And so she did. His breathless aahs feeding her, she explored, took him in, ate him up. There was nothing clinical about the way she touched him, although she couldn’t help the occasional diagnosis. Under her tender ministrations, the big, cagey man started to let go, his body loosening and tightening not out of fear, she hoped, or anxiety, but with pleasure.
And she didn’t just use her hands, which was a revelation all of its own. She touched him with her mouth and her nose; she ran her whole body up his, climbing him, luxuriating in the rasp of his skin against hers. Her breasts were tools too, softer and sensitive in a wholly different way. And he liked that. She could tell, because his breathing got asthmatic, and he bit her ear when she got too close. Nipples, lightly run across his chest, then fed to him, one at a time. He devoured her until it hurt, and still, she was loathe to pull away.
But when she did, it was worth it, because he got mad, truly pissed off. Threatening her with awful, little things like “Don’t you move away from me” and “I’ll fucking get you, George. Just wait. Wait till I get my hands on you.” And contrary to everything Georgette Hadley had ever believed about healthy, well-balanced relationships, those dire threats made her hotter, stronger, more turned on. Especially when he added a helpless “Please” at the end.
Lord, that dialed everything up another notch, and she glanced down to see the wetness left behind on his chest, the way her spread thighs pulled her open to his view, crushing her vulva to his body. No, no, not her vulva. Too medical for what was likely the least medical moment of her life. And oh, the terribly explicit way his eyes took it all in—her bottom and her…her cunt pressed against his chest, right over that dark ink. And she was open, wide open to him. With his arms bound, he couldn’t move, couldn’t budge, and she had him. Slowly rocking above him, rubbing herself so she could actually feel his nipple against her clit, she took every little poisonous word, every little threat, every frustrated bump of his cock against her bottom, and soaked it up.
And his eyes, oh… Look at them. No longer crushed brown marbles, they were all black pupil, with a crazy lining—some undiscovered planet, its rings peeking around the edge. Like sunrise, like discovery. Fresh and beautiful and completely unexplored—and suddenly, she felt a bright, frightening swell of emotion so overwhelming that she kissed him to hide it. Not that a kiss could cover up something this deep and shattering. Although wasn’t there a certain satisfying irony in trying to hide something as big as love behind a kiss?
* * *
Clay had never believed in the term “making love.” He’d always figured it was an invention by people who didn’t know how good a hard fuck could be. But this wasn’t even a fuck. This was touching, just touching.
And now that he was living it—the quiet, soft touches, the tenderness of her face, mixed with the obscene way she rubbed herself against him. Goddamn, the tenderness was un-fucking-bearable—he loved it, wanted more, needed it to end. And so he threatened, told her all the nasty things he’d do to get back at her. He lifted his hips as she finally slid down and brought her mouth close to his dick.
“Suck it,” he said, chopping the romance in half.
“Mmm” was her only response—the only thing she’d said for the past half hour or three hours or however long she’d been taunting him.
“It’s fucking torture, George. Suck me or put the condom on or—”
“Or what?” she asked with a hard, feminine edge to her voice. Shit. Shit, that wasn’t George. That wasn’t how she talked to him. She was kind and patient and—
The crinkle of foil stilled him—everything but his heaving chest, his lungs pumping behind his too-small rib cage—and slowly, excruciating slowly, she rolled the rubber over his erection. It hurt, his skin protesting the pressure of latex, his balls already tight with anticipation. He glanced down and almost came at the stark, filthy contrast of her fingers against the angry red of his too-hard cock.
“Does it hurt, Clay?” she asked in that new voice of hers. “It looks almost like it hurts.”
“Yes,” he rasped out with a thrust of his hips—up into nothing. “Please, George. Please.”
Her eyes caught his, and she shook her head slowly, teasing again and almost pissing him off for making him want her like this and then, just—
George rose above him, lifted high onto her knees, and looked down at him through narrowed eyes. She grabbed him in her fist and slowly, slowly impaled herself. She was wet—the evidence of how absolutely soaking she was glistened on his chest—but still, the fit was tight. Good tight. Too good.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said. “Too fast, too fast, I’m gonna…” He finished on a groan as she lifted up again, the strain visible in those tender, lush thighs. Clay raised his joined hands to her chest, used his left one to lift a breast, to enjoy its weight before focusing on the nipple. Shit, he wanted to bite her, mark her skin. Like a tattoo, only real. Mine.
Another slide down, and he couldn’t stop the sounds that escaped his mouth, all pathetic, little whimpers, uncontrollable and weak. Goddamn, she was killing him. Another slide up, another down, and all he could do was hold on to one of her breasts and lift his hips up, trying to get himself deeper. Fuck it, fuck this.
George said, “I want your hands all over me.” He couldn’t respond, just watched her move up and down, so steady, sweet, and slow. She tore his heart out every time he got caught up in her eyes. “Let me cut off the tie. Let me do it.”
“I can’t, George. I’m not—”
She stopped moving, put a hand on his chin, and forced him to face her head-on. “You’re a good man, Clay. The best man I’ve ever known. I trust you.” She moved in for a long, deep kiss and then leaned back. “I’m asking you to trust yourself.”
Christ, she was killing him. He felt her words—her trust—like a direct shot to the chest. The heart, you asshole. You feel it in your fucking heart.
“Will you do that, baby?” she whispered, so much emotion in her eyes he could feel it on his skin, under his skin, piercing his heart. “Will you trust yourself?”
He started to shake his head and then stopped. “What if I hurt you?”
It was her smile that convinced him—serene and honest. “You won’t hurt me. You don’t know how.”
Everything inside him loosened: a release, a torrential downpour, epic and uncontrollable. There was no time to find the scissors. Instead, he let out a roar—it felt good, like busting through a dam—and wrenched his wrists straight into his chest, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to snap the zip tie in two and send her back off of him.
He followed her up, one hand on the back of her neck, easing her down, rolling over her. He needed to surround her. To own her and be owned. To undo her the way she’d undone him, from the inside out.
He pulled her open with his palms, feeling how rough he was against her perfect skin. The sight of her—giving, trusting, wanting as much as he wanted her—made his cock pulse of its own accord, and then, before he could come in the goddamned condom, he grasped himself and thrust back into her warmth. Right where he belonged.
At her long, low groan, he used every ounce of control to stop, pause, suspended, breathless, waiting, waiting. Her body backed into him; calm, clean, pristine George Hadley backed her ass up, taking him into her faster, harder than he would have done, and it was exactly what he needed. What he’d been waiting for.
