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She felt as if something shook inside of her along a deep fault line she hadn’t known was there, sending out earthquake after earthquake, but she didn’t have time to worry about that. Not when all she had to focus on was him.
“How flexible are you?” Conrad asked, almost casually.
“Very,” she replied. “I do yoga at least three times a week. When I remember.”
The gleam in his eyes made her shiver.
“Put your ankles on my neck,” he ordered her.
“Yes, Sir,” she breathed.
And she didn’t have to ask what name to use here. Not now.
She arched up from the chaise, using her grip on the slats behind her to help lift her hips. Then she slid her legs onto his shoulders, locking her ankles around his neck, as ordered. And then, for a moment, they were looking at each other down the length of her body.
Rory felt as if she was nothing but a display for his pleasure. A piece of art in a museum, pinned to a wall and helpless to do anything but accept that edgy stare of his. Maybe that was the only time paintings—she—came alive.
That idea made her clit begin to pulse, dangerously close to throwing her over the edge already.
Before he’d done a thing.
“Lovely,” he murmured, as if he knew.
The way she imagined he would always know.
With one hand, Conrad reached down and slid his hand over the curve of her ass. She could feel the slickness on his palm and understood with one shaky breath that he’d used whatever was in that tube to make them that way. And in the next breath, she could feel his slick, blunt fingers probing the tight entry to her ass.
“I told you earlier,” he said, his voice not sounding precisely calm, but a distinct order all the same. “I want all of you.”
She tried to breathe out, not wriggle away, but there was nowhere to go no matter what she did. She was trapped by her own position, locked into place, and she watched his face as he waited for her to accept that. For that rush of panic to ease a little, and a hot, red flush to take its place.
When it did, Conrad calmly worked one finger, then another, deep inside her ass.
It hurt at first. A sting and then a duller sensation that wasn’t quite an ache. She moaned, not sure where the sound had come from—only that she needed to get it out. And it still stung.
But then, she suspected it was meant to.
Conrad looked even more savage and focused than before. He used the hand wrapped around her to lift her higher, so he could fit the broad head of his cock to her pussy.
His eyes found hers, as sensation pounded through her in time with his probing, demanding fingers.
“You can move your legs from my neck,” he told her. “But I want them on my shoulders. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she panted. “Yes, Sir.”
He bared his teeth in some semblance of a grin, wild and thrilling, and he slammed himself home.
And deep inside her at last, he pressed her down to the chaise, but more importantly, deeper against the fingers in her ass.
Sensation went through her like a bomb, too intense to catalog. Everything was him. Everything was Conrad and the way he took her in two places, making her entirely his.
Rory could do nothing at all but surrender.
Her legs were draped over his shoulders as he settled in, propping himself up with one hand, and began to teach her a deep, pounding, profoundly electrifying lesson about rhythm. Possession. And that the limits of her desire were his to push.
And hers to take.
Because every slick slide of his cock and his fingers made her...blossom.
