Then his hand was between my legs, his fingers tracing the slick folds of my sex through my soaked panties. I gasped, a harsh, ragged sound that was half surprise, half need. His touch was knowing, confident, a proprietary caress that sent a jolt of pure lust straight through me.
“Soaking wet panties, just for me, just like I knew you would be, princess,” he growled in my ear.
“Go fuck yourself,” I gasped, but the words had no force. They were a weak, desperate defense against the overwhelming tide of my own arousal.
He laughed with his victory. He slid his hand inside my panties and parted my folds, his fingers finding the sensitive nub of my clit and circling it with maddening slowness. I bucked against him, my hips lifting in a silent, traitorous plea for more, a desperate, instinctual attempt to get closer, to take what was being given.
“Your body knows which of us is in control, Kara,” he taunted. “It knows who it belongs to.”
I scowled. I would never admit it, but somewhere deep down I knew he was right.
He slid one long finger inside me, stroked once, then added another, his thumb continuing to circle my clit with an enraging, arousing rhythm. He was watching me; I could feel his eyes on my face, the way my lips parted, the way my breath caught. He was savoring this, savoring my surrender and my body’s treacherous response to his bullying dominance.
I struggled, but I wasn’t going anywhere and I knew it.
He pumped his fingers in and out of me at a perfect, devastating pace that sent jolts of pleasure coursing through me. I was a puppet dancing on his strings. I didn’t want to orgasm, but my body was already tensing, and my mind was betraying me second by second.
“Come for me,” he commanded. “I want to feel you come on my hand.”
The orgasm that followed his order shattered me. The world dissolved into a haze of light and color, a symphony of ecstasy. The blissful haze that swallowed me up was like a sudden storm sweeping over the horizon.
He didn’t stop, though.
He just kept fucking me with his fingers, ignoring my sounds and struggles, drawing out my orgasm, making it last, making it completely his.
When the tremors finally subsided, I was limp and boneless, a ragdoll in his arms. I could only hang there, my wrists still pinned over my head, my body a quivering, oversensitive mess.
He let go of my wrists, and I would have slid to the floor if he hadn’t caught me.
Then the world inverted.
He swung me up over his shoulder in a single, fluid motion, his hand landing on my ass with a harsh slap.
A disorienting rush of blood surged to my head, the polished marble of the floor receding below me, the solid wall of his shoulder digging into my stomach. I was like a sack of potatoes,a prize he’d won, a possession to be carried away. For a moment, indignation flared, a hot, useless spark.
I pounded my hands on his back and kicked, but it did nothing at all; his hold on me was too strong.
“Stop fighting me,” he commanded.
I obeyed, because what was the point?
The fight was over. He had won.
He carried me through the suite, his steps even, unhurried. We were heading for the bedroom. I knew where he was taking me, and a fresh wave of heat, a mixture of dread and anticipation, washed over me.
He didn’t set me down gently. He dumped me onto the bed, my body bouncing on the plush duvet. I landed on my back, but he quickly flipped me over onto my stomach, my face buried in the soft fabric, my legs hanging over the edge. Before I could scramble away, his hand was on the back of my neck, pressing me down, holding me in place as he yanked my panties down, baring my ass to his gaze.
Oh,fuck.
This was really happening.
“Stay,” he ordered.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
I heard the metallic click of a belt buckle and the whisper of leather. A thrill of pure terror shot through me, followed immediately by a surge of liquid heat that slickened my thighs.
This was it.
