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Torn, I’m not sure which voice to listen to. It’s like I have a kinky little angel and devil on my shoulders, and the devil is telling me not to listen to him. Maybe if I disobey him he’ll give me what I need faster.
“Take off the rest of your clothes.” His voice is clipped, strained, rough.
Giving in to his request I pull my shirt over my head, unclip my bra, and toss both onto the pile of my clothes. In any other circumstance I’d feel self-conscious right now. My lumps and bumps being on display causing discomfort, my squish, my curves, the stretchmarks on my stomach and legs, especially in contrast to the ripped man on his knees in front of me.
But I don’t.
I feel powerful, strong, desired in a way I’ve never felt before, and it’s a potent sensation as his eyes rake over every inch of my body. He doesn’t linger on my muffin top, or the fact my boobs aren’t as perky as they were when I was in my twenties. He doesn’t seem to notice my double chin—God knows it’s probably a triple chin from the angle he’s looking up at me.
All I see when I look down at him is lust. Desire. A glint of mischief that he’s been driving me wild with since I arrived on his doorstep.
He even licks his lips before he places them next to my left knee. His tongue darts out and leaves an agonizingly slow trail up my inner left thigh. When he skips over my pussy and drags his tongue down my inner right thigh, the growl that bursts from me is animalistic.
I’m done. My hand moves to my pussy, my buzzing clit breathing a sigh of relief at the contact. Thor stops touching me, he rocks back onto his ankles, and folds his arms. “You’re going to want to stop doing that, Adi.”
My hips buck against my slick fingers, moving quicker and quicker as I chase the already building release that threatens to make me collapse on the floor.
His eyes darken, clouding with frustration and a thinly veiled threat. If I keep going I’m going to regret it, but part of me wants to.
“Addison.” He snaps my hand away from my crotch, and bends me over his shoulder. When he stands up, he smacks my ass, hard, making me squirm. “So responsive.” He hums. “It’s a shame you’re such an impatient brat.”
I’ve never considered the fact I might be a brat. Headstrong, sure. Maybe I’m just impatient and reached the end of my tolerance for being driven mad by a strikingly gorgeous man.
He smacks me again, barely giving the first stinging smack still radiating through my ass cheek a chance to dissipate. I don’t bother wriggling in his arms, he’s got such a strong grip on me, I know it’s fruitless without even trying.
“If I can’t trust you to keep your hands to yourself, Addison, I’m going to have to do something about that.” He throws me onto the giant bed, the cool, black, silk sheets against my bare skin making me squeak. His hands clamp around my ankles, and he tugs me toward him before flipping me onto my stomach.
Pussy dripping, clenching with need and excitement, I roll my hips against the silk, desperate for traction, for touch, for something, anything.
There are restraints right in front of me. I’m not afraid if that’s where this is going. I don’t trust him completely, it’s very early days. But he’s a public and active figure in our local kink community. He wouldn't risk messing up with me and having his reputation tarnished. I trustthat. I could ruin his reputation if I have a bad experience with him. Give him blue balls for life if I get him block-listed at his club. I trust his desire to fuck beyond tonight.
“Can I cuff you? If you feel even a little uncomfortable, I’ll release you without hesitation.”
Considering how careful he is, and because I flat out told him I would have to get to know him first, I'm surprised he would even ask at this point. But I really, really want him to restrain me so I nod, which draws a low groan from him. “Use your words, Addison.”
“Yes, that’s fine, you can cuff me.”
“Good.” He grunts. “I can’t risk those hands wandering where I don’t want them to again.”
He places my wrist into one of the cushioned restraints in the bottom of the bedframe.
I’d object to being manhandled like this, but I can’t deny this brute of a man throwing me about like I weigh a hundred pounds when wet—and I am—is so fucking hot. He can toss me around like I weigh nothing, pick me up and carry me across the room without breaking a sweat. I’m totally here for it.
When he clamps my other hand into the restraint, I give a tug, just to test my limits. I’m face down on the bed. My hands are cuffed in front of me, at face level, and my ass is in the air, presented to him with what has to be two very red handprints on my plump cheeks.
“Check in.”
“Green.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“If that changes, you need to speak up.”
“I will.”
Is he this attentive to check ins with all his play partners? It seems incredibly thorough, which serves only to make me feel even more comfortable with him, despite not having full use of my hands and arms.
