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“Right, then.”
I lift one eyebrow. “Right, then?”
“Get on with it, Mr Morgan.”
I permit myself the faintest glimmer of a smile. “Are you sure, Miss Lowison? Last chance to back out…”
She tips up her chin and tosses back her tangled hair. “I’m not backing out. Are you?”
She lets go of the duvet, and it drops to her waist. Her naked breasts gleam pale in the half-light. Plump, perfect, her nipples are already stiff and begging for attention.
I quirk my lip and offer up thanks. I’m not a religious man by any stretch, but my prayers have been answered tonight.
I lower my head and take one taut bud between my lips. My tongue curls around it, and I tug gently until she gasps and arches into me.
I move to the other breast, at the same time pressing her back into the pillow. She’s warm and soft and deliciously rumpled from sleep. I drag the bedding down to reveal her stomach, her abdomen, then lower still. Her mound is silky smooth, her slender legs bent at the knee as she raises her hips then relaxes back onto the mattress.
“So beautiful,” I breathe, trailing my knuckles down the centre of her body. “So fucking lovely.”
Her sassy challenge from moments ago seems to evaporate. She closes her eyes, stretches under my touch. There’s a soft moan, and the sound awakens something primal in me.
I want her. She’s mine, to be taken. To be given and to be pleasured.
All. Mine.
“Reach back and grab the headboard,” I instruct her. “Hang on. Don’t let go.”
She does as she’s told, perfectly obedient.
“Spread your thighs.”
She does that, too. No questions, no protest.
I grab a pillow and shove it under her hips. She lifts to make that easier for me, then opens her eyes to regard me.
Those eyes. That submission. I’d thought, hoped that perhaps…
I was convinced I’d probably killed any such prospect stone dead, down there in the cells. But apparently not. I push my luck, one more inch.
I should have come in here better prepared, but you work with what you have. Her bra is draped over a chair, so I reach for it. My eyes are on hers all the while as I wrap the garment around her wrists, then the slats of the bedhead, watchful for any sign of reluctance.
I see puzzlement. Trepidation. Perhaps a hint of arousal.
“You all right?” I murmur.
“I… I think so.” There’s none of the usual ‘You don’t need to do this’ that so often accompanies the first introduction to the delicate art of bondage. No ‘I’m not going anywhere’. We both know this is not about coercion. This is about consent and power, dominance and obedience.
This is about how it’s going to be, between us.
I smile at her and brush my lips over hers. “Trust me,” I whisper.
She simply smiles and inclines her chin.
My exploration is slow, unhurried, languorous. I start at her shoulders, kissing my way down her breasts again, relishing the soft curves, the smooth planes. The delicate hollows, the intriguing unique muskiness of her.
I drop kisses across her abdomen, taste her, inhale her. She’s like a drug. I can’t get enough.
I reach her spread thighs and skip to her knees, then start to work my way back. Her left side, her right, then the point in between. I part her lips with my fingers, trace her entrance with the tip of my tongue, then I form a point and plunge into her core.
