Before I share that, he peers over his shoulder, his smoldering gaze raking down my form like a blade slashing through his reservations, until his ironclad control pushes ease into his tense muscles.
Despite his composure, when he speaks, it’s husky and frayed with the unhinged depravity he can’t completely extinguish. “Take off your panties.”
Lifting up on my knees, I slide the silk and lace down my thighs, the T-shirt falling to provide some modesty, which he apparently disapproves of.
He snatches my panties from my hand and stuffs them in the front pocket of his suit jacket, like a scandalous handkerchief. “T-shirt too. Then sit with your knees up and thighs spread open so I can see all of you.”
After removing his T-shirt, I do as he said, exposing myself in a pose that is both tantalizing and degrading. But just thethought of him touching me assuages all the awkwardness and insecurity. I want this. My body wants this.
“Beautiful,” he praises. “Do you have a safe word?” When I shake my head, he swallows thickly, disturbed by my lack of experience with kink maybe. “Pick one.”
I ruminate on that, hit by how everything in my life is a blend of the worst and the best it’s ever been, about how good and bad, pain and pleasure, and hope and hurt are all two sides of the same coin. Giving up one means losing the other, and I’m too stubborn for that.
“Coin.”
“Coin,” he repeats. “If you need to stop, you saycoin; otherwise, you obey.” He halts there, drinking me in and making me squirm under the weight of his perusal until he decides he’s ready. “Your pussy is already glistening so pretty, just from the cool air hitting it, just from baring yourself to me. Dip two fingers inside.”
I hesitate because he’s making no move to join me, and it strikes me then that I’m not sure he will. It’s only me, splayed out naked before him, like a feast he’s admiring, but unwilling to sample, the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city he owns and his suit clinging to his power.
It nettles me and excites me, all at once, the latter draping over me like a cloak of shame.
He sees it because he sees everything, but those conflicting emotions mantling me only spur him on. “I do not repeat myself, and I don’t have time to deal with the brat thing this morning. You need to come, don’t you? My fearless Thorn.”
He flings the nickname that I both love and hate in challenge, as if to ask,Will you be fearless now?
There’s afuck youcrawling up my throat, but it’s smothered by ayes, sirand a drive to please him, to have him panting, to have him hard and feral from simply watching me. So, I plungetwo fingers inside me, drawing them out and back in again, the crude sound of my arousal filling the room.
“Show me,” he demands.
Realizing he means how wet I am, I lift my coated fingers.
He hums, assessing them. “So greedy. Eyes on me and taste.”
The humiliation of the entire scene rockets through me, my inner walls contracting with fervor. Raising my drenched fingers to my mouth, I make a production of enjoying my arousal, gliding them over my lips and into the back of my throat with a purr of satisfaction, while his dick jumps in his pants—proving what a knack I have for torturing from the submissive position.
“Good girl. You should always be savored, Zara. Cherished.” He lets that statement hover in the air, mesmerizing me with only his voice and his gaze and the dense, soupy air, like he won’t move on until those words burrow deep enough to become part of my DNA—this notion that I am someone to be cherished.
It makes my eyes sting. I glance away to gather myself, expecting him to reprimand me. But when I turn back, he’s unbothered by my respite.
“Now touch yourself, gorgeous. Slide your hand over your perky breasts—squeezing and pinching—and then keep going.” He’s the pinnacle of control, the epitome of being opaque when facing an opponent, save for the gravel lining his rough order. “Let me see how you rub your throbbing clit.”
“Jesus,” I hiss because his deep timbre caresses my heated flesh like wolfish hands and ravenous lips.
No contact. Two feet of space between us. But I feel him everywhere.
With the fingers that are wet from my tongue, I cup my breast, kneading and tweaking my nipple while he tracks every subtle movement.
“Use your other hand too,” he commands, and when I comply, he adds, “Just like that. Harder though. You like the pain, don’t you?”
I twist and tug each nipple until it elicits a whimper and an affirmative, “I do.”
“You’re so swollen, so wet, baby. You’re soaking my sheets. Slide one hand down to your pussy now.”
Chills erupt on my skin. My heart thrashes against my ribs and sternum, temples and toes. And all my muscles tremble with need as I follow his order. He wears an expression of tranquil indifference, and yet it’s rapt all the same. I think I’d do anything to yank on that thread of hunger, to finally see him unravel.
When my hand slips further, landing right on my core, we both release a slight gasp. It’s torture and relief and unadulterated salacity.
His lips stay parted in awe as he glides his hand over his thigh, his fist flexing, and with it, he reveals his hard erection, battling against his custom-made suit pants. A small surge of victory rushes through me.
