Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
“You must be—” He broke off to pinch my folds together over my clit and rub gently up and down. “Very anxious, right now.”
My breath shuddered from my chest.
He kept up the rolling motion of my labia over my clit as he continued. “I know it gets to you, not being able to hide yourself from me. Really, I could do anything…”
He spread me and used his other hand to flick my clit, hard. A short, sharp, “Ah!” of pain burst from me. I’d just started craving contact, and there he was, making me resist it again. Sir was so, so good at his job.
“I could make you really miserable, you know.” It wasn’t a question, but an observation. He petted my waxed-bare vulva, soothing the pain and driving me crazy at the same time. “I could keep you here for hours, and never let you come until you’re frantic for it.”
One part of my brain shouted, Yes!, because I knew how worth it the wait would be. The other part shouted, No!, because while I was definitely turned on, I was also exhausted from the party. Hours of sex really would be torment, but not the good kind. “Is that what you plan to do, Sir?”
“Sadly, no.” He leaned his cheek against my thigh. He’d shaved before the party, so his face wasn’t as stubbly as it normally was by this time of night. Boo. “I’m far too tired. What I would like to do is eat this pussy until you’re dripping all over the bed, then fuck you until your legs can’t hold you up.”
“Oh…please, Sir.” Knowing we were on the same page brought my enthusiasm back up. I didn’t like using a safe word to end our play just because I was getting sleepy or bored. It rarely happened, and I logically knew I shouldn’t feel bad about it, but I always found it slightly disappointing. I knew we couldn’t have amazing, mind-blowing sex every single time—we’d had our share of exhausted, doing-this-because-we-feel-like-we-should fucks, just like anybody—but I wanted to, damn it.
The first touch of his tongue curled my body up from my toes. With my arms restrained, I wasn’t in a position to move with the motion, and every muscle screamed out in protest. Neil was ruthlessly good at oral sex. Part of it was his genuine enthusiasm. I’d definitely been with guys who’d done it out of a sense of obligation, or who liked it, but got discouraged when I hadn’t come in seconds. Neil didn’t try to hurry me along; he savored me like scotch that had been aged for longer than I’d been alive. He rolled his tongue over me in broad, lazy circles and lapped at my opening to coax my own wetness out. He clearly didn’t feel obligated. He was going to take his time tonight.
A low growl rumbled in his chest when his lips closed over my clit. His tongue probed it, gently pushing the hood back to torment the bare nerve points beneath. My fingers opened and closed on nothing as I twisted, helpless in my restraints. He sucked the whole of the little organ again and pulled his head back slowly, letting his lips drag me until the last possible moment.
Then, he really went to work.
If I could have shut my legs, they would have been squeezing his head until it popped. All I could do was lay there, making pleas in gibberish. I couldn’t have escaped his mouth if I’d wanted to. The tip of his tongue swept up and around my clit. Behind closed eyelids, I tried to paint the paths he took, to discover where he might go next. I was writhing, helpless, and maddened by the erratic contact when he slipped two fingers into me. His mouth fell into a steady sucking, flicking rhythm, and I almost broke my ankles trying to get my thighs to touch. I came, exposed and vulnerable to his mouth, thrashing and screaming his name. His actual name, not “Sir” as I should have. He pumped his fingers harder and lapped at my clit, and the pleasure went on and on, my orgasm seemingly never-ending. My body contracted and spasmed, contracted and spasmed, each wave blending with the next, until I was left a pulsing, quivering rag doll, offering no resistance to my restraints.
He lifted his mouth from me and ordered, “Look at me, Sophie.”
My gaze traveled down my body, over the sheen of sweat between my breasts and the slight curve of my belly, to where he knelt between my legs. His face glistened with moisture, and he slid his fingers from me to show that he’d achieved his stated goal; the fluid proof of my arousal rolled easily down the side of his hand.
He unbuckled the cuffs at my ankles then rose and unchained the wrist cuffs from their eyelet. He left my wrists bound above my head, but asked, as he unfastened his pants, “How are your arms?”