In an instant, he grabs my ankles, pulling my feet flat against his chest before whipping my undies and shorts the rest of the way off. My feet are gritty still with the remains of the sand from the beach, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he wraps his hands around my knees.
‘Comfortable?’ His hands stroke my legs and I nod, seemingly not yet in charge of my vocabulary. ‘Then I mustn’t be doing it right.’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
His eyes flick up the bed to where my wrists lie, unmoved. Tied yet unrestrained. I’ve yelled at him, yet physically I haven’t stirred. At my realisation, his wolfish smile rises again.
‘You like to be pushed out of your comfort zone. You like... cruel.’ He pushes forward, sliding my feet over his shoulders, the momentum of his bodyweight bending my legs almost over my head. ‘You like a little torture on the way to coming. You just don’t like to be called out on it, do you, babe?’
‘You’re an arsehole,’ I spit in reply.
‘Ah, but an arsehole is useful... has lots of scope.’ His hand suddenly sweeps between the cheeks of my butt and I stiffen. ‘Is that what I am to you? Useful? Used just to get you off.’ His fingers part my cheeks further before I feel the pressure of his thumb—where it shouldn’t be. Conflicted, I’m not sure how to feel about it—how I should feel about it—as a simultaneous burst of heat and discomfort prickles my skin, spreading a warmth through me.
Is it shame?
Both hands move back to his zipper, the weight of his body over mine a little less as I turn my head, unwilling share my conflicted relief.
Then my body jolts, shuddering as I find his tip hard at my exit—because that’s sure not an entrance—in the place of his thumb. I’m a tornado of emotions, my thoughts muddied, suffocated by this need and ache to be filled by him. But surely not like this? It’s wrong, I’ve always thought so, and right now it still feels forbidden, but also a tiny bit all right. Because I know he’s trying to punish me, push me to submit—and I want to. I also know he’s better at this game than I’ll ever be.
And right now, I’m not so sure I don’t want to succumb.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, I tell myself again as he slips forward and begins to stroke his hard cock against my wet ribbon of flesh. Backwards and forwards, his rhythmic motion spreads my own dampness against the depths of me and the length of him. He adds a little more pressure as his tip once more reaches that part of me; pinched tight not to let him in.
‘Come on, make me use you. I know just what you need.’ I struggle with the ease of his tone, how his words drip into my ear and shimmer down my spine. Persuasive word, callous in meaning, his gaze indifferent; the contrasts have me at sea.
‘Stop.’ I whimper as his gaze bores into mine, daring me to deny him physically, deny his words as truth.
‘Khallas?’ he asks sardonically.
Do I want this to stop? Stop everything?
‘I know such a lot about you, Kate. Know how to push your buttons, make you come hard. Know how to love you. But you? You seem to know nothing about me. Do you know how that makes me feel?’
I blink rapidly, a large knot forming in my throat. Yes, he can make me come—with more ease than any man has a right to—but the rest? I know in my heart he’s been faithful, but he hides things. His father’s plans for his marriage, for a start. Thoughts continue to swirl without much sense or meaning, the physical ache for him still overriding everything. But one last ridiculous thought floats free: He’s using lawyer speak. He’s trying to get off, get me off, on a technicality.
My thoughts are no more as his hands move to grab the cheeks of my arse, lifting me, my legs lying over his shoulders now. Hope, fear and need ball low inside, and having him inside me now is everything.
After an age of a moment, he changes our angle, sliding his cock across my wet folds and slipping inside me easily.
But it isn’t the whole thing. Literally. Just the tip.
It sounds like a joke doesn’t it?
Then why am I not laughing?
His gaze bears down, a little less hard now, but no less calculating. I bite my tongue from the torrent of abuse I have for him—for this moment—and concentrate purely on the visceral. I close my eyes and swallow, hide from it all. Hide from him.
‘Open them,’ he demands, grasping my chin. ‘Look at me. See me, not who you think I am.’
‘See only what you want me to see, you mean.’
He retreats and my clit pounds in distress. ‘I said who, habibti. The rest is just bullshit and inconsequence. We’re going to be married, after all.’
I inhale a double-quick breath. I know this, but why is it not at the front of my mind? I think the answer to that is because of who lies between my legs. A man with the ability to make me forget everything but pleasure. A man who gives and takes all on his own time.
But staring into his face, I see signs of his weakness, his own need. A pulse pounds in his jaw; his arms tremble, and not from the weight of my legs. It seems he’s as affected by this as I am.
As though reluctant to show his desire, his eyes move slowly from mine, gazing down at where we join. I don’t look—won’t. I refuse to acknowledge my need and strain in front of him. Instead, I close my eyes and conjure the image from memory, my wetness glistening against him as he continues sliding torturously slow along my slit.
