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He sets his hands on my hips.
I begin to rock up and down. He strains beneath me, panting. His body is as taut as a bowstring, which only adds to my enjoyment, making it easier to appreciate the play of his muscles while I ride him.
We move faster and faster. Our breathing gets heavier. He grabs my ass, bearing me down. His hips move up at the same time, much like he did toward the end of the blow job. An orgasm begins to build inside me.
I lean forward, intending to kiss his lips, but he holds me away so he can lick my throat and the sides of my neck instead, nipping at my skin with his teeth. Is this his small way to regain control? A trick to delay his release? Or just trying something to see if I’ll like it?
And, boy I do!Suddenly, I’m so close to my peak, that there’s no delaying it anymore.
“I’m going to come,” I whisper.
He jerks his hips upward, biting lightly at the base of my neck, and I fall apart. The orgasm shakes my entire body.
Taking my face between his hands, he kisses me hard on the lips and comes inside me.
As our spasms subside, we hold on to each other, gasping for breath.
His hands return to my hips. He kneads them, fingers pressing into my flesh. “Will you undress for me next time we make love? Maybe tomorrow?”
“No, Louis, I won’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
Really?Here I was, thinking that he’d listened, that he’d heard me… But he hadn’t. “Why can’t you just hump me and be happy?” I cry out, frustrated. “Why do you absolutely need to look at me?”
“Because you’re a woman, not a fuckhole.”
His words floor me.
Does he mean it?Does he consider my way of having sex demeaning to me? Is he suggesting that baring myself to a man—to him—would be an act of self-respect?
My brain glitches at such an unexpected perspective.
For a moment, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff. The expanse is calling to me. One small step, one tiny leap of faith, and I could fly…
Or, I could drop like a stone and land on my face.
This is advanced mindfuckery!
He’s lying. He’s hoping to trick me into breaking my vow, into doing something that goes against what I know to be true. It’s the male gaze that is demeaning. That sticky, insulting gaze is what turns womanhood into something shameful, degrading even. I’ve learned it the hard way.
How dare he contradict my experience?Who does he think he is to suggest that I’m wrong, that when I protect myself from his gaze, I obliterate my humanity and turn myself into a fuckhole?
OK, he’s a very wealthy, very influential, and very handsome duke but that doesn’t mean he knows better, does it?
I climb off him.
“Camille, I’m sorry,” he says. “That came out harsher than I’d meant.”
I crawl to the edge of the bed.
He uses his hands to grope for me, finding only empty space.
“The blindfold can stay,” he offers as I pick up my stuff and pad to the door. “Camille, please, come back here! You win. I’ll use my imagination.”
“You do that,” I say and walk out the door.
CHAPTER22
