My top had a built in bra, so when his hand delved into the side of my blouse, it made direct contact with skin. I pushed myself into his hand, gasping.
His mouth was on my neck, my eyes closed with pleasure, when my hands went to the front of my slacks. I felt him working at the fastening of his jeans behind me.
I didn’t get my pants all the way off, just pushing them past my h*ps to bunch around my knees.
I didn’t even manage to turn around. The second I felt his bare skin against me, his hardness digging into me, we shared but one goal. To get him inside of me, by the fastest means possible.
One of his hands gripped my hip, anchoring me as he pushed hard against me.
My back bowed; my body contorting until I was angled to allow him entry.
He started to surge into me with a rough curse. He had to work in slowly, the fullness of it overwhelming, the voluptuous sensation of every raw tender nerve being worked making me so frantic that I bit my fist in some desperate attempt at restraint.
His hand snaked down, rubbing my cl*t with a light, fast touch, meanwhile the progress of his c**k into my cunt was at an all-time slow.
“Please,” I called out.
“I can’t rush it. I don’t know when you’ll let this happen again, and the last time few times were so fast, so f**king rushed, that I’ve regretted that I didn’t savor them more.”
I wiggled my h*ps impatiently. He kept moving deeper, stopping completely when he was fully submerged. Instead of pulling out, or thrusting, he began to circle his hips, shifting inside, dragging his shaft around and around, hitting nerves, setting off sparks.
The sensations that caused had my eyes rolling up into my head, and I was shaking like I had a fever.
“It’s too much,” I gasped, one hand flying up to grip at his hair, the other reaching for the coffee table. I could just reach the edge of it. I scored my nails across it, and the soft dark wood finish gave under my fingers.
He’d have a bitch of a time hiding the damage.
He brought me over like that, with that torturous circling and his relentless fingers. I was still clenching on his c**k as he shifted, rolling me until I was pinned flat on my belly below him, his hand pushing down hard on my shoulder. He began to move with purpose then, deep thrusts that pounded me into his couch.
“Fuck, Danika. Do you have any clue how often I think about this? It’s a wonder I get any f**king thing done, when my mind is always right here, buried in this divine cunt. Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed this? Missed you?”
I whimpered, but he wasn’t done bombarding me—with his thrusts or his words. He kept at it, cursing, praising, rutting, caressing.
Meanwhile, I could barely get a breath in, my face was being pounded so deep into the sofa.
He shouted, his voice rough and low, as he came, grinding into me at that perfect angle.
I was close to coming again too, so close that I started cursing him as he pulled out.
“Shh, sweetheart. I got you. Let’s go to bed. I’m not even close to being done.”
He got off me and helped me up from the couch.
I pulled my pants up awkwardly, feeling disoriented. “I stood up too fast,” I told him. You couldn’t go from facedown, ass up, to upright and not have to pause to get your bearings.
He pulled me close, propping me against him, his arm thrown around me. He nuzzled into my hair, into the sensitive spot just behind my ear. “Come to bed with me,” he said very, very quietly.
I didn’t respond, didn’t think I needed to, since he’d already begun to tug me with him to the stairs.
I paused in the door of his bedroom, needing a moment to take it all in.
The huge painting on the wall, of me, was of course the first thing I focused on. I still couldn’t believe he’d done that. Who the hell bought a ninety thousand dollar painting of their ex and put it in their bedroom?
It was so twisted. And dammit, some part of me thought it was the sweetest thing he’d ever done.
After a time, my attention shifted to the rest of the spacious room.
I sized up his bed. I wasn’t pleased with what I saw. It was intimidating. It was huge and red and built more like a miniature house than a bed.
I shot him a look. “That your torture chamber?”
“It’s a modified reproduction of a Chinese wedding bed.”
“That didn’t exactly answer my question.”
He began to undress me, starting with my slacks. When his hands went to my panties, I moved away.
“Let’s get in bed,” he urged softly.
I shook my head, still staring at that bed, getting more agitated by the second. “Why do you have a bed like that, Tristan?”
“Come on.” He grabbed my hand, trying to tug me toward it.
I shook him off. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” I licked my suddenly bone dry lips. “Any surprises you have for me?”
He sighed deep, ran a hand through his hair, and just stood there, looking very uncertain for a man with a bed that looked like it belonged in a BDSM playground.
I set my jaw and moved to it. When he tried to follow me, I held up a warning hand. “Stay there.” My voice was cold.
It was beautiful in a way, painted red and carved intricately. Determinedly, I climbed inside. The mattress was soft. It didn’t even hurt my knee as I crawled across it.
When I spotted the row of drawers at the head of it, my suspicions were confirmed. I didn’t even have to open them, though I did.
Handcuffs. Ropes. And a shitload of other things that I couldn’t have named, but knew the purpose of.
I moved back to the opening of the bed, swinging my legs out, and just perching there for a long time, my mind racing.
My eyes snagged again on the picture of me. He must’ve had it for months. How could that possibly go over well, a sexy painting of your ex looking down on all of your sordid kinky bed activities.
I pointed at the painting. “What the f**k is with this kinky shit? I think that’s actually worse than the restraints. You like my painting to watch you when you f**k other women?”
“Such a pretty girl, such a dirty mouth.” He sounded resigned, but still fond.
I glared at him. “Don’t get cute with me. Explain this messed up shit to me. Now.”