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“Shh,” he whispers, his voice a velvet hush against my ear. “I’ve got you.”
His lips dance over mine, tracing a trail of fluttering kisses from the edge of my mouth, down my neck, along my collarbone. With a swift move, he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of my stomach, his tongue tenderly caressing the tingling spot sending shivers skittering over my skin.
Uncontrollable moans escape my mouth as he continues his delicious onslaught. His palm slithers inside my shirt, rising with purpose. It reaches my breasts, kneading with just the right amount of pressure. He seizes my nipple with his fingers, starting with a delicate pinch before applying gradual yet gentle force, coaxing pleasure from my hypersensitive skin.
“So sensitive. So responsive,” Cole groans. “What happens when I do this?” He releases his grip from my breasts, his fingers tracing a path lower, brushing against my tingling core. A single touch grazes my clitoris, pressing down on it.
"Cole," I moan, unable to contain the pleasure coursing through my body as his fingers fervently rub my moist flesh, making me arch as I crave more. I continue tugging at the cuffs, my desperation growing with each passing moment of heightened pleasure. "Please."
"Please what?" He playfully kisses the tip of my ear, his deep voice resonating through my lust-riddled mind.
"Please fuck me." The words slip out unfiltered, driven by overwhelming desire.
"With pleasure," Cole growls, devouring me in a soul-searing kiss. His mouth his hot, his breath panting as if he’s just as swept up in this as I am.
He leans back to remove his shirt and my hungry gaze roams over his sleek muscles, the tense ridges, the captivating ink tracing over his skin. His tracksuit pants are next, his cock already straining against the material. It springs free, engorged and ready.
Hungry to claim me.
Cole climbs back over me with predatory grace, his eyes grazing over every inch of me. The t-shirt hoisted to reveal my breasts, the nipples hard and yearning. My legs as they spread instinctively, welcoming him in. My hands above my head, trapped, stretching me out like I’m his personal smorgasbord.
“Fuck, Amber,” he groans. “What are you doing to me?”
I mewl, unable to answer the question that doesn’t make sense. I’m his captive, he’s the one who trapped me here.
Cole’s the one making me forget all reason, any shred of self-respect I thought I had.
With one swift move, he plunges inside of me. I arch, crying out, writhing with the hot pleasure of being taken by this delicious, confusing man. Placing a hand on either side of me, Cole becomes a frenzy of movement, of relentless thrusts, passionate, open-mouthed kisses, tantalizing bites, and shuddering groans.
This orgasm comes quick, fueled by the frantic pace, by the overwhelming pleasure, by Cole’s complete lack of control. Although I’m the one held by handcuffs, it feels like he’s the one who’s the slave to this passion.
As if he’s the captive, and not me.
I scream out his name as I crest, fly, fall apart and come together all at once. Cole explodes inside me, flooding me with heat and moisture, his own release seeming to draw out mine.
Although the climb was sharp and fast, the descent seems endless. Pleasure throbs, ebbs then comes alive, touching every cell, every nerve.
Every shuddering beat of my heart.
When the moment finally releases me, I find myself lying limply on the bed, eyes closed, breath coming out in short puffs. Reality creeps in quicker than I’d like. The sweat cooling my skin. The weight of the man lifting off me.
The truth that I just chose to do this.
When I open my eyes, Cole’s pulling away, his gaze averted. Breathing hard, he stands, his jaw working. “Fuck,” he mutters.
He jams his fingers through his hair, hesitates, then stalks out of the room.
Leaving me as the haze of pleasure dissipates, crashing from my euphoric high, still half-naked and bound by the cuffs.
Leaving me alone in his room, my mind replaying the vivid memories of what an idiot I am.
I groan, wishing I could face palm. My eyes roam over the room, trying to look anywhere by at my own traitorous body. It’s still tingling, pulsing, the evidence of our pleasure sticky between my thighs. A photograph on the bedside table catches my eye, the only adornment in my room.
It’s a young woman in a wheelchair, smiling at the camera. Her dark hair, the line of her jaw, tell me without a doubt I’m looking at Cole’s sister. Cheryl.
The one who he’s doing all this for.
I bite my lip, acknowledging that Cole, despite his faults, isn't inherently bad. Frowning, I shake my head. Despite the reason, what he’s done isn’t okay. My trapped wrists above my head should be all the proof I need.
