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He knew the precise moment she realized that. That he was keeping her face tipped up like that so he could see every glimmer of emotion, thought, anything at all, as it moved across her face.
And he could hear how slick she was, how wet, as her hands moved. It was quiet in this room and the sounds she made were greedy, rude, insistent. She rocked her palm into her pussy, very much the way he had the other day, her gaze fastened to him.
He liked the fine tremor he could feel build in her, and the way she moved quicker, with more confidence, as she went. He thought about that hot little clit ring and how it must be helping her get there as she worked.
And what he could do with it, in time.
Again, everything was quiet save the sound of her breath and her pussy. Her face got brighter, redder.
And he waited, watching her for the signs. The way her lips parted. The way she began to strain a bit, and then stiffened.
“You have my permission to come,” he told her, his voice low and commanding.
Right as she was on the edge.
He heard the stutter in her breath, the little cry, and then she threw herself over.
And he held her there between his legs, naked and kneeling at his feet, as she came for him. She shook and she bucked, and through all her shaking apart she tried her best to keep her eyes glued to him.
As if she dared not look away.
“Beautiful,” he said, his voice rougher than it should have been.
Because she was getting to him. She’d already gotten to him, but her willingness to submit was making his cock pulse and, far more worrying, his chest feel tight.
But he would deal with that later.
He stood, pulling her with him, and he loved how pliable she was. Supple and close to stumbling, really, though she didn’t. Quite. He turned her, so he could guide her with his hand wrapped around the back of her neck, and propelled her to an archway that led into a little alcove. Inside the alcove there were some bookshelves, a window overlooking the garden, a sturdy bench, and directly in front of the archway, a giant antique mirror tilted back against the wall.
Conrad saw her eyeing the bench, still fighting to catch her breath. He stood her there in the archway, waiting for her eyes to lift from that bench to the mirror. He met her gaze.
“You come beautifully,” he told her. “Thank me for allowing you the privilege, please.”
“Thank you,” she said, and he could hear the confusion in her voice, the pleasure and the wonder, the worry in the dark need.
“Thank you, who?”
Her eyes widened almost comically. “Sir,” she said in a hurry. “Thank you, Sir.”
“Good girl.”
He left her standing there and watched her in the mirror as he went into the alcove, opening up the bench to pull out the toys he wanted. He watched her fight to stay balanced and upright. She looked around the room, but only for a moment before directing her gaze back to him. And then keeping it there.
Something in him shifted at that. Because he’d forgotten what it was like to be looked at with so much...awe. Better still, they weren’t in a club, so there was no question that this was any kind of performance for the evening. Rory really was focused entirely on him.
His cock ached.
He had what he needed, so he walked around her to make her more nervous, then set about putting it all together. Briskly, as if the naked girl in the middle of it all hardly signified.
Conrad loved the way she watched him, as if she couldn’t decide if she was terrified or delighted.
Particularly when he attached his chains to the subtle eye hooks at the top of the arch. He let them drop, so he could watch her reaction at the clattering sound they made against the floor.
She had just come, but he could see her flush with a new arousal. Her nipples, soft after her climax, hardened again. And she was naked for him, so he could enjoy everything from the way her hair moved against her back to the ubiquitous tattoos she had, one behind her left shoulder and another on her leg.
If she was his, he would ink her soft, light brown skin with designs of his choosing. He could almost see the tattoo he would insist upon, stretching up one side and wrapping beneath one breast.
Then Conrad shook his head, because she wasn’t his. He wouldn’t be tattooing her. He didn’t know where such a thought had come from.
