I lifted my head.
I don’t know what compelled me—some desperate need to see, to witness, to confirm that this was real. I raised my head from the pillow and looked down the length of my flushed, quivering body to where my master lay between my spread thighs.
The sight nearly killed me.
His dark head moved between my legs with a slow, purposeful rhythm. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in concentration, and the expression on what I could see of his face was one of pure, undisguised enjoyment—the face of a man savoring something exquisite, something he owned, something he could taste whenever and however he pleased.
His broad shoulders held my thighs apart with an effortless strength that made my smallness, my helplessness feel absolute. His hands on my hips held me pinned with an authority that said I wasn’t going anywhere until he decided I was finished.
And his mouth—God, his mouth—moved against my pussy so dominantly, so possessively that I felt dizzy.
The arousal that slammed through me at the sight was so violent, so overwhelming, that my head fell back against the pillow as if the muscles in my neck had simply given out. I couldn’t look. Seeing him there—seeing the reality of this powerful, experienced man choosing to bury his face between my legs, to taste my shameful wetness, to make my whorish little cunt perform for him with nothing but his tongue—it was too much. The visual fed the physical, the physical fed the visual, and together they created a feedback loop that threatened to short-circuit every system in my body.
The second orgasm broke over me in a long, rolling wave that seemed to last forever. My thighs shook against his shoulders.My fingers cramped around the backs of my knees. I sobbed his name again, and again, and the tears came—not the tears of humiliation or feeling overwhelmed, but the simpler tears, the ones that meant I was feeling something too large for my body to contain.
He held me down and kept going.
The fourth orgasm. The fifth. They blurred together the way they had on the set—distinct peaks becoming a continuous landscape of pleasure that my body traversed without my consent or participation. I was merely the terrain. He was the force moving through me, reshaping me, and each time his tongue found a new angle or a new pressure or returned to the exact spot just above my clit that seemed to be wired directly to the base of my spine, another wave broke and I screamed or sobbed or made the wordless animal sounds that had become my only language.
I lifted my head one more time. The last time. I raised it from the pillow with the trembling effort of a girl who had almost nothing left, and I looked down at him, and the sight—his face buried in my cunt, his eyes closed again now, his expression one of dark, focused pleasure, his hands holding my hips down with an authority that said he could do this for hours if he wanted to, that my body existed for exactly this purpose, that the taste of my desperate, wanton pussy was something he had earned the right to enjoy at his leisure—sent one final, catastrophic wave of arousal crashing through me. My head fell back, I came so hard that my vision went dark at the edges, and the sound I made didn’t sound like me at all.
When the last tremor had shuddered through my body and my hands had finally released the backs of my knees and my legs had fallen open, limp, against the dark gray sheets, Master Paul pressed one final, soft kiss against my bare mound.
He crawled up beside me. His arms gathered me against his chest, and I went willingly, my body folding into the shape of his the way water fills a vessel. His T-shirt was soft against my flushed cheek. Beneath it I could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart.
I kissed his chest. A small, soft press of my lips against the cotton over his sternum.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
I kissed him again. Lower, over his heart.
“Thank you, sir.”
Again. The hollow of his throat.
“Thank you, Master.”
I couldn’t stop. My lips found every inch of him they could reach—the ridge of his collarbone, the warm skin above the neckline of his shirt, the hard curve of his shoulder. Each kiss carried the same message, repeated in the only language my wrecked body still had access to: gratitude, devotion, the overwhelming need to give something back to the man who had just wrung me out so completely that I wasn’t sure I’d ever reassemble into a coherent person.
“Thank you,” I murmured against his chest. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”
His hand found the back of my head and held me there, his fingers threaded through my tangled hair, and I felt his chest rise and fall beneath my lips in a rhythm that was slow and deep and steady. An anchor. A heartbeat I could time my own to.
“Sleep, Annie,” he said softly.
CHAPTER 31
Anne
The next day we shot on the den set. It seemed built to feel like old money: dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stocked with leather-bound volumes, a Persian rug in deep reds and navy beneath a heavy mahogany desk.
A wingback armchair upholstered in oxblood leather sat near a standing lamp whose warm glow pooled across the rug like spilled whiskey. The set smelled faintly of the wood polish Darlene’s team had applied to every surface—a scent that evoked studies and libraries and the kind of masculine authority that existed in rooms where women knocked before entering.
Melissa intercepted me before I reached wardrobe. She carried a garment bag in one hand and a look on her face that I’d learned to recognize: the particular brightness in her dark eyes that meant she was about to show me something that would make my stomach drop.
“Before you get dressed,” she said, steering me toward the small curtained area that served as a changing space, “I need to walk you through what you’re wearing today.”
She unzipped the garment bag.
