Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 57064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“Yes, Sir.”
Instead of answering, Gabriel pushes me back onto the couch we’re sitting on, his eyes flaring as his left hand wraps around my throat, just above the lace collar I’m wearing. It’s not a full collar, just a regular choker tied at the back of my neck with a simple bow knot, but it means so much to us both.
His lips find mine, crushing me in a powerful kiss and making me want to embrace him, but he’s taught me well. I’m instantly breathless. I hold onto the cushions of the couch as he presses into me, his right hand reaching between my thighs to pull the lace panties I’m wearing—another gift from him—to the side so hard I feel the burn against my skin as they tear.
Before this month, I’d have been shocked, maybe even scared, to know that a hundred-dollar pair of my underwear just got torn apart like cheap dollar store cotton and that I’m helpless beneath the man who did it. Now, though, I feel powerful, wanted, and in need of him to keep going. To take me and fuck me like I’m his, to do whatever he wants to me.
His fingers stroke my folds, gathering the wetness before teasing my clit and making me moan for him. “Pull your left knee up,” he growls.
I obey, my strangled pleasure coming out as a gasp as he plunges two fingers inside me. “Gabriel!”
“This is mine,” he rasps, and I nod, pulling my knee up higher to give him more access. “This pussy is mine, this neck is mine, these mouth-watering tits are mine.”
This heart wants to be yours too.
I don’t say it, never out loud. Not that I could possibly speak coherently as he pumps his fingers in and out of me, his thumb roughly stroking my clit until I’m left on edge. He holds me here, both of us knowing that he’s the one in control.
He releases my throat, and oxygen floods my system as he reaches to his belt, the leather singing against his suit pants as he pulls it out of the belt loops before freeing himself. With one strong, savage thrust he fills me, and even though he doesn’t order me, my legs wrap around him, wanting him inside me.
“Gabriel!” I cry out as my first orgasm hits me like a wave crashing against the shore. He’s never, ever denied me my release, not when his cock is inside me. Instead, he rides me through the waves, his hips rising and falling hard and fast. Somehow, he feels me, his strokes matching the crests and dips of my climax, making it even more intense.
“Kiersten,” he murmurs, a name that only slips from his lips when we’re like this. Not when he’s ‘training’ me or tying me up. Then I’m his pet, his little whore, his plaything.
When he’s buried deep inside me, I’m Kiersten. His Kiersten.
I let go of the couch to wrap my arms around him, clutching at his back as his pace quickens. He swells, and somehow, I’m still coming from his fingers, the orgasm stretching out until it grows as he explodes within me.
“Mine,” he whispers, and I nod, holding onto his neck.
“Yours, Sir.”
Gabriel lifts me, keeping me in his lap as he stays inside me, our union intact. “I’m going to ask you something, Kiersten. Something very important. Do you want to stay . . . like this?”
I nod. “I do, Sir.”
Gabriel reaches around, cupping my ass and giving it a squeeze. “I don’t do girlfriends. I don’t want one.”
“I don’t want to be your girlfriend, Sir.”
“What do you want to be?” he asks. “Answer the question, Kiersten.”
“I want to be yours,” I reply softly. “I want to be your submissive.”
He smiles and lets go of my ass to stroke my back. “Emotions are not something I do.”
That’s a lie. This man doesn’t know the depths he’s shown me. In only a month, I’ve seen so many sides to him. And there’s one I cling to.
It may not be love, but he lusts for me. So many times, I’ve come to him when he’s frustrated or angry, when he’s exhausted and overwhelmed. And there’s always a shift. I would have to be blind not to see it.
He may not say it, and that’s okay. He doesn’t need to. I can hear it in the softness of his touch, the tenderness of his lips, but also in the hardness of his thrusts and the strength of his hand. I can hear it in the rustle of the dresses he’s given me, in the taste of our shared meals.
And I can hear it in the click of the key in the lock when he’s had me in the playroom.
But I don’t say it. Instead, I hold him, giving myself to him as I roll my hips. “What do you want, Gabriel?”