Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

Time stands still as he lavishes me with the seductive pleasure of his tongue and hands until no oxygen remains in the atmosphere. Then he teases that skillful mouth down my neck, my chest, my stomach, covering every inch of skin with licking, sucking kisses as he fingers my pussy.

I shiver and moan and fall apart beneath his aggressive attention. My brain fries. My blood sings, and I wring my wrists in the rope, trying to reach him.

“I want to touch you.” I shudder against the diabolical stroke of the fingers inside me.

“Not yet.” His voice is gravel and smoke.

“Take off your shirt.”

“Stop talking.” He kicks my boots apart, forcing me into a wide stance.

I bite his lip. “Don’t be a dick.”

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll gag you with my dick.” He lowers his knees to the ground between my feet and clasps my hips.

“If you’re going to threaten me, make it—”

He buries his face in my pussy, stealing my voice and deleting my thoughts.

A deep groan vibrates against my clit, and his tongue joins in, flicking and lashing. He kisses my sex the way he kisses my mouth—deep and penetrating, hot and vicious, open jaw, lapping tongue, bruising lips, no holding back.

No one has ever eaten me with such obsessive, crazed enthusiasm, and damn if he doesn’t know the right spot, the exact pressure, the precise rhythm. It’s a perfect storm of talent and passion, executed by the sexiest, most dominating man I’ve ever met.

Sparks of an impending orgasm flicker to life, building and strengthening in my core. My nerve endings multiply, spread out, and strain toward his mouth, wired and greedy.

Just as I reach that blissful crest, he pulls back.

“No.” I shamelessly arch toward his face, trembling and desperate.

He spanks me again, not as hard as before, but the bite he inflicts on my hipbone tears a scream from my throat. His teeth break skin, and holy shit, that hurts. I jerk away and glance at the wound. No blood.

“You left a mark!” I gape at him.

“Exactly.” He ducks around my leg and rises to his full height behind me. “By the end of the night, you’ll be covered in my marks.”

“Unless I say stop.”

“You won’t.” He sinks his teeth into the tender part of my shoulder.

My moan shudders through the darkness, laced in pain and reedy with pleasure.

“Please, Jarret.” I crane my neck, unable to capture his gaze behind me. “I was seconds from coming.”

“I know.”

His hand returns to my drenched heat, stroking and tormenting as the other lifts to my chest, tweaking my nipples with ungodly pinches.

He’s a torrent of brutal force and sensual precision, fluctuating between violent bites and gentle kisses, rough hands and expert caresses. His passion is explosive, his touches methodical. Nothing about him is tame.

While I’m uncertain about my limitations, he seems to be fully aware of them, never pushing me too far and always easing back when pain overrides enjoyment. But there’s a wildness about him, a feral wolf trapped beneath his skin, snarling and clawing to escape. Just when I think he can no longer contain it, he sweetly tucks a curl behind my ear or peppers a tender trail of kisses along my jaw.

“I want you,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’ve never wanted anyone or anything this much. What are you doing to me?”

My gasps deepen, stretching my ribs. If he shoves his cock inside me right now, I won’t stop him.

That scares the crap out of me. I need to untangle my feelings, compartmentalize, and separate. I need to remember why I’m here.

How do I do that when it’s no longer clear what I want? I need the truth about my past. I need Jarret in my future. Which do I need more?

Because I can’t have both.

The sky lights up in the distance, a bolt of white ripping the utter blackness like paper. A moment later, thunder peals.

I shiver against the electricity in the air, and the tiny hairs on my arms bristle beneath the static.

“Have you ever watched a summer storm roll across a field?” He swirls his tongue along my neck, short-circuiting my thoughts.

“No.”

“Keep your eyes on the horizon.”

He steps back as another flash of lightning cleaves the night. Thunder booms, and a second later, a sharp crack slams against my backside.

A guttural scream bursts from my throat, and I bow beneath the burn.

That’s not his hand.

Before I can look behind me, another strike comes. Then more and more, one on top of the other in rapid succession.

I didn’t see him pack the riding crop, but the deep stings laddering down my thighs could only be from the whip of a leather tongue.

It’s an acute pain, barbed and merciless. Each whack leaves behind the sensation of branding, one that awakens me emotionally, mentally. The torment is so horribly and wonderfully strange I don’t know whether to fight it or sink into it.