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“You’re going to punish me,” I choke out.
The glitter in his eyes blazes, and my knees literally knock against each other.
“Good girl,” Mr. Rochester whispers.
The words make me want to whimper. Good girl. Two simple words that I should hate but instead make my body melt in wanton heat.
“Now come here.”
And I find myself following him even as I question my sanity.
Why? Why am I following him? Why?
When I step between Mr. Rochester’s thighs, the feel of being this close to him is too much and I tremble harder.
“Now take off your blouse, please.”
I jerk, my eyes flying to him in shock, but Mr. Rochester’s languid expression doesn’t change.
“You heard me.” His pleasant tone makes it like he had simply asked me to hand him the remote control, but oh, those eyes. Those devilish blue eyes that swear to do all these wonderfully wicked things—-
Aaaaah.
I shakily reach for the hem of my blouse, but my fingers refuse to move further. I’ve never undressed myself in front of a man and that I’d be doing it now for Mr. Rochester—-
“Do it now, Ms. Reed,” Mr. Rochester croons, “because I won’t ask again.”
Ah. God.
It’s that threat again.
Instead of blackmailing me over things that mattered—-
He’s making everything my choice.
And it works.
Cool air caresses my skin as the blouse finally falls to the carpeted floor, and I fix my gaze doggedly on his chest, unable to meet his gaze, knowing that there can only be more—-
“Now, the bra.”
Aaaah. The mere knowledge that he’ll soon see my bare breasts makes my fingers shake harder, and all the while I can feel myself heating up—-
“You’re blushing all over, Ms. Reed.”
Ah God. My fingers become clumsier and I struggle with the back clasp of my bra.
“Say, ‘Please help me, Mr. Rochester.’”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Dare I? Dare I say it? Dare I?
“Say it.”
His voice is still commanding, but it’s the raw desire underlining the words that do the trick.
And so I hear myself whisper, “Please help me, Mr. Rochester.”
A hiss of lust escapes Mr. Rochester’s lips, and I almost whimper, realizing that he wants this as much as I do.
Mr. Rochester moves toward me. “Stand straight.”
I hasten to follow me and fight against a wave of self-consciousness as the new position makes my breasts protrude. When he moves closer I can’t help stiffening—-
“Does this excite you, Ms. Reed?”
I bite my lip harder, refusing to answer because I know whatever I say is just going to incriminate me.
His uninjured arm goes around my body, and I draw my breath as the new position causes him to move forward, closer and closer—-
His fingers find the clasp at the same time his mouth nuzzles the valley of my breasts.
Oh God. God oh God.
My bra falls to the floor, and I whimper.
A second later and Mr. Rochester’s hand is alternately cupping and palming my right breast—-
I cry out.
“I love the way your breast feels, Ms. Reed.”
Aaaaaaaaaaah.
Looking down, I see Mr. Rochester’s head slowly descend, and I can’t help sucking my breath.
Oh God.
His breath starts to fan my nipple.
Oh Gooooooood—-
“Such succulent-looking tips,” Mr. Rochester rasps.
My hands clench once more against my sides. It’s the only thing I can do so I don’t grip his hair and just shove my nipple into his mouth.
“Do you want me to suck on them?”
I bite back a cry at what he’s asking. Oh God. Oh God. Why can’t he just do it?
“Do you, Ms. Reed?”
I imagine how it would feel, having his mouth on my breast, his teeth grazing my nipple—-
“Yes,” I choke out.
“Good.”
My eyes close.
But several moments have passed, and nothing happens.
When I open my eyes I see Mr. Rochester has straightened.
What the—-
“Your punishment, Ms. Reed,” he says pleasantly.
Outrage explodes inside of me as I realize that he intends to leave me unfulfilled. “Bastard!” I raise my hand to slap him—-
“Do that,” he warns in the same pleasant voice, “and you’ll have to wait longer for my touch.”
Oh!
“So what’s it to be?”
My fingers clench in the air.
I want to slap him so bad—-
But I also know I want him to fuck me more.
Mr. Rochester starts to smirk when he sees me pulling my hand back.
“You’re such an asshole,” I snarl.
“And I’ll keep being one,” Mr. Rochester murmurs, “because it’s exactly how you want me to be.”
The words make me want to scratch his eyes out, but I don’t. There’s this shameful cringing part of me that finds it impossible to deny the truth, and it’s the fact that I hate him for the same reasons I find him irresistible.
And the bastard knows this, I think darkly. The damn bastard knows everything, it seems.
When I start to pick my clothes up, he says, “No.”
I gape at him. “Excuse me?”
“I want to see you leave like that. And tomorrow when I wake you up, I still want to see you without anything covering your breasts.”
