Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

“I don’t know,” I lie.

He gives me a small smile. “Let’s find out. Pull up your nightgown.”

Oh God. It would be so much easier if he lifted the fabric himself. I would let him do anything to me. It’s different to participate. To be the engine of my own destruction.

I grasp the hem in trembling hands and lift.

He takes a half step back to examine me, and I almost chicken out. I almost drop the nightgown and run down the hall into my room. Like some scared little virgin. That’s probably what he expects me to do. He even lifts an eyebrow, waiting and watching.

When I don’t move he gives me a thorough perusal.

“Pink,” he murmurs.

And I don’t know what he means until I remember dressing after my shower.

Grabbing the worn pair of pink panties that have been washed a hundred times. There’s probably something humiliating like a hole somewhere. I never thought anyone would see them. I never thought he would see them.

“Pull them down,” he says.

I close my eyes. Can I do this? “Three things,” I murmur, more to myself.

The air in the hallway should be freezing, but I don’t feel the cold. There’s only heat in his gaze across my skin. I push the waistband of my panties down to my thighs.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

The words wash over me in a rush of pleasure and embarrassment. I know it’s wrong to be doing this with my boss, with a man so much older than me, with a man who has power over me—but it feels sharper because of those things. Sweeter because of them, too.

He leans close, enough that I can feel the warmth of the words against my temple. “Spread your legs. And hold your nightgown higher.”

It’s hard to spread them with my panties around my thighs. I can only open them about a foot apart. The confinement of the elastic makes it hotter.

As if I’m tied up for him in a net of my own making.

Even my hands are restricted. I’m holding up the fabric, which means I can’t do anything else. I can’t pull him closer. I can’t push him away. As long as I follow his commands, I’m trapped against this wall, open for whatever he wants.

He traces designs over my rib cage, and I shrink away from the ticklish sensation. He draws a heart on my stomach, and I suck in a breath. There’s letters written into my skin along the side of my hip, but I can’t make out the words.

I’m on fire. He’s teasing me, the same way he teased my breasts. Avoiding the place where I need him most. Pride has no space in this hallway. I push my hips forward, trying to tempt him. Needing him more than my dignity.

Finally he pushes two fingers between my legs.

He’s nimble and light when he wants to be. Precise when it comes to pain. But he’s a blunt force in my pussy, two fingers rubbing hard and fast, making me pull up on my toes.

I realize that he wants me this way. Off-balance.

When I move my hips in a rhythm against his hand, he pulls back.

The wall is trembling at my back. No, I’m the one trembling. “Please, please, please.”

“You beg so pretty. Men would die to have you, you know that?”

That makes me laugh, an unsteady, breathy sound. “I’m no one.”

“You are softer and more vulnerable than anything I’ve ever seen. It’s like touching water.”

There’s something not quite right about that. He shouldn’t want me vulnerable. Or maybe I shouldn’t like him being such a fortress. The thought flits through my head. Then his lips touch mine, and it’s gone.

He takes it deeper this time, using his tongue to dampen my lips, biting me gently, teasing me so I lean forward. His large palm covers my breast, and I moan into his mouth.

There’s a glaring absence of his hand between my legs. I’m still holding up my nightgown. My panties are still wrapped tight around each thigh, but he doesn’t touch me.

When he kisses me again, I bite down on his lower lip.

“I’m still waiting for the third thing,” I say, and I know I’m pouting. It feels almost flirty. A little seductive. Who is this woman? Maybe I am someone men would die to have, right now.

He shakes in silent laughter, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter when his hand slides down my stomach to my sex. He pushes two fingers into the wetness and squeezes them together around my clit. I catch a high-pitched noise in my throat.

His dark gaze meets mine. We both know I have to be quiet.

We both know that I can’t.

Mr. Rochester presses his palm over my mouth. The moan that follows is muffled. He begins a slow and steady pace, fucking me with his fingers, rubbing the heel of his hand against my clit. I gasp and moan into his other hand. My hips rock to meet him, to make the friction harder, but whenever I do that he pulls back. He demands that I follow his rhythm, his pressure. He demands that I follow him in every way, and I close my eyes, yielding to him.