Tate (Mountain Men 3)

Maybe that's why I started imagining and fantasizing. I wanted to give women really good orgasms, and lots of them. I tell myself it's because I enjoy writing about happily ever afters. I tell myself it's for a lot of reasons. But I think deep down the truth is, I know that real men aren't always that good in bed.

But whatever Tate is doing right now… Whatever magical manipulation he has over my body? It feels the way it might feel if I had a threesome, an orgy, or even a man that knew what the fuck he was doing.

Because this is brilliant. It feels as if he's touching every inch of my body. Between the spanking he gave me, the way he’s worshipped my breasts, and the way he’s fingering me now, it feels as if Tate has six hands, and they’re all bent on giving me pleasure.

I can't think beyond the need for him to relieve the building pressure between my thighs. The harder I try to get a grasp on reality, the harder it becomes. My whole world is centered on that bundle of nerves between my legs.

“You’re stunning, Fran. Fucking gorgeous, love.”

“Thank you,” I gasp, while the pressure builds, and I feel like I'm going to lose my mind. When I finally climax, it's going to be epic. I know it. Nothing like what I do to myself, because he pushed me beyond where I'm comfortable, to a place where indescribable pleasure lies.

I wonder if this is part of his grand plan, if he’s specifically intending on bending me to his will so he can have his way with me. But as soon as the thought comes into my mind, I can't hold it anymore, it flies right out again because, again, all I can think about is the need to climax. Now. Hard.

But he doesn't give it to me right away. He's decided, apparently, that my punishment isn't over.

I can’t breathe—I’m right on the edge, the pressure insanely intense between my legs, my clit throbbing, when he suddenly stops.

“What are you doing?” I gasp.

He folds himself up next to me on the bed, and I go to move my hand.

“Ah-ah,” he warns, shaking his head as if he’s scolding a child whose hand was caught in the cookie jar. He’s taking way too much pleasure in this.

Jerk!

Arse!

But at least I have enough sense not to say that out loud.

“Remember, I told you that if you moved your hands, I’d punish you again. Do you really need to have another taste of my belt? "

Why does that turn me on? Am I literally out of my mind? Did he drug me?

“Of course not,” I say, but my voice is strange, strangled and garbled like it's affected by my arousal. Is that a thing? I have no idea. All I know is that my entire body is under his command right now. I don't like that it is, but I also can't seem to do anything or turn away from it. Seems like my best bet is to go along with it.

“So… what are you doing then?”

“Exactly what I want.”

“Oh my God, are you going to do that orgasm denial thing?”

“That orgasm denial thing?” He frowns. “What the fuck are you talking about? Is that a romance thing?”

“There’s nothing romantic about it!”

He doesn’t respond.

“Taaaattttte.” My voice is an unrecognizable whine.

“I don’t know what the bloody hell that orgasm denial thing is, but I do know that you’ll climax when I’m good and ready to let you come. That you won’t be allowed to bring yourself to climax, that you won’t be given orgasms whenever you feel like it.”

“You’re sick!”

He shrugs. “Maybe I am. But I also know that the body’s trained in a variety of ways. Pain is one. Denial another. And since we’re under the wire here, and our circumstances are pretty precarious, I’ll use whatever means I need to.”

I feel like I'm going to cry again, but I hate that I want to, and furthermore I won't allow myself to. I've already become more vulnerable than I ever wanted. I turn away, unable to hide the need to cry again.

“Suit yourself, then,” I say, forcing myself to look casual when every nerve ending’s on fire. “I’m going to get some sleep anyway. Unless you plan on denying me that too?"

By some miracle, I'm actually able to keep the venom out of my voice.

I'm suddenly exhausted. It's been such a long few days. Everything exhausts me, and I feel like I've been put through an emotional wringer. What will I do when his sisters find out that I'm the writer? Will I lose the only family I have? Will anyone understand?

And then he’s behind me, spooning me, his flank pressed up against my body, and his heavy arm’s draped over me.