Page 28 of State of Ruin

“How,” he says, reaching up to fondle my nipples with those long, clever fingers, “am I supposed to decide where the hell to start?”

“I have some ideas,” I say, and he chuckles.

“I bet you do, you little beauty.”

His fingers linger there as he scoots even farther forward and, ducking his head, presses a kiss to my breastbone. His hair tickles my skin in a tortuous way as he trails lower, peppering my stomach with kisses and playing with my breasts far too casually and teasingly for my liking. I’m in such a state that I want him grabbing and pinching and chafing, not brushing and gliding, for fuck’s sake.

Presumably, he left my hands unbound for a reason. I dig my fingers into his dark, messed-up hair, grabbing thick clumps, and he makes a pleased grunt against my navel. Newfound courage has me sliding my hands lower, enjoying the huge bulk of his shoulders, the velvety softness of the skin at the back of his neck.

Still, he moves lower. Then lower. When his face is mere inches above my exposed pussy, he looks up at me. His eyes are all pupil, his face completely feral. “Watch,” he says.

Believe me, I’m watching. His dark head dips, he pushes his stool back slightly, and then he’s full-on sniffing me, turning his head this way and that as he does. He takes in my scent with great, animalistic inhales, and I’m both mortified and aroused beyond measure. Forget bending over for him last week, the business end of our arrangement hidden from view by that freaking pillory. This is the most intense thing in the world.

He drops his hands from my breasts and palms my inner thighs again, just in case these stirrups aren’t pushing the boundaries of my range of motion down there. I’m practically doing the splits. The very tip of his nose brushes my clit, and I cry out, so sensitized am I.

“I would have paid ten grand just for this,” he mutters, glancing up at me again. “Just for the indescribable pleasure of being able to smell you.” He sounds as tortured as he looks, and I’m kind of glad I’m not the only one suffering here. The fingers of one hand drag absently over my thigh. “I have spent a week trying to conjure up how you smell—like fucking crack. If I could transport you and this godforsaken chair to my office and sit you just like this all day long, then I would. Believe me.”

I thought Sinclair was done shocking me, but apparently not. It’s the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard. Demeaning and objectifying… and worshipful and obsessive. Oh, Jesus. In my current state, it hits almost as romantic. All I can do is choke out a scandalized little laugh. It seems he’s broken my brain again.

“I’m serious,” he assures me with another dark, hazy look. “I guess all I can do is coat myself in you. At least I’ll be able to smell you for the rest of the night.”

He’s as good as his word, dipping his head again and proceeding to feast on me, fingers flexing on my inner thighs as he does, as if he’s terrified I’ll conquer the stirrups and deny him access. He kisses and licks and sucks, rubbing his nose over my clit again, this time intentionally, and it feels as though he’s covering every square millimeter of where I need him. It’s the most decadent, delicious sensation in the world, and I sit in my chair, using my voice and my hands to spur him on, urging him to give me more, more, more.

He stops suddenly, peering up at my face before homing back in on my pussy, his brow furrowed in the sexiest kind of concentration. Then he’s taking two fingers and sliding them deep inside me. He crooks them, and I moan. My clit is screaming for attention.

“Can’t let you come just yet, baby,” he says, the softness of his words belying the evilness of his words. “I need to have a little more fun with you before I do.”

“Orgasm denial is a hard limit,” I spit out, disgusted with this turn of events, and he gives me his lovely, throaty chuckle.

“I know, I know. This will make it even better for you. Besides, I wanna take my time playing with you. This insistence you have on coming is very unreasonable.”

“Unbelievable,” I huff, but he’s sitting upright and busying himself with the array of vibrators on the table. I can see now that his erection has reached epic levels, jutting stiffly out, its crown red and angry and weeping precum.

“I don’t think I’m the only person who needs to come,” I tell him.

He grins as he picks up a thin wand and assesses it. “Touché. But only one of us has any self-control.”

“Only one of us has already had an orgasm,” I retort, dragging my hands uselessly over the armrests. My skin is hot. Everywhere tingles. I feel actually feverish. This need for release is a full-body sensation, make no mistake.

“I never thought the sweet little ingenue I propositioned would be so mouthy once I got her worked up.” He holds up two vibrators—the thin wand and a monstrous-looking dildo. “Best fucking surprise I’ve had in a long time. Now, let’s play a little more. I know you’ll like this.”

When I was living in Manhattan, I had a vibrator, but it was nowhere near the size of this thing. These days, it sleeps in my underwear drawer, carefully hidden inside a sock. Sleeping a yard away from your sister doesn’t work so well with electronic date nights.

Sinclair works my chair’s foot pedal, and I ratchet upward until my pussy area is on a level with his dick. Next, he presses a button that reclines my chair until I’m lying farther back. He’s improved the angle between us, I realize. I watch with fascination as he squirts some lube onto the dildo. Positioning it at my entrance, he turns it on. The cold of the lube and the vibrations of the device are joint shocks, and when he drags it through my folds to my clit rather than pushing it in, I nearly pass out from the sheer pleasure of it.

“Oh my God,” I manage. “So good. Oh God, keep going.”

That’s a surefire way to get him to stop, obviously. With no hesitation, he finds my entrance again and pushes it in hard. It’s cold where the real thing would be hot as hell, but shit, does it feel incredible. I stare up at him, gripping the armrests for dear life, as if this is an ejector chair and he’s about to catapult me into outer space. Not a bad analogy, surely, for how he’s making me feel.

Still standing, he surveys me as he feeds the dildo into me. Sex king is right. This man could rule the underworld. Casual as you like, he flicks the little wand on. “Tell me if it’s too much.” He touches it to my left nipple for the briefest moment, and it’s like a lightning bolt in the best possible way. I jolt in the chair as if he’s defibrillating me—and he kind of is, I guess. “How is that?”

“So good,” I manage, which I think is pretty articulate.

He smiles, the proud instructor enjoying how far his pupil has come. “What a very good girl you are.” And the wand taps my other nipple. He continues to fuck me slowly, almost lazily, with the dildo as he alternates the wand between my nipples for a few moments before turning it off and throwing it onto the table. He crouches over me and kisses me just as slowly and lazily before he works his way down my body, pulling one nipple into his mouth and doing something devastating with his tongue before repeating the exact same move on the other side. He’s nothing if not democratic. With herculean effort, I raise a hand to tug hard on his hair, and he groans against my breast.

And then, somehow, he’s backing away and bending farther, tilting his head so he can lavish my clit with more decadent licks as he keeps feeding me his toy. It’s so much—it’s so completely and utterly insane that I might die from it. My nervous system is playing a symphony right now; everything is as it should be as he licks and sucks, as he fucks me, and I start to tremble.

“Oh shit,” I say, unable to withstand any more. I’m flying now, soaring like a bird over Manhattan. “I⁠—”