“Oh, God, yes.”
“Good.” I hear the smile in his voice. “Now spread your legs for me.”
I do, then moan when he draws the strand of pearls between my legs, back and forth, the strand becoming slick with my own arousal. Each perfect gem glides over my clit, and the sensation is maddening, right where I want it, and yet at the same time not quite there. Not quite enough. I squirm, shameless, wanting more. Hell, wanting it all.
“Shhh,” Damien says. He is right in front of me, and he pulls the strand free, making me whimper in protest. Then I feel his fingers on me, stroking and opening me.
“Yes,” I say. I need to feel him inside me. I need to come, to explode, to release this maddening pressure.
I hear the crunch of the pearls in his hand again, then he rolls the cluster enticingly over my desperate sex. I am being bombarded with sensations, buried in heat. I am on edge, desperately aroused, and on the verge of simply crying out and begging.
What I’m not expecting is for him to stretch me wide and slide the pearls inside me.
“Damien! What the—”
He silences me with a kiss. “Quiet,” he says. “And stay still.”
And then he’s gone and I’m left naked and exposed and unsatisfied, my sex heavy from the knot of pearls tucked inside me, my body desperate for his touch, and my mind spinning with possibilities.
“Damien?”
At first I don’t hear him. Then I detect the slightest rattle from behind me. I strain against the bond that keeps my hands tight above me. I want to take off this blindfold. I want to see.
I want Damien.
It’s no use, though, and all my struggles do is shift the pearls even more. Little shock waves burst through me, but not enough to bring on the explosion that I so desperately crave. Damien—damn him—has brought me to the edge and left me there.
And this, I think, is part of the punishment he promised.
The pillar with which my ass is now on such familiar terms is the line of demarcation between the living area and the suite’s kitchen. We’ve eaten out or ordered room service most nights, so we haven’t had to rely on the kitchen for anything other than the storage of wine and ice cream, the latter being a late-night splurge about a week ago. I checked it out my first night in Germany, though, and was impressed to find it fully stocked.
I hear him moving about, but I can’t tell what he’s doing. There is the thud of a drawer. The clatter of cutlery. And then there is the even rhythm of Damien’s steps as he moves toward me. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you look?” he asks. “Your skin flush. Your nipples hard. Your lips parted as if waiting for my kiss.”
“I am waiting,” I say, and am rewarded by the briefest touch of his lips upon mine. Brief, yes, but oh so powerful. Much like the butterfly effect in chaos theory, that minuscule sensation has set off a chain reaction, sending sparks humming and dancing throughout my body. It’s deliciously sweet, but it isn’t enough.
“Turn around,” he says.
“Um . . . ?” I tug on my hands, still bound to the pillar above me.
“Cross your wrists and turn,” he says, and though I’m dubious, I manage. Now I am facing the pillar, though with the blindfold I can see nothing, and my back is to Damien. “Good girl. Now slide down a bit. That’s it,” he adds as I try to ease my hands down. I have to scoot back to manage, and I end up with my torso almost parallel to the floor. The position shifts the pearls, and I draw in a shuddering breath.
He runs his palm over the curve of my rear, and I bite my lower lip in anticipation of a firmer touch. “Beautiful,” he whispers, then slides his fingers down. I’m so wet and so ready, and his low moan of satisfaction sends another shiver through me. I swallow, expecting him to thrust his fingers inside me, but then he withdraws his hand, and I find myself whimpering—and hear Damien chuckling.
“Soon. I have something else in mind, first. Your legs,” he says, tapping the inside of my thighs gently. “A bit wider.”
I comply again, my brow furrowed. That wasn’t his hand upon my leg just then, but I’m not sure what—
“It’s interesting how many things one can find in a kitchen that entice,” Damien says, interrupting my thoughts. “This, for example, seems quite intriguing.”
I feel something warm and flat press gently against my rear. The surface is slightly rough, and I cock my head without thinking, trying to figure out what it could be.
“A simple wooden kitchen spoon,” Damien says, as if in answer. “Who knew it could be so tantalizing?”
I feel a rush of cool air when he removes the spoon, but it is gone almost immediately, replaced by the sting of wood against flesh. I cry out, my ass stinging, then immediately soothed by the firm press of Damien’s hand against my rear. All too soon, his hand is gone, and he swats me again—not too hard, but hard enough that it feels as though a million pinpricks of pleasure are rushing to the spot.
I squirm a bit, wanting more. Wanting the pain to center me—and wanting Damien to launch me off into the stars.
“That’s it, baby,” he says. “You’re glowing, but your ass is on fire.”
I can’t speak. I just want more. But I’m not expecting the next blow—not on my ass, but on my sex. One light, upward thrust with the back of the spoon, barely brushing my clit. But it sets off little sparks inside me. Then another spank, this one firmer, and I cry out as I come closer to the edge. I bite my lip, wanting another—just one more. One more to take me over.