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She was sitting up, a frown on her brow, confusion and concern in her eyes as she watched me, but all I saw were those tits concealed by the two flaps of my shirt, playing peekaboo with the fabric now she’d covered herself up.
And there she went again...
Ms. Modesty.
Time she learned there was no such place for that in here.
She shouldn’t have pushed me.
Shouldn’t have tried to tie me to her that way.
Now, she was going to get something she hadn’t expected.
SomethingIhadn’t expected.
And she’d have no one to blame but herself.
“Take off the shirt and the underwear.”
Her eyes widened, but she was quick to obey.
Good.
From my tone, she discerned I didn’t want a striptease either.
That clever little mind of hers picking up nuances that made me hope for the future and how smart our kids would be.
A hiss escaped me as she flung the fabric aside then rocked back so that her weight was on her spine and the balls of her feet so she could make a bridge with her hips dancing in the air. She shoved down the elastic waistband, letting the white cotton ripple and ruffle against her thighs as she wiggled out of them. They pooled around her ankles and that was where I took over.
“Leave them, and put your hands behind your head,” I commanded, moving closer to the bed as she obeyed.
I grabbed one leg and then the other, making sure the briefs stayed banded around her ankles, before I grabbed the fabric, tightened them in my fist and looped the underwear around her feet once more to make a binding.
Bondage wasn’t my thing, but tying this little minx down was becoming imperative.
With her legs spread, her pussy revealed to me in the gloomy light of morning, I stared down at her and watched as the blush surged from her tits and up to her cheeks.
I’d never seen someone blush so hard before, almost as though she were a wallflower, for God’s sake, when I knew she’d been a club-fucking-whore.
“How many faces do you have, Camille?” I rasped, half-expecting her to frown up at me, to not understand what I was asking.
I wasn’t sure if either of us realized the power her answer would have.
If she’d given me a different one, I might have backed away.
Might have stopped, reverted to the original plan of banging her until she was knocked up, and then keeping my distance.
Instead, she drew me in closer, tying me to her with the siren’s call that was exacerbated by the sight of the crumpled Band-Aids on her palms and the boniness of her ribs and collarbone.
“Two,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears that made her green eyes morph into precious gemstones. “Camille and Cammie.” Her mouth wobbled. “I don’t even know which one is the real me.”
“Cammie’s the slut and Camille is the little ingenue who can blush like she’s a Regency heroine?”
She blinked at me. “A Regency heroine?”
I wafted a hand. “Your sister and soon-to-be sister-in-law talk about romance novels a lot at Sunday lunch.”
Her eyes widened, before she whispered, “Oh.” Then she licked her lips, with none of the show of earlier, making me growl under my breath at the sight. “I-I don’t know if they’re both just facades.” Her smile turned sad. “Or maybe they’re as much depth as I have.”
