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He takes my limp hand and presses the back of it to his lips, his eyes on mine. Then, releasing it, he commands, “Take off your shirt.”
“What?”
He gives that faint smile again. “Your shirt, please.”
I reach for my blouse, unbuttoning it, then I’m shrugging it off until it falls at my feet. He just watches me, his eyes dark and luminous, not saying anything. I find myself shuffling on my feet, feeling awkward, a part of me longing to take back the control, to say something. At the same time, my mouth feels dry and it feels completely impossible to do anything except await further instructions, completely docile and pliable.
“Now your skirt.”
Oliver sounds so polite while his hot gaze roams over me, darkly possessive, as my fingers slowly move to the zipper on my skirt. I lose my nerve midway, wavering, but he just arches a brow expectantly, like he expects me to obey his orders, as if I have no choice in the matter.
The thought of being at his merc
y like this excites me, and it wars against my instinctive desire to rebel against any form of authority. As the skirt slides down my legs, falling into a graceful pool at my feet, I feel my pussy clenching at how I’m baring myself to this man who’s just watching me, not even attempting to touch me. The sense of shame, the guilt, and then this feeling of being unnerved at enjoying this form of submissiveness to the fully clothed man with the serene smile.
I’ve never felt docile before, not like this.
But as Oliver puts his hands on my waist, then lowers them to tug the panties off my hips before moving to unclasp the bra, tossing both items to a side, my heart races, my skin flushing. I feel like I’m under a spell. In this moment, it feels like I belong solely to this man.
When he pulls me forward, I find myself being maneuvered in a way that has me sitting on his knees, facing him, my own knees resting on either side of his thighs. I gasp at the bold move. He leans forward, tugging at my earlobe with his teeth until my head tilts backward. He laughs softly at this, then I feel his fingers in my hair, pulling until it’s just on the cusp of being painful.
“You’re entirely too enthralling, Miss Hill,” Oliver murmurs, and his use of my surname makes me let out a small sound of need. “You’re so receptive to every touch. The contrast is almost addicting.” His voice is laced with approval. “In the office, you’re like a fierce kitten, snarling and protective of your turf, yet, here, you’re as shameless as I want you to be.”
The sting of his words is dampened when he presses his mouth to my throat. “I absolutely adore you.”
The words are not an insult, but spoken in what sounds like awe. Something in my chest tightens.
“Tell me,” he breathes against my neck. “Now that I have you, what should I do with you?”
My mouth parts at the way one hand brackets around my throat, the other still gripping my hair, showing his dominance while daring me to fight back.
Feeling something wet trail down the inside of my thigh, my mouth goes dry. “I don’t know.”
Oliver chuckles, a dangerous sound. “You don’t seem to know much in this moment, do you? That’s not like you, Lana.” His words are taunting, making me whimper, my mind hazing over. There is a certain headiness to being forced to give up self-control, arousing in an entirely different way.
“You haven’t answered my question.” There’s an edge to his voice, his fingers tightening in my hair. My back arches at the sensation.
“Anything,” I find myself saying, my voice husky as I lean into his touch.
“Anything?” he silkily asks. “Rather bold of you, wouldn’t you say?”
His voice is like smoke, seeping into me, making me a hapless victim to his will. A part of me is screaming to get a hold of myself, but I can’t muster up the resolve.
Oliver’s hand moves away from my neck, his thumb rubbing at my lower lip as he eases his hold on my hair.
“Open your mouth, Lana.”
I part my lips obediently. Two of his fingers slide into my mouth, then I’m sucking on the digits as I gaze submissively from under my lashes. My hands are on his shoulders now, needing somewhere to grip.
He looks darkly pleased. “So obedient. I really do believe you would let me do anything to you in this precise moment. I could use you in any way I see fit, and you wouldn’t stop me. You wouldn’t even try.”
And then, he removes his fingers as I moan again, trailing them, glistening and wet, down my body, over my breasts where my nipples are hard to the point of aching, and over my abdomen, leaving wetness everywhere. His legs part, forcing mine to open to him, his fingers rubbing against my slit.
He spreads the slick he finds there around. “You’re so wet, and I haven’t even done anything yet. Tell me, Lana…” His voice rumbles against my ear in a sinful whisper. “Do you use your fingers on yourself?”
I tremble, my voice small and reluctant over answering that embarrassing question. “Yes.”
“How?” Oliver’s voice is soft. “On your back? In the shower? When you’re tucked in bed, reading your romance novels? Does your hand creep inside your panty to stroke your pussy as you imagine someone licking you down there?” I groan at the mental imagery. “Or do you imagine me fucking you into your bed, so hard you can’t think straight until nothing makes sense anymore except how good it feels?”
