His other hand went to my other breast, his thumb and forefinger rolling the neglected nipple, a sweet, tormenting pressure that made me squirm in my seat. The dual sensations consumed me, making my head spin and my pussy clench.
He switched his attention to the other breast, his mouth hot, his tongue insistent. I could feel the heat pooling in my belly, a slow, creeping tide that was impossible to fight. I was wet, so wet that I could feel it, the slickness soaking through the thin fabric of my swimsuit bottoms.
He released my nipple with a soft pop, his tongue tracing a path up my chest, over my collarbone, to the sensitive skin of my throat. He kissed his way to my mouth, his lips soft and demanding. I didn’t hesitate. I opened for him, my tongue meeting his in a desperate, hungry dance.
The kiss wasn’t about affection. It was about possession. A silent, brutal conversation where he demanded entry and I shamefully, willingly granted it.
He pulled back after a long while, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark and fathomless. He looked at me, at my swollen lips, at my heaving chest, at the undisguised desire in my eyes. He looked at me like I was a feast he was about to devour.
His hands traced a path down my sides, his touch making my skin tingle. He moved lower, his mouth following the trail his hands had blazed. He kissed my stomach, his tongue dipping into my navel in a small, intimate touch that made my hips buck. He kissed his way down, down, branding my skin with his mouth and his fingers.
Slowly, he parted my thighs as much as he was able as my ankles were still bound to each chair leg. He kissed his way down the inside of my thigh, his mouth hot, his tongue insistent. He nipped at the sensitive skin there, a sudden, stinging bite that made me gasp.
My head fell back, a low moan escaping my lips.
He moved to my other thigh, his mouth a delicious torture. He was in control, and he knew it. He was taking his time, savoring every moment, my every shudder and gasp.
Then he reached the juncture of my thighs. I was sure that he could smell my arousal, and he confirmed it when he smiled, his expression darkening with seductive intent.
He hooked his fingers into the sides of my swimsuit bottoms, pulling the thin, wet fabric aside. The cool air hit my slick, heated flesh, and I shivered. I was exposed to him, completely vulnerable.
He leaned in, settling between my legs, his breath hot against my most sensitive flesh.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I lifted my head, my eyes meeting his. They were dark, fathomless, burning with a fire that mirrored my own.
And then his mouth was on me.
He licked me, parting my pussy lips with his tongue, a smooth, sensual stroke that sent a jolt of fiery sensation straight through me, making me cry out harshly.Then his mouth was on my clit again, licking and sucking and teasing me.His tongue was a masterful instrument, exploring every fold, every hidden place, every sensitive spot between my thighs. He returned to my hard and aching clit and he circled it with the tip. Within moments, I was a writhing, whimpering mess of need. My hips bucked, and I couldn’t make them stop.
He slipped one finger inside me, then another, his long, thick digits stretching me, filling me. He curled his fingers, finding that spot deep inside me, that place that made my vision blur and my toes curl. He stroked me from the inside out as his tongue worked my clit in a relentless, demanding rhythm.
I could feel the tension coiling low in my core, a sweet, aching pull that promised orgasm if I would just let go.
“Don’t stop,” I sobbed, my voice hoarse. “Please, don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
He just increased the pressure, his tongue circling my clit with a ferocity that was almost brutal, his fingers pumping into me with a steady rhythm. The pleasure was a sweet, exquisite torture that I never wanted to end.
Then I came, the fiery bliss racing up and down my limbs. My legs quivered and I threw my head back, just trying to survive the onslaught of euphoria coursing through my system.
Slowly, gently, he eased me down from the peak, his tongue slowing, his fingers stilling. He left soft, gentle kisses on my trembling thighs as I struggled to catch my breath.
He rose to his feet, his eyes dark and fathomless, his cock a hard, demanding ridge straining against the fabric of his trousers. He hadn’t even taken his own clothes off. I could see the outline of him, thick and long, proof of his own unsated desire. I wanted to touch him, to feel the weight of him in my hand, to taste him on my tongue.
He reached out, his wet fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “We’re not done,” he murmured in a deep, dangerous rumble.
He leaned in, his mouth claiming mine again in a deep, hungry kiss. I could taste myself on his lips, the sweet, musky flavor of my own arousal. It was intoxicating, a dark, intimate reminder of the power he held over me and I loved it. I hated that I loved it, but I did.
I wanted to tell him to take me, to finish what he’d started, but the words were lost in the fog of my own desire.
His hands moved to the ropes binding my ankles, his fingers working at the knots with the same quiet, efficient precision he’d used on his own.
“When I get you out of these,” he vowed, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t remember your own name. You’ll only remember mine.”
A fresh wave of heat washed over me. I bit my lip and let a soft, breathless moan escape me.
