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“You know I did.”
“Give me your hands.”
She laughed, “No. I want your lips.”
“Give me your hands and I’ll kiss you till you can’t breathe.”
Darcy pressed her weight into his hands braced on her shoulders, till she could touch her lips to his. They were soft but unyielding. He wanted it his way. Suddenly so did she.
She sat back and his hands skimmed off her shoulders and down her arms as she put them behind her back. She thought he’d restrain her but his hands kept moving, up her back, to her head. Then his lips were on hers, nothing slow, no softness, total possession.
She grabbed for him but he pulled away. “No hands.”
She put her hands behind her back again. “You only get off if you’re the boss?”
He shook his head, his expression hard to read in the dim light, but his voice was steady. “This isn’t for me.”
Now he lied.
She laughed. Now, after all the secret truths he spoke and the dare he took. He’d shown her he was a man used to being in control, used to being obeyed. He was delusional if he thought she’d fall for this being for her. She was delusional to let this happen, but he was sucking on her top lip, his tongue flicking at the corners of her mouth. His hands were massaging her breasts, thumbs rolling over her nipples. This was such a fine, fine delusion, any analysis she might have done was pinched off by the thrust of his tongue against the roof of her mouth, by the hand now under her t-shirt.
“I want you naked, woman, but it’s too damn cold.”
Firm, knowing fingers at her back, he opened her bra so her breasts, heavy with want, were pooled in his hot
palms. She gasped and rocked forward, her head dropping back so she looked towards the darkened ceiling, opening her throat to him. He licked a line of wet heat from her collarbone to the semicircle of her ear, then sucked the groan of pleasure out of her mouth.
His hands went inside her sleeves, dragging the bra straps down her arms. Freed of it she felt naked, her sensitised nipples rasped against the cotton of her shirt. It might have been made of sandpaper. She’d have hauled it off but there was no way she was going to break the contact of his mouth, sucking her nipple through the shirt.
Her hands came up to his hair to hold him there.
He stopped, shook free of her and sat back. Cold air swirled around her body where moments ago his heat had swelled. In the shadows his eyes were like two big shiny sewn on buttons. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths, but he was otherwise still, where she was squirming with desire, impatient for his touch, for the rising thrill he stirred in her.
It was his rules or nothing. It was maddening. She should get off his lap, walk away, leave the room. No man got to control how she felt. This man meant to and he fought dirty. He branded her body and he schooled her head, teaching her feelings she’d never expected, making her fall in love with the lesson.
She put her hands behind her back.
He came at her fast and hard, as though he was relieved, as though he’d reached the end of his own rope of reason, lips and hands in a co-ordinated assault on her senses. He pushed her knees wider, pulled her hips closer to let her find friction against him. She braced her hands on his knees and pressed into him, arching her back. His hands went to her splayed thighs and skimmed upward, over her hips, under her shirt, around her ribs, till he was wrapped about her torso and they were velcroed together from hip to lip.
Need built like a sob in her chest and she trembled in his arms. Her breath stuttered and she struggled not to tear at him. Only the fear he would stop touching her, teaching her, kept her hands still. But the attention was too intense, too outside of her own participation. Too uneven.
“Let me touch you, please.”
He scraped his teeth along her jaw, flicks of tongue, glide of lip, a command. “No.”
The sob broke from her in the form of a moan. She was a sacrifice on the altar of his authority. She couldn’t make her body stop shaking. She couldn’t have stood up and walked away if she’d wanted to. She couldn’t fight him. Whatever he wanted to do, she wanted it more. Secure in his hold, she lifted her arms out straight to her sides, a T-bar, a crucifix, her offer of submission.
“I want to make you come.”
She gasped and before there was air to breathe, he flipped her onto her back. He lay across her, pinning her down, rocking his pelvis against hers. Now his button eyes blazed with raw purpose.
“That okay with you?”
She’d have answered, but he stole the comment from her lips; the notion of doing anything other than his command from her judgement. His weight was a heavy blanket of heat. His hands played musician, tuning her body, making it stretch, vibrate and sing with a lustre of feeling so intense she could almost believe he could make her come with his voice alone.
For a while he let her touch and her hands met hard muscle on his arms, and shoulders too wide to hold over layers of clothing that kept them separated. When she touched his face his breath shuddered. When she pulled his hair, he growled against her throat. When she put her hand over his heart, his hips pumped fast into hers and his kiss deepened. For all his play at dominance, he was as much affected by her as she was by him.
Her fingers under the back of his shirt meeting the tight rod of his spine ended her freedom to explore. He pulled away, sat back on his heels, his fight to steady his breath echoed in hers.
