The Double
But instead of making me come, he drew out the pleasure for as long as I could bear, toying with me. He drew blistering paths of heat with his lips that wound from my mouth to my breasts to my groin. He pushed two fingers deep inside me and found that hidden spot that made my brain explode into silvery trails, the heel of his hand grinding down on me while I rocked helplessly against him. He let me feel the edges of his teeth on my nipples while his tongue darted over their tops. I lost track of how many times I came.
By the end of it I was a limp, red-faced wreck, drunk on endorphins. All I could do was beg him. “Please,” I moaned, beyond shame. “Please f—fuck me.”
He pushed himself effortlessly back so that he could look at me and I saw the victory in his eyes. But not victory over me. Victory over himself, that he hadn’t lost control, hadn’t gotten...involved. He would fuck me, he’d allow himself this release, but it would still be on his terms. It was so sad...but I couldn’t stop myself. I needed him more than I’d ever needed anything in my life.
“Please,” I said again.
He froze. His look of victory faded. It was the same look he’d given me in the garden. I thought I saw a flicker of blue in all that merciless gray, a softening...and then his eyes lit up, hotter and harder than I’d ever seen them. He suddenly grabbed for his belt buckle, shoving the heavy leather through the loops. He tore at his suit pants, but a button on the fly caught, foiling him—
There was a clatter as the button went skittering across the tiles. Then he rammed his pants and shorts down his thighs and—
I drew in my breath. It was the first time I’d seen it. Not just long but thick, with a beautiful, purple-pink head and a tan shaft. I remembered what he’d said on the phone, about Christina’s first time with him: You weren’t sure you could take me, but you did…. I gulped. I suddenly knew exactly how she’d felt. “Go slow,” I said, and it came out in a kind of throaty whisper, half nervous and half lusty.
The sound of that excited him even more. I swore I saw his cock twitch and strain. But he gave a tiny nod as he brandished it in his hand, bringing the head of it between my spread thighs and ah! just nuzzling it against my folds. God, I was soaking…
A ripple of raw need ran through me. I’d closed my eyes for a second but now I opened them and stared up at him. He was glaring down at me and not with that masterful, dominant glare of power. This was fury. Outrage, at being out of control. How have you made me do this?
I had no answer.
His eyes hardened. You asked for this. And his hips pushed forward….
Despite his anger, he did go slow. The silken head of him spread me, spread me, stretched me—and then he was plunging deep into me and both of us cried out together at how good it felt. I panted and looked down at the spot where we joined. He was still fully dressed, save for the pants shoved down around his thighs, and I was not just naked but stripped, my lingerie untied and strewn around me, and tied to the bed with black ribbons…. There was something about the imbalance of that that was wrong and yet so very right. It set off a depth-charge of heat right in my core.
He began to thrust: slow, powerful strokes that drove him a little further into me each time. My breathing tightened and I moaned as I felt myself slowly filled.
He lowered himself onto his forearms, hulking over me, but careful not to hurt me, staring into my eyes for any sign of pain. My moans became low, guttural groans as he slid deeper, deeper, hot and hard and throbbing against my satiny walls….
He groaned as he finally rooted himself inside me and our groins kissed together. Each throb of his cock sent a new wave of pleasure rippling through me. He cursed in Russian and then, “God... my shlyukha, you feel amazing.” He leaned down and kissed me once, tenderly.
Then he shook his head and his face darkened. He kissed me again, open-mouthed and aggressive, a kiss that plunged deep and took what it wanted. He wanted this to be a battle so that he could win. He wanted this to be just fucking, so that it meant nothing.
He began to fuck me, fast and hard, and it was amazing: the silken stretch of him, the hot, steely plunge of him and the ache as he withdrew. He was brutal and hard, his hips slamming into me, but it felt so good, each thrust compressing the pleasure and making it brighter and hotter. God, wasn’t this every guilty fantasy I’d ever had about him, even if I hadn’t admitted it at the time? Naked and tied, helpless under him as he had his way with me?