Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 91862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
I nod. Not my finest moment.
“I had some time here alone, and I looked around this place.” He glances to the hanging planter in my kitchen. “That hook is secured by a molly bolt. It can support at least fifty pounds.”
“I appreciate the compliment, but I weigh a lot more than that.” I give him what I hope is a teasing smile.
“That doesn’t matter, because your feet will be on the ground. The hook will simply hold your bound wrists above your head. All I need is to slide your table to the right slightly.”
The table still holds some of our dinner dishes, but with a flourish he slides it over without so much as jarring them.
“Your ceilings are low as well.” He steps on a chair and grabs the hanging plant, setting it gently on the table. “Where’s that crème brûlée?”
“In the fridge, but I have to do the topping.”
“Not tonight. Tonight I want only the cream.” He raises an eyebrow. “Though I know it won’t be as delicious as your cream.”
I squirm, squeezing my thighs together. My nipples are so hard they may pop off.
“Hold out your wrists.”
I obey. He wraps the bindings around them in an intricate pattern, securing me tightly but not so tight as to be uncomfortable. Two strips of silk—a little over two feet long, by my estimation—hang from my wrists, presumably to secure me to the hook in the ceiling.
“Don’t you need to measure?” I ask.
He shakes his head and then meets my gaze. “I never miss.”
My body throbs with anticipation as Braden steps on the chair once more and secures the other ends of the restraints to the hook.
“Good?” he asks.
I have a little slack, and my feet are flat on the floor, about fifteen inches apart, so I guess that’s good. “Yeah. Good.”
He moves the chair out of the way. “You’re going to stand there, Skye. You’re going to stand there quietly. No talking. And you’re going to take what I dish out.”
Chapter Thirty-One
He walks around me until he’s out of my vision.
“Oh!” I squeal as his palm comes down on my ass.
“No talking!” He slaps me harder this time.
I press my lips together to keep from squealing again.
“You have the most beautiful ass, Skye. I still haven’t had the pleasure of fucking it.”
Right. That night. We were supposed to…
“Not tonight,” he says.
Disappointment flows through me.
“Soon,” he continues, “but not tonight.”
He picks up the dish of crème brûlée that he set on the table previously. He sticks his finger into the cream, swirls it around, and then holds it to my lips. “Taste.”
I lick his finger clean, letting the lushness of the dessert sit on my tongue before I swallow.
He twirls his finger in the cream again, and this time he tastes it. A low growl rises from his chest.
I’m on fire. The image of Braden sucking crème brûlée off his thick finger has me ready to burst. My nipples strain, and I instinctively pull against my bindings.
“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t resist. You’re mine, bound and ready for my pleasure.”
I nod.
Into the cream goes his finger once more, but this time he smears it over one of my nipples. The heat of my skin melts the thick cream, and it dribbles down over my large breast.
Braden’s eyes smolder. “You look so enticing.”
Please lick it off. Please.
Instead, he smears the other nipple with cream as well, and soon it’s melting down my abdomen, heading toward my throbbing pussy.
What he does next makes me gasp. Braden, who’s always so meticulous, scoops all of the crème brûlée out of the dish and covers my body with it. He fingerpaints me, cream sliding down his forearms onto his cotton shirt.
“You’re delectable,” he says. “Covered in thick and gooey sweetness. And now I’m going to lick every bit off of you.”
God, yes. Please.
He lowers his head and licks one nipple, slurping and sucking. I ache to thread my fingers through his thick hair, ache to tell him how good his lips feel on my flesh. But I’m bound by silk and by his command.
And I want it no other way.
He sucks and eats custard from both nipples, tormenting me with pleasure. His lips and tongue travel downward, but damn him, he avoids my clit. He sucks the cream from my inner thighs, my calves, even the tops of my feet.
“Delicious.” He swipes his tongue over his lips.
And I think I may faint from desire.
“Did I miss something?” he asks innocently.
He knows he did. He knows exactly what he did. I won’t say it, even though I want to scream it.
Eat me! Eat my pussy! I’m dying here! Please.
Finally he slides his tongue between my legs.
And I nearly implode on the spot. I can’t move my arms. I can’t speak. I can only feel—and I feel enraptured. Tantalized.