Naked (The Blackstone Affair 1)

I did what he told me to do. Spread against the wall, my purple cowboy boots dangling to the sides like a frog for dissection, I surrendered to whatever he had planned. I accepted that Ethan drove this part of us—the sex. He was in charge of every commanding thing he would do to my body, and I craved his touch far too much to have second thoughts right now.

“Unzip me and take out my cock.”

I did that too. His hips pulled back to give me access, but his mouth and tongue still plundered as I unzipped his jeans and sprung him, hard as bone and sheathed in silk. I stroked his flesh with my hand as best I could and reveled in his guttural hiss at my touch.

Ethan got his hand up my skirt and his fingers under my thong. He ripped it up the back, snapping the material like a rubber band before impaling me on his enormous erection. I cried out as he filled me, so stretched by the size of him I convulsed from the sensation. He held me suspended for a moment, our bodies finally joined.

“Look at me and don’t stop.” He tightened his hands under my ass cheeks and started pumping into me. Hard. Deep. Punishing really but I didn’t care. I wanted this from him as I stared into eyes burning blue fire at me.

“Ethan!” I moaned and writhed against the wall of my flat as he fucked into me; his cock owning me from the inside out. I kept my eyes on him. Even when I could feel the pressure start to build in my womb, and the tip of his penis hitting the deepest spot he could reach, I kept looking at him. The intimacy was off the charts and I could not have looked away if I’d wanted to. I needed my eyes wide open.

“Why am I doing this, Brynne?” he demanded.

“I don’t know, Ethan.” I could barely speak.

“Yes you do. Say it, Brynne!” I tensed as an orgasm started to rule me but he immediately reduced the pace, taking it down a notch with slow pulls in and out of my spread sex.

“Say what?” I cried, frustrated.

“Say the words I have to hear. Say the truth and I’ll let you come.” He speared into me slower and nipped at my bare shoulder with his teeth.

“What is the truth?” I was starting to sob now, completely at his mercy.

“The truth is,” he grunted the rest on three, hard, punctuating thrusts, “You. Are. Mine!”

I inhaled on a cry at the final thrust.

He sped up again, fucking faster. “Say it!” he growled.

“I’m yours, Ethan!”

The second I said the words his thumb found my clit and released the orgasm, rolling and crashing as hard as a powerful wave breaking onto the shore. Like a reward for obeying him. I cried through it, pinned to the wall of my flat, Ethan still going hard at me through the shearing pleasure.

A roar came from deep within his chest as he started to climax; the stare of his eyes almost frightening. He thrust hard one final time, buried to the hilt as the hot seed pulsed up to soak me. He crushed his lips to mine and kissed, rocking the last few slides slow and gentle as he finished. His strong arms still held me up and I don’t know how he managed to do it but he did, kissing me sweetly and in total contrast to the sex-crazed madman of a moment ago.

“You are,” he choked out, “mine…”

He set me down from the wall, holding me steady until my feet were solid, and then pulled out of my body, breathing hard. I leaned against the wall for support and watched him tuck himself back into his jeans and zip up. My dress fell back down. To anyone who walked in at this moment, there would be nothing to show we’d just fucked each other’s brains out upon the wall. All an illusion.

Ethan put one hand up to my cheek, holding me captive but gently to face him. “Goodnight, my beautiful American girl. Sleep well and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He brought his hand over my face, over my lips and chin and throat and down my front. The look of longing told me he didn’t want to leave, but I knew he was going to. Ethan kissed me on the forehead so softly. He paused and inhaled like he was breathing me in, and then he walked out of my flat.

I stood there after the door closed, my body still humming from the orgasm, my ripped underwear up around my waist, the warm trickle of semen starting to flow down my thigh and listened. The rap of footsteps following his retreat was a sound not to my liking. Not one bit.

8

Dr. Roswell always writes in a notebook during our sessions. It seems very old-school to me, but then this is England and her office is in a building that was standing when Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence back in Philadelphia. She uses a fountain pen too, which impresses the holy hell out of me.

I watched her very beautiful turquoise and gold fountain pen scratch words into her notebook as she listened to me talk about Ethan. Dr. Roswell is a great listener. In fact, it’s pretty much the gist of what she does. I don’t know what our sessions would consist of if I didn’t tell her stuff she could listen to.

Sitting behind her elegant French desk table, she was the picture of professionalism and genuine interest. I’d gues

s her to be in her early fifties with beautiful skin and white hair that did not age her one bit. She always wore unique jewelry and bohemian outfits that made her look cultured and approachable. My dad had helped me find her when I’d first moved to London. Dr. Roswell was on my necessities list along with food, clothing and shelter.

“So why do you think you reacted by leaving Ethan in the middle of the night?”

“I was afraid of him seeing me like that.”