Play Me Hot (Play Me 2)

I don’t do it, though. I can’t.

Because the truth is, it’s too late. Too late for me to run, too late for me to hide. I may not know much about this lifestyle, about this kink, but I do know that. My whole body is already attuned to his—my blood pounds with my need for him. My skin burns for his touch. And my sex, my sex aches with emptiness, with the need to feel him inside of me.

No, running away isn’t an option, for so many, many reasons.

And then even the idea of freedom is gone, because he’s right here in front of me, his big body practically vibrating with anger. Or need. I don’t know him well enough yet to tell the difference.

“So, that’s how it’s going to be, is it?” he asks softly.

“I’m not very good at taking orders,” I tell him, trying my best to ignore the fact that my mouth has suddenly gone desert dry.

“I don’t remember issuing any orders.” He lifts a hand toward my face and instinctively I flinch away. He freezes mid-reach, his eyes going wary, watchful.

Damn it. Just that easily, I’m furious with myself. I left that all behind a long time ago and I won’t go back there. Not now, not ever. No matter how much pleasure Sebastian can bring me. For the first time since this began I think seriously of walking out and never looking back.

“I don’t respond well to punishment, either,” I tell him, forcing myself to sound cocky and unconcerned when all I really want to do is curl myself into a ball and lick wounds I didn’t even know I still had.

Sebastian watches me for long seconds, his eyes practically hypnotic as they roam my face, my body. Looking for clues, I figure, to my odd behavior. But there are none on my body—I don’t wear the marks of a man anymore, and I never will again. No, the clues he’s looking for are buried so deep inside of me that no one will ever get the chance to see them again.

Still, I’m embarrassed at my loss of control, at the tell I just couldn’t hide. I wait for the sympathy, or worse—so much worse—the excitement, but Sebastian gives me neither. Instead, all he does is watch me with a steadiness that belies my own abrupt shakiness.

“Then it’s a good thing that I don’t punish, isn’t it?”

He reaches his hand out again, slower now, and this time I don’t flinch away. Partly because I know now that he isn’t going to hit me. And partly because I want to see what he is going to do.

He cups my cheek in his large, calloused hand, strokes his thumb along my jaw. Over my lips. For a second, just a second, I wonder how and why a high-powered businessman has hands like a blue collar workman, but then even that thought vanishes in the strange lassitude that starts creeping through me again.

I don’t know what it is, don’t understand why everything is going a little blurry at the edges, a little out of focus. Don’t understand why, even as it is, I crave nothing so much as Sebastian’s touch. His mouth. The feel of his body against my own.

And then he’s pressing his thumb against my chin, pushing down until my lips part and my mouth opens for him. Only for him.

“Control isn’t about punishment, Aria,” he tells me so softly that I’m not sure I’m not imagining the whole thing. “It’s not about proving who has the bigger dick.”

His thumb presses into my mouth before I can answer, strokes gently against the tip of my tongue. I think about biting him, or at least yanking my head away.

I do neither.

“Especially in this case,” he continues. “Since I think it’s fairly obvious that only one of us can enter that competition.”

He pushes deeper into my mouth, twists his hand around so that now he’s stroking the roof of my mouth with the pad of his thumb. Slowly, gently, carefully.

It feels good, strangely, shockingly good, and I can’t stop myself from responding. My eyes close, my head falls back against the window and then I’m sucking him deeper, pulling him all the way in even as my tongue circles his thumb, stroking along the top and bottom and sides of it in the same manner I would treat his cock if it was in my mouth.

He pulls out then, his thumb wet and hot as it rubs across my lips, smearing my lipstick to hell and back. Normally I’d freak out—red lipstick is a real bitch to get out of skin like mine and I do have to go back to work when this interlude is over—but right now I can’t bring myself to care. Not when his thumb—his wet, lipstick-stained thumb, is trailing over my chin and down my neck to the hollow of my throat.

He keeps it there for a minute, fingers curled into a fist, thumb rubbing against my collarbone. And then he opens his hand, spreads it wide, until he’s actually collaring my throat with it.

My eyes fly open then, a high, distressed sound escapes from my captured throat. Sebastian doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull back, doesn’t so much as hesitate. Instead, he starts to stroke, to press, to massage my throat and nothing in my life has ever felt this good and this frightening all at the same time.

The fuzziness gets worse, the languor setting in completely so that I feel weak, disembodied. Like a rag doll just waiting to see what Sebastian is going to do next.

There’s a part of my brain—a tiny part at this point, but still—that continues to warn me that this is a bad idea. That I should get the hell out of Dodge as fast as humanly possible. But it’s buried beneath the pleasure, beneath the need he evokes in me with just a look, just a touch. Buried beneath the curiosity and this strange, sweet lassitude that I don’t have a clue how to fight.

I’m not sure what I expect to happen next. Maybe for Sebastian to unbutton my blouse. Maybe for him to demand that I drop to my knees in front of him this time—the chance I’ve been waiting for. Or maybe I expect him to shove down his zipper, shove up my skirt and shove into me as I’ve been wanting him to since he first told me to put my hands on the window.

He does none of those things, though. Instead, he brings his other hand to my cheek and just stands there for long seconds, cupping my face, holding my throat, watching me.

Watching and waiting, waiting and watching.