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I crumple, my body folding over his head as he continues to work me into a mindless frenzy. The mountain of fabric escapes my hands and flutters around him, like a curtain drawing act one to a close. God, if this is act one, I might not live to see act two. Certainly I’m blind. The sensations his tongue and fingers have wrought have set off explosions behind my closed lids.
He rises to his feet in a smooth, athletic move and captures my chin in his palm. Holding me upright, he devours my mouth, taking me over with ruthless intent. I cling to him as the storm rages around me. He grabs one edge of the buttons running down my back, and I feel his muscles tense as he prepares to tear through the dress. A sole kernel of preservation awakens, and I blurt out, “Zipper. There’s a zipper.”
After a moment of fumbling, he finds the zipper and I wriggle out of the dress.
“What in the glorious hell do you have on?” he asks, smoothing his hands down the sides of my tightly-bound waist.
“It’s a corset.” I spread my arms out along the crisp coverlet in a sultry pose, displaying the nipped-in waist and my breasts, covered in ecru satin, ribbons, and lace.
“Yes.” He licks his lips. “I’m going to fuck you in this. Spread your legs.”
His hot eyes rove over me with greedy raw desire. I do as he commands. A wild urge overtakes me, and I dip my French-tipped fingernails between my legs, rubbing the very parts that he had just sucked and licked until I was shuddering with passion.
“Fuck,” he hisses.
The momentum has shifted, and I feel infused with power.
“Take off your pants,” I order. He responds with hasty, jerky motions. His pants are ripped off, and his hard desire juts out proudly from the curls of hair between his legs. I want to investigate his length with my hands and tongue. Sweeping my legs under me, I attempt to rise, but he falls forward.
“Oh no, you don’t. One lick and I’m coming all over your tits,” he says, crudely pushing me down. “And tonight? Tonight, I’m filling you up.” He rolls on a condom and takes his hot shaft in his hand and arrows into my ready heat. The staff between his legs is his real weapon, and he wields it mercilessly within my delicate flesh. Each stroke of his hips, each deep thrust is made with deliberate intent. On either side of my head he braces an arm. The prominent veins in his forearm proclaim the effort of his restraint.
I wriggle beneath him. The tight corset binds me like a rope, constricting my breathing and heightening every sensation. He is everywhere. Inside me, surrounding me. The smell of his plain soap and clean sweat invades my head. Above me are acres of golden, muscled skin. And between my legs is the relentless invasion of him against my most intimate nerves.
“I’m ready,” I moan.
“Not yet,” is his dark response. His hips thrust and drag against mine, compelling me to some place I’ve never been. His clever tongue laves across my collarbone, up the delicate column of my throat to cleave to my mouth.
The sure, heavy strokes drive me deeper into the vortex of sensation. I grab at his arms, slick with perspiration as they strain to hold his body over mine, to hold his passion at bay until I’m there. At the ephemeral mountain that he keeps inexorably pushing me toward. Upward, forward, until the air is so thin, so wispy, so scant that I can only gasp in tiny, short breaths.
He does something with his body, some infinitesimal movement of his hips, some special caress deep within, and I can’t hold on anymore. My grip on his arms loosens, and I dive into the spiral of sexual euphoria as the waves of pleasure crash over me. His eyes gleam with triumph as I fall.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he demands.
His heavy chest pins me to the mattress as he powers to his own release. Elbows replace hands beside my head and hunger stretches the skin taut across his cheekbones.
“I’m yours. Now. Always,” I manage to choke out.
The words of submission light him up, and he tenses and then throws back his head shouting out his climax for so long and so loudly I fear the walls of The Drake Hotel might come down.
* * *
Nathan
I roll to the side so I don’t crush her. I should be exhausted. The day was long and tiring. Even on short notice, there were plenty of guests at the house wanting to congratulate us or maybe just stare at the spectacle we’d become. Charlotte’s flat stomach was the subject of not-so-quiet whispers. I wish that was the reason we married so quickly. Instead, her negative pregnancy test was met with relief on all sides. If she had been pregnant? I shudder at the dilemma that would have presented.
