Page 120 of Stealing Blinds

Somehow, my golden Noire king penetrates my reprieve, even here. He’s always with me now. So much so that citrus and suede invade my senses, and when oiled hands smooth over my skin, I imagine they’re his.

After several blissful minutes of pampering—on my arms and legs and neck and shoulders—the stones are moved away, my hair is swept aside, and a rumble of glorious thunder finds my ear. “Tell me what you need, baby.”

I knew he’d come for me.

A smile crests my cheeks, and I roll to wrap my arms around Cash’s neck, happier than I can explain about my ruined massage and finding this Adonis naked. “You.”

“Good girl,” he breathes, removing both the blanket and my panties with one deft swipe.

He warms oil between his hands, and I was mistaken. My massage isn’t ruined. It’s upgraded. He starts at my shoulders, traveling down each arm and moving to my breasts, where he spends an ample amount of time until my nipples are peaked and sensitive and pleading. Then he sails between my ribs to my lower abs and briefly over my pussy.

When my hips buck, his lips curve with impish delight. He’s keen to torture, and yet I feel adored.

Doting decimation.

He works his way down my legs to my feet, kneading until sore transforms to serenity. It’s similar to the full-body attention he granted me when the stones were doing their thing, except now, no matter where his hands are, his eyes lock on mine.

And the world tilts on its axis.

I’m owned and liberated. Elevated and cherished.

Starving and nourished and fortified by a duplicitous monarch.

Every swipe over my slick skin sends me reeling. I’m so turned on that I might lose my mind if he keeps touching me everywhere but where I need him. But he’s devoted to the task of spoiling me, so I don’t interrupt. Instead, I enjoy the view. The candlelight flickers in his dark blond hair. The shimmer of migrating oil glistens on his striking ink. His rigid muscles flex as he unwinds mine.

And a bead of sweat trickles down his neck, dripping to his broad shoulder and proclaiming the agony of this erotic rubdown.

Like me, he’s had all the teasing he can take. He grips my ankles and drags me down the table, swiping the head of his hard, pierced dick through my sopping heat with a silent request for permission.

A moan wafts out of me, and I bolt straight up, clasping his shoulders to gain leverage. Nails brand skin with a desperate demand. “Please,” I pant as a boisterous chuckle transcends the walls. It reminds me how public we are. “Sorry,” I whisper. “I just really need you inside me.”

“That’s my greedy girl.” He conquers my mouth with a feral devouring before he hikes up one of my legs so my knee kisses my shoulder, notches himself in my opening, and braces his hand on the table while slamming inside me.

Rough and relentless.

A sonorous groan punches out of me, so I mouth, Sorry, even though I’m not sure I am. He feels so fucking good. And the satiny sensation of skin to skin, combined with his all-consuming pumps and euphoria-granting jewelry, is simply more than my self-control can keep under wraps.

“What’s going on in there?” is bellowed from our spa neighbor, proving how thin the walls are, and an indiscernible retort follows—likely the masseuse.

Maybe I should feel guilty. We’re interrupting someone’s moment of Zen to pursue a mind-altering realm of ecstasy.

Yeah, still no.

“Don’t be sorry,” Cash rasps in my ear, obviously on the same page, and he is the owner, so his judgment reigns. He pistons his hips, his chest skimming mine as his pelvic area grazes my clit. “Wanna put on a show?”

A thrill rushes through me. I’m not sure what he means, but I enjoy anything that pushes my limits. I drag my fingertips over his golden scruff, savoring the scrape of his bristle and admiring his scheme in advance. “What did you have in mind?”

“Vengeance. Reprisal. Counterblow.” His trip through a thesaurus is perplexing, but he doesn’t let me pull away to question him. He keeps ramming into me, dizzying me with his unforgiving thrusts and his tempting explanation. “Athletes often recover here. Mr. Gordon is getting a massage next door.”

My breath hitches as I try to decide what to do with that information. Cash’s cock is etching my insides. Danny’s over there, listening to us. And the reason for the impromptu amorous massage becomes clear. Another concealed treasure revealed. Cash always has something up his sleeve.

“It’s your call, Sly.” His hand floats to my lower back, but his brutal ruination never falters. He hammers into me with pumps that send me airborne, stealing my breath and my good sense. “There aren’t many opportunities that offer closure, orgasms, and a middle finger in one fell swoop. This is just the beginning of providing you everything, baby girl.”

He’s a mind reader. And a sinister puppeteer. How does he always know what I need?

“Yes,” I chant. “Fuck yes. Rail me.”

He chuckles because my volume escalated on that final statement, declaring my commitment to the cause. And in true Cash fashion, despite the marvelous position in which he’s currently wrecking my pussy, he pulls a fast one on me.