Perfect Strangers

“Although I love that sound, it’s not a word. If you don’t talk, I’m going to stop.”

Through gritted teeth, I say, “Bossy!”

He chuckles. “You haven’t seen bossy yet, beautiful, but you will. Here, I’ll start a sentence for you. ‘James, I want you to put your mouth…’”

When I bite my lip and stay silent, he removes his hand. I groan again, this time in protest, and open my eyes.

He’s kneeling over me, staring down with bedroom eyes and a sultry smile. He lifts a hand to my face and slowly presses his thumb past my lips and into my mouth so I taste myself.

Then he kisses me, deeply, until I’m making desperate noises and pawing at him, at all those muscles of his and his warm, smooth skin. I grab his ass and grind my pelvis against his erection.

He moves his cheek against mine and whispers next to my ear, “Do you want my mouth on your pussy, Olivia?”

Dear sweet Jesus in heaven, I’m dying. This is it. I’m dying right here and now.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

Now that was bossy. His tone is low, rough, and unmistakably dominant, and sends a thrill straight through me. It pulls the words right from my lips.

“I want your mouth on my pussy.”

It’s barely audible, but it does the trick. In one swift move, he slides down my body and puts his face between my legs.

I realize the benefits of frank sexual communication the moment I feel his hot, wet tongue stroke over my clit.

I cry out, my back bowing from the sofa. He slides his hands under my ass and grips it as he sucks and licks me, making little grunts of masculine satisfaction that are almost unbearably sexy. My jeans aren’t low enough on my legs to allow me to open my thighs wider, but that small restriction seems unbearably sexy, too.

In fact, the only thing that doesn’t seem sexy at the moment is that I’m too aware of my hands. They’re clenched next to my hips. Am I supposed to put them into his hair? Fling my arms out to either side? Play with my boobs?

Obviously, I haven’t had sex since the dark ages.

“James,” I say breathlessly.

He lifts his head, licking his lips.

God, so fucking hot. “Since we’re being so verbally expressive, is this a good time to tell you I’m feeling awkward about my hands?”

“What’s wrong with your hands, sweetheart?” Still looking at me, he presses a gentle kiss on my throbbing clit.

“I don’t know what to do with them.”

A dent forms in his cheek. He’s trying not to laugh at me. Then he sits up and whips off his belt. “I know what to do with them.”

The thrilling dominance is back in his voice.

I could really, really get used to that.

He gathers my wrists together and quickly wraps his belt around them, slipping the buckle under one of the loops to keep it secure. Then he raises my arms over my head, resting my bound wrists on the arm of the sofa.

Looking deep into my eyes, he commands, “Don’t move from this position, or I’ll spank your ass until it’s red.”

I can’t decide which one I’m more: outraged or turned the fuck on.

I say hotly, “You will not spank me!”

He smiles. “Oh, yes, I will.”

“James! I’m a grown woman!”

“You are. A sexy, beautiful grown woman with an ass like a ripe peach that’s going to get spanked for disobedience if you move your arms.”

“I don’t like spanking!”

He pauses to examine my expression. “That’s something you’ve tried before?”

I twist my lips, loath to admit I haven’t. “I mean…not exactly.”

He’s still examining me with slightly narrowed eyes. “Is that a yes or a no?”

After a moment, I admit grudgingly. “It’s a no.”

“So you just object to it in theory, then.”

“Of course I object to it in theory! What kind of person enjoys pain?”

“Masochists.”

“Ugh, semantics! You know what I mean!”

Another pause as he gauges my expression, then he demands, “Tell me what really bothers you about it.”

I blow out a hard breath, annoyed that he can read me so easily. “Fine. Aside from the pain aspect—which I’m not into, for the record—it seems…belittling.”

“Okay. I hear you.”

I’m surprised by that. Now it’s my turn to examine his expression. Never in the history of my experience with men has one said, “I hear you.” For the men I’ve known, acknowledging a woman’s feelings is like asking for directions: it simply isn’t done.

“Oh. Well…thank you.”

“If I promised it wouldn’t be painful, but it definitely would be a huge turn on for us both, would you consider it?”

That exasperates me. “How on earth can slapping my bare ass with your bare hand not be painful for me?”

The dominant tone makes a reappearance. “Because I know what I’m doing, that’s how.”

All the breath leaves my lungs in a wheezing sound like a punctured tire leaking air. When I’ve recovered, I say, “Can I think about it?”

“Of course. And while you’re thinking about it, I’m going to make you come.”

Down between my legs he goes, the wonderful, wonderful man.

Except he’s not wonderful, he’s diabolical—all I can think about is not moving my arms. And what will happen if I do.

Exactly as he intended.

He strokes his tongue up and down and around, pausing to slide a finger inside me. Then he goes back to the stroking and the sucking as I close my eyes and rock helplessly against his face.

My nipples ache. I can’t catch my breath. My awareness narrows to that tiny bundle of nerves between my legs that’s throbbing under his tongue and the sensation of his thick finger pumping slowly in and out of me.

He reaches up with his free hand and tweaks my hard nipple, right through my bra. I jerk, groaning.

“You like that?” he murmurs, his lips moving against my sex.

“Yes. Both. Do both, please.”

He knows what I mean, despite my being speech impaired at the moment. Slipping his finger out of me, he reaches up with both hands, scoops my breasts out of my bra, and strokes his thumbs over my rigid nipples. When I whine in pleasure, he pinches them.

“Yes. Yes, that.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart,” he whispers, lowering his head to suckle my clit again as he continues to pinch and stroke my nipples.

Oh God, it’s good. It’s incredible. My entire body tingles. Tingles and pulses and shakes. A wave of intense heat radiates out from my core. I’m sure I’ll set the sofa on fire. Then his teeth scrape over my clit and I almost lose consciousness.

Straining up toward his mouth, I beg, “Yes, please, don’t stop, please don’t stop, oh God, I’m so close—”

It isn’t until James freezes that I realize something is wrong. When I open my eyes and glance down at him, I discover what it is.

My fingers are clenched in his hair. Which means I lowered my arms.

Which means I disobeyed him.

Which—judging by his sly smile—was the exact outcome he was hoping for.