Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
I was amazed for two reasons. First, that Price wasn’t angry or jealous over Simon’s generosity, and second, that he was actually giving him credit for something he’d done.
“I wonder when he decided to do this,” I mused, running my fingers over the law office letterhead. “I mean, why not leave it to his family with all the others?”
“Maybe, even through the drug haze, he realized it belonged to you. That it would have the most meaning to you.”
I gave Price a look. “You’re taking this very calmly.”
“I’ve changed.” He took the letter from me, put it down on the table, and led me toward the bed. “I love you, Chere. I’m happy for you, and I’m not jealous about the painting anymore. I understand how you could drive anyone to make art.” He flicked a glance toward the bathroom, where his lipstick-art poem remained undisturbed, his own heart and his own lust on a silver-reflective canvas. I’d taken a dozen photos of it, so I could keep the memory forever. I was happy about inheriting Simon’s painting, but much happier about the love I found in Price’s arms.
“Are you going to do it to me?” I asked, as he hooked a finger in my collar.
“The idea crossed my mind.” He exerted not-so-gentle pressure to force me down between his legs. “But first, you’re going to do it to me.”
I opened my mouth and welcomed his rough, demanding thrusts, even when he made me gag a little. It wouldn’t be Price if he wasn’t gagging me. It wouldn’t be his power and girth, and the sense of panic that came with serving him. He kept his fingertip hooked in my collar so I couldn’t pull away or alter the rhythm he set. That was the wonderful thing about Price. He always let me know exactly what he wanted.
When he finally released me, I came up drooling and gasping for air. He flipped me over and shoved my face down into the sheets, and held me by the neck as he thrust into me from behind. He didn’t say a word, didn’t negotiate or suggest, he merely bent me to his will—and it felt like heaven. Even without the dungeon and all his torture instruments, he had no problem making me feel utterly surrendered and ecstatically hot.
“Please. Oh God,” I groaned into the sheets. “Oh, please.”
“You going to come already, little slave girl?” he asked. “Don’t dare. Not yet.”
When I tried to reach down and stroke my clit, he captured my hands and forced them over my head.
“Yes, I’ve been letting you get away with that the last couple weeks, but I think it’s time we got back on track. Who gets to touch you and make you feel good?”
I arched up, pressing my back to his chest. “You, Sir. Only you.”
“That’s right. Who owns your pussy?” he asked, squeezing my mons in rough fingers.
“You, Sir.”
“Who owns your mouth and your asshole, to use whenever he fucking wants?”
Oh, shit, I was going to come from this litany alone. “You, Sir,” I wailed. “Please, it feels so good. I just forgot for a moment.”
“Then I’ll have to remind you, after we’re finished, what happens to naughty girls who try to stroke their clits without permission.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, with equal parts misery and joy. I knew what happened to naughty girls who stroked their clits without permission, at least back in the dungeon. Ten hard punishment strokes, and a night in the chastity belt with dildos in that naughty girl’s pussy and ass. I wasn’t going to enjoy those strokes—or the chastity—but I was thrilled that he was getting back to our old rules. When I’d said I didn’t want that part of him to change, I’d meant it. I wanted him to control me sexually, to the deepest extent he wished.
I leaned down and kissed the hand planted next to me on the bed. His other hand was still clasped over my mons. His fingers teased my engorged clit, making my hips jump at the delicious trails of sensation.
“Don’t come yet,” he said again, and I wouldn’t. I didn’t dare, or I’d get more than ten strokes with whatever implement he pulled out of his travel bag. Quite a few of them had migrated over to the Gramercy during our stay, and they were mostly the quiet ones. Nylon switches, canes, thin whips, and Lucite tilt wands. Ouch.
“Who do you belong to?” Price asked as his strokes deepened. “Tell me again who owns this body.”
“You do, Sir.”
“Arch your hips up. I’m going to come, and then you can come too, if you can manage it before I’m through.”
Oh, shit, oh, shit. He was holding my hands on the bed again so I couldn’t stroke myself. I jerked back against him as he pounded me. His balls banged against my swollen clit, and along with his rough possession, it was enough to send me over the edge into a mercurial orgasm. I felt his thick organ pulsing inside me as he came at the same time. He made a growling sound of satisfaction and tightened his hands on my wrists. Who needed manacles? I felt as tightly bound as any prisoner, except, unlike a prisoner, I liked being captured.