably smug. She pried her eyes open and watched in the mirror above the bed as he traced tally marks across her stomach with his index finger. With the chore completed, he tipped his head, met her gaze in the mirror, and gave her a slow smile. Heat seeped into every cell of her over-stimulated, utterly exhausted body. She closed her eyes and snuggled into the pillow. When had he moved them from the pool to his bed? Her sluggish brain couldn’t pinpoint the moment. Somewhere between her second and third orgasm.
She didn’t need to open her eyes to know he watched her. What did he see? A series of images replayed in her mind. Had she really knelt on a lounge chair and begged him to fuck her? Yes, she sure had. And that had just been the beginning. Now she lay here, four orgasms later—she hadn’t lost count—slightly amazed and strangely proud of herself. A part of her had worried she didn’t really have it in her to indulge in sex solely for the thrill of it, and not be racked with guilt or shame. Three cheers for personal growth and self-discovery. Laurie had been absolutely right. Focus on fun, attraction and bone-dissolving sex. What more could a girl want? She turned onto her side and hugged a pillow.