He inhales again. And then he walks toward me. His eyes are locked on mine, yellow-green and alien, but strangely human and readable. I see anger, dominance, masculine traits that have no equivalent in any female I have ever met. I’m frozen in place by his stare, my insides melting in the heat that he has turned on inside of me.
He stops in front of me, and I tremble as his arm stretches out. He grasps not me, but the door I have opened, and then he moves with it to close it, without taking his eyes off me. I have to step back to move out of his way, because he moves forward without any apparent desire to avoid a collision. He’sthatkind of man.
I’m breathing rapidly, each breath cool and pleasantly uncomfortable in my chest. I give another errant thought to what is wrong with me, but I know the answer: I’m acting like a silly schoolgirl. There is a raw attraction inside of me, and it’s pouring into my veins.
And yet, Ihatehim, I tell myself. He’s a vicious murderer who killed a security guard with a plate and spanked me. He hasclaws.
I drop my eyes to his hand. They are retracted, but even thinking of them stirs up the same feeling I get in my gut when I get vertigo from heights. It’s a little nauseating, this fear, but it also throbs somewhere below my gut, vaguely sexual in its sensation.
More quickly than I even have time to process, his claws are out and his hand is at my throat. He isn’t choking me—somehow he has lifted his hand at lightning speed but it has come to rest, closed around my throat very gently, without touching me until the last moment. I feel the sharp contours of his claws next to my jawline and along the back of my neck. They are not pressing into my skin but the threat is there, next to my flesh, broadcasting its sharpness through the hot hardness of their shape.
He moves his thumb from my jawline, down my neck, over my carotid artery, which is pulsing wildly enough that I can feel it fluttering against his skin. “There is nothing respectful about this ‘decline,’” he growls. The markings on his skin are intensifying in color, shifting to a deeper gold, glowing.
I close my eyes, and then, for good measure, I squeeze them. I’m telling myself to shut up inside my head, but my mouth is moving anyway.
“I’m not hungry,” I’m saying, to my own stupefaction.
“Then don’t eat,” he replies, almost before I finish, again. As if he anticipated this reply before he even came here.
I open my eyes. He is looking at me with the same ice-cold stare.
“I don’t wish to attend,” I say. “What are you going to do? Kill me?”
He moves his free hand slowly, without letting go of my neck, to the belt that holds my robe closed. He tugs at it, and my knees go weak with the sensuality of it as he pulls it loose and the silky fabric slides across my skin, displaying a swatch of my naked body. My pussy throbs, I feel that I’m wet between my legs, and I sense that he knows this.
For fuck’s sake, I think, just before everything happens very fast: his hands move with the lightning speed that I find, still, unbelievable. Before I know it, he has released my throat and has taken my wrists in one hand, tied them together with the robe’s belt, and is suspending them above my head with an ease that is terrifying. I realize seconds after it has happened that he has lifted me from the floor, and, suspending me like I’m a child’s toy in his hands, he’s turning around and carrying me like this—dangling by my bound wrists, toward the bed.
He tosses me on my back and I yell something stupid like, “Hey!” but he’s already turning me over. Because my hands are tied above my head, I struggle to push up, so I try using my legs.
The only thing this does is make matters worse; the silky robe slides away from my ass and my legs, up around my waist, and my butt is in the air as I try to get my knees underneath me so I can sit up.
He seizes my hips with his hands, and demobilizes me instantly. Sure, I could keep kicking or struggling, but it would all be in vain. He holds me in place for a moment, perhaps to see if I recognize that I’m in a predicament.
And then, with one hand holding my hips in place with ease, he begins to spank my bare bottom again.
The smacks fall like a heavy rain, with no pause between them. I lose count almost immediately, as the heat builds on my skin, only to be sliced by another sharp sting, over and over again. I realize too late that I’m fighting against him, and remember too late that the tactic of surrender worked before.
I tell myself that I’m just feigning surrender as I melt into his grip and the mattress. The smacks continue, and tears form in my eyes. I can feel the humiliating slick between my legs, but there is nothing I can do about it. I have no control over the ache that this punishment is creating.
At last, he stops, but he holds me with his one, strong hand. I’m still face-down on the mattress, with my butt in the air. My skin throbs, hot and sore.
Moments pass, and I’m afraid to move even my eyeballs.
Then I feel it: the hard, sharp curvature of one of his claws. He draws it from the middle of my inner-right thigh, along my leg, slowly moving up toward my pulsing pussy. I picture the razor sharpness of his claw, feel its implied threat like electricity along my skin.
When he drags this fearsome nail over the outer lips of my pussy, I shudder and hold my breath. I’d desperately love to believe that I’m frozen with fear, and I am, in a way. But the danger inherent in the part of his body that he moves along my outer labia, and then, slowly, toward my clit, is causing me to get wetter and crave him more.
How I crave him, I don’t know. It’s a crazy thing to even think, let alone shudder about with pleasure.
When he drags his nail over my engorged clit, he strikes a raw nerve in exactly the right place, and my limbs jerk involuntarily.
“Tell me now, Anya Mann,” he purrs. In the lowest register of his voice there is a growl, and a cold shard of fear knifes me in my gut. “Will you attend dinner, as you have been requested to do? Or do you require further discipline?”
I’d put the fraction at half—the part of me that actually screams for ‘more discipline.’ I can’t tell how much of that is a desire to actually be spanked, and how much is my natural-born defiance. I don’t want him towin,though.
His finger is still moving through the slippery wet folds of my pussy, always returning to my clit, grazing it with a gentle touch, making a shock travel through my body. I’m as needy as I have ever been for sexual release, and I don’t want him to stop.
I hear myself, next. I’m whimpering, panting, making sounds that I usually have to ‘enhance’ when I’m with human men. Not that I’ve had a ton of experience… just none of it was that great. This single adventure has taken me to a near-climactic high I have never truly felt.
