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“Beg me,” he rasped, his breath hot against her neck. “Beg.”
“Please, Master. Please. That feels so good. Touch me. Deep. Deeper. Ahhh.” A rush of pleasure blanked all thought for a moment.
“Beg!” he growled.
In a flash of insight, she knew what he needed her to say. He wanted to fist her, the way she’d imagined earlier, but he wouldn’t risk hurting her unless she gave her permission. “I want you. All of you. I need your whole hand inside me. Please, Master. I’m yours. Take me. Take me now. Please. Make me scream for you. Only for you.”
His shuddering breath told her she’d guessed correctly. Gently, he stretched her opening even wider, until the muscle burned. All four of his fingers slipped inside her, to the first joint. The second. And still he stretched her, wider and wider, until his knuckles thrust past her opening.
She gasped, the brief pain swirling streamers of red and black through her vision.
Then his hand was inside her, filling her as she’d never been filled. His fingers stroked the walls of her vagina, rubbing and circling, as slowly, slowly, he reached deeper and deeper. Her muscles clenched his fist, seizing and releasing him again and again. Each time, he moved just a little bit further inside her.
She was going to go insane from the pleasure. He was killing her. She never wanted it to end.
“Please, Master. Please. Please.”
She didn’t know what she was begging for, to have him put her out of her agony now or to keep her writhing in his lap for hours.
Then the tip of his middle finger brushed her cervix, and she exploded. She screamed, a wordless howl of ecstasy, as she bent back over his arm, lifting her hips in a final thrust against his fist. The force of her shudders pushed his hand out of her in a wet rush, as if she was in the final stages of giving birth, and she screamed again as his hand stretched her opening on the way out.
He held her, cradled against his soft poet shirt, as she sobbed into the warm cotton. And continued sobbing, helpless to stop the tears. She felt the tension that rippled through him as he realized this was more than a simple release.
He brushed the hair away from her face, tipping her head back to look at him.
“Gayle, look at me. Did I hurt you?”
The fear in his voice only made her cry harder.
“Gayle.”
She shook her head no. Then yes. “Just a little. It was worth it.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because I’m twenty-six years old, and I never knew an orgasm could feel like that. If it hadn’t been for you, I never would have known. I’d have grown old and died, thinking I knew what good sex felt like. And I would have been wrong!”
Rikard chuckled in relief. “Oh, is that all?”
A giggle slipped out between sobs, then another, and soon she was laughing instead of crying. She slapped weakly at his chest, until he caught her hand and stopped her. Slowly, her laughter faded.
She wiped roughly at her eyes.
“God, I probably look a fright.”
“I think you’re beautiful.”
She stared up into his incredibly blue eyes, shining through the black leather of his mask. The moment stretched out like a note held impossibly long at the end of an aria.
Then her cell phone rang.
“Oh! Where’s my purse?”
Rikard pulled it from the back of the chair she’d been sitting in and handed it to her. She fumbled for the cell phone, flipping it open and pressing the button to answer the incoming call.
“Sorry it took so long. I couldn’t find my phone.”
“I was starting to get worried,” her friend Carrie answered.
