style="font-size:15px;"> I writhe and buck under his exquisite torment, tugging on my soft velour bonds like a captive doe in the hunter’s grasp. Each time I twitch out of reach he slaps me, and soon he growls low in his throat as he does it, the sound almost a snarl, inflaming me further. At last he reaches my centre and the first light, tingling touch of his tongue on my pulsing, swollen bud makes me scream aloud in rage and frustration.
He slaps me again, harder now. ‘Quiet. You’ll have half the hotel in here. Use some self-control or I’ll have to resort to discipline.’
He’ll what? Ye gods … what have I started?
He stays on target, his tongue edging back through my layers and probing deeper, below me this time, to where my rump hovers, trembling over the void on its pillow hill. Now he brings his fingers into play, pushing them into me, first one, then more, and cruelly grazes my bud with finger and thumb, splaying me open with his other hand to expose me fully and deny me even the small satisfaction of feeling my own softness close and maybe tip me over the edge.
I whimper as his fingers continue to graze me, gentle and insistent, but never enough – never close enough, never hard enough – always easing away just as I think the pressure will make me erupt.
Now he cruelly abandons my quivering, pulsing, lustful little crater as he looms back into my line of vision. He leans up over me and continues his torment along my taut, rippling belly and finally reaches my jutting, heaving breasts. Here he takes his time, folding his hands around them and kneading hard, making them bulge and swell up before me like mountains. He smiles down at me as he rolls my nipples between his fingers and thumbs, softly at first and then increasing the pressure until I cry out.
As he slaps me again I feel something drip somewhere, I can only hope on the pillow. It tickles madly, adding to my torture, and right on cue he releases one breast and searches down below with his hand. ‘Someone wet already? We’ve got a long way to go yet.’
Keeping one hand busy on my breasts he leans back up and now his face is close to mine as he runs his hand lightly along the soft inner skin of my taut, captured arm. His fingers rest on my wrist and linger where the sensitive skin slants away from the loose binding because of the angle he’s forced me to take. He probes the skin under the loop with his finger, testing gently, and all at once I see a gleam in his eyes and a new stillness in his look. At the same moment his erection jerks painfully against my flank.
Whoa. What is this?
I hear him draw in a long, deep breath. ‘Beautiful.’ He looks back at me with a glimmer of heat so intense it scares me. It lasts only a second and then his expression veils once more and he returns to my breasts, his mouth hungry now. His teeth nip and tease at my nipples.
Something has changed, intensified. There’s a new urgency about him. Now each time I cry out he slaps me hard but I hardly feel it, I’m so excited. The places are beginning to join up into a hot glow. Each new blow from the hard flat of his hand simply stokes one more flame in a growing fire that rages everywhere down south and threatens to burn me up.
At last, as I whimper and thrash in my bonds, he takes pity on me and returns to the eager, pulsing furnace between my legs. His hungry mouth fastens once more on my most private place.
This time his hunger overwhelms even mine and I feel the power of his jaws as he sucks forcefully, bringing so much more heat to the surface I think I shall erupt. And at long last he fastens on my aching bud and sucks hard. I come in seconds, screaming aloud, and he instantly clamps a hand over my mouth. I scream against it until my throat aches, mewling and thrashing under his jaws. The force of my climax slowly ebbs away but he stays rigidly in place, feasting over and over, sucking on my throbbing, tormented bud time and again until I start to shudder and weep from the sheer depth of my forced pleasure.
Finally tears of weakness run down into my hair in a continuous stream. He pulls away and leans up over me to fasten his hungry, busy mouth on mine. And under his powerful, juice-laden tongue I yield all over again, weeping freely under his kiss in a desperate attempt to thank him for my pleasure.
When he pulls away he hauls out the pillow from beneath me and places it gently under my head. I watch bewildered, half expecting him to claim his own satisfaction. I wonder fleetingly if I have strength left to pleasure him like I should. I owe him. ‘That was sensational,’ I whisper.
In reply he simply smiles down at me, kisses away my tears and then leans over each balled fist, still securely bound in velour. He loosens first one knot and then the other and draws the sash out from under the mattress and loops it over his shoulder.
He leans down and touches his lips to mine. ‘Now get some sleep.’ He folds the quilt around me, turns off the lamp, retrieves his robe and heads for the door.
With the room in darkness all I can see is his outline, a darker shape against the night. From somewhere beyond the drapes at the open window his eyes must pick up a hint of moonlight because they gleam briefly in the darker shadow he’s now become, darkness on darkness as he smiles a final goodnight.
The door closes softly behind him and in seconds, thanks to the blistering storm of orgasms I’ve just endured, I’m adrift on some warm sea, glowing and content. As I drift I think I hear a man’s voice close by. It’s not Darnley, but it’s oddly familiar. Another guest? Someone in the corridor?
I’m too sleepy to care. Maybe I dreamed it.
I wake in the early light to find my thighs on fire and a note on my pillow.
It has just three words written on it. ‘Mitchell in contact.’
I groan, turn over and go back to sleep.
‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘No, Darnley. I’m being sensible.’
Morning’s here and already we’re arguing. Our food smells delicious – ham and eggs, warm pastries and coffee. Our intimate table for two is shining with silver and vivid with fruit juice. Our breakfast sparkles cheerfully in the sunshine.
Darnley glowers at me, his expression stormy.
I’m damp from the shower, my hair a curling, rebellious mess, and I’m wearing only the thin waffle-cotton robe supplied with our thick, luxurious towels. He’s fully dressed, his soft silk tie carefully knotted, his suit immaculate, no hair out of place.
He looks stunning.
I feel soft and pink and ready for bed.
His cheeks slant into deep hollows over his clenched, stubborn jaw. He’s already been at work a good two hours on seemingly endless business, most of it baffling and technical.
He’s just poured a third cup of coffee so he can stay at table long enough to make me eat the croissant he put on my plate before I sat down.
I’m not hungry. I’m trying to be reasonable. I’ll eat when he sees sense.
We’re arguing about Ryan and I’m gaining ground.
‘If Ryan’s gone to Fort Worth there must be some reason. And I want to talk
