Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
I blink back to the present, a dreamy smile tipping my lips, remembering what it felt like to dig my nails into his tan skin, to drag them down his back so slow and deep it would make him grind into me with all his might, exactly the way I wanted. He would grab my arms from around him and trap my wrists in his hand above my head so I couldn’t draw blood.
But then his thrusts wouldn’t be as powerful, and I’d whimper and tilt my hips this way and that, trying to make him hit the right spot. He’d gotten lucky many times before, getting me off when no one had been able to before. Yet it was so much work, on his part and mine. He had the patience of a saint though, always willing to try different positions, different speeds, angles, and depths. All while I concentrated with every ounce of brainpower I possessed, and through shear desperation alone, my body would finally obey and climax.
Then one night, after a few drinks that made each of us a little bolder than we’d ever allowed ourselves to be with one another before, my claws dragged down his back once more, driving his hips forward in a violent thrust that made my eyes roll to the back of my head in bliss. So I dug in deeper, my nails becoming spurs to egg him on, until he growled more ferociously than I’d ever heard come out of a human as he snatched my wrists away from him in a grip so tight I cried out, expecting it to hurt, but the pain never actually came. Instead, with my hands trapped above my head, his fingers now digging into my more delicate skin and around my delicate bones, unable to get at him any longer, the sudden vulnerability was like a shot of adrenaline straight to my pussy, and I groaned in pleasure.
“Harder, please,” I breathed, but I didn’t know if he heard me over the grunts of exertion he made with each thrust into me. His cock filled me to the brink, so deep I wouldn’t be able to take all of him if he were a mere inch bigger in any direction. So why did my body crave more, something… just… more? It had always needed this elusive more, never being able to come except for those few miraculous times Roman bestowed upon me.
With the alcohol lowering my inhibitions, it raised my volume in turn, and I asked louder, “Please? More.”
I knew he heard me that time, because his thrusts did become more powerful. His one-handed grip on my wrists pinned me firmly to the bed along with his other keeping my hips held in place, so the force of his pounding wouldn’t move me away from him. I was forced to take it, unable to escape his huge, thick cock pummeling into my much smaller body. One would think he’d break me, snap me right in half the way his muscular body was overpowering mine, but all I could think, all I could chant, was “More. Please, Roman. Harder. Please… oh fuck. I— Please! Oh God. Just… God, Roman, fuck me harder. Please!”
The last word was a loud wail toward the ceiling, seeming to reverberate between us and around the entire room. It startled me for a moment, and I clamped my eyes closed and my bottom lip between my teeth, fully expecting him to do the complete opposite and just stop right then and there. Because what the hell was wrong with me? How could he possibly give me more, when I was already topped off with cock? How could he give it to me harder when he was already no doubt leaving bruises along the inside of my thighs? There was no “more” for him to give, as there was no “more” I could possibly take!
* * *
Oh how wrong I was.
No, my delicious boyfriend did not, in fact, stop what he was doing right then and there. Oh-ho no, he most certainly did not.
The trip down memory lane has set off an aching throb deep in my pussy, and unconsciously, I tuck my hand between my legs to apply pressure, hoping to soothe it. I feel how hot my core is, my fingers flat between it and the cushion of the office chair as I cross my legs around my hand.
But that just sets off another sensation of arousal, my clit now wanting attention.
I bite my lip and glance at my phone. I’m not supposed to masturbate. I’m supposed to save all my orgasms for my husband. I’m supposed to give them all to him, since he’s the one who taught me how to have them. He’s the one who finally forced my body to bend to his will and give up all the pleasure it previously hoarded, as an offering to my Dom. I’m supposed to message or call Rome whenever my sexual needs start to consume me, when I start feeling an urgency to disobey and take care of my desire myself.