I Belong to You (Inside Out #5)(72)

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I let out a growl. “You don’t wear na?veté any better than you do vanilla. Either f*ck me like Mr. Compton, or don’t f*ck me at all.” I climb off him and scramble across the bed, barely managing to escape his reach.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he calls out as I dart away.

“To take a bubble bath. It’s what we delicate girls do.” I try to slam the bathroom door but he’s there in a blink, catching it before it shuts. “This is why I don’t tell people I’m claustrophobic, or that I was a foster kid, Mark. They feel sorry for me, or like you, they think I’m fragile.”

“You think that I think you’re fragile?” He sets me on the bathroom counter. “You want to be pushed, I’ll happily push you, sweetheart. I was just letting your pretty pink backside recover.” He steps back and leans on the wall, his shaft thick, his eyes hot with challenge. “Touch yourself. I want to see you make yourself come.”

My bravado fades instantly and I feel the blood leave my face. Mark closes the gap between us, grasping the counter on either side of my hips. “Remember what I said, Ms. Smith. I say. You do.”

“Yes, but I’ve never . . . Not for someone else.”

“Because delicate girls never do.”

Before I can make a smart remark, he takes my hand and presses it between my thighs, using my fingers to explore the swollen, slick seam of my body. The effect is pure erotic thrill, proof that his skills at seduction and control are revved to full throttle. And he’s not done.

Claiming my free hand, he molds it to my breast, kneading and stroking my nipple. The double assault of pleasure has me on sensory overload, and my lashes lower with the impact. “No,” he orders roughly. “Eyes open. I want to see you, and you to see me.”

My eyes snap open, and he wastes no time pushing for another reaction. He, we, stroke deeper into the slick heat of my sex, pressing two of my fingers inside my body. I gasp, and not just from the nerve endings we awaken. From the intensely intimate experience of touching myself with him. But even more so, it’s the possessive demand in his eyes that says if he wants to own me, he can and will. Pleasure blossoms, thick and sweet, a burn in my belly, a tingling sensation in my nipples. Inhibitions fade, and when his hands leave my hands, settling on my knees, I continue to touch myself, letting him watch. Letting myself go where I would go if I were alone. And I like the tension in his body, the hunger in his expression, that says maybe, just maybe, I own him, too. He leans in and kisses my neck, trailing his lips downward, until he’s licking my fingers where they cover my breast, his teeth scraping the nipple. It pushes me over the edge and into orgasm with barely a warning; I stiffen as my body clenches and spills over into spasms.

Mark doesn’t give me time to revel in the sensations, lifting me and setting me on the floor, then turning me to face the mirror. A few strokes of his fingers between my thighs follow, quickly replaced by the hard drive of his cock stretching me, pleasing me. The thick pulse of his shaft presses to the deepest parts of my sex, creating a fierce physical need. Everything about him makes me need. And need more.

My head drops forward and his fingers instantly twine into my hair, pulling my head up. “Look at me,” he tells me, thrusting harder, deeper, as if punishing me, the movement an erotic tug on my scalp. I can hear my own panting, the raspy, urgent whimpers I make. And that mirror is a window to his need, his passion and demand. Seeing this, knowing I’ve created it, sends me over the edge. Without warning, no chance to delay and savor our shared pleasure, my sex spasms and my eyes close. But this time, Mark doesn’t seem to notice. As I am lost in my release his hands leave my hair, bracing against my hips for a fierce, final thrust.

I’m in the aftermath of the desire-filled escape that he so easily creates, my knees weak. I’m about to collapse when Mark catches me, steadying me. Once I’m steady he pulls out of me, leaving me gasping with the suddenness of the action. The sticky, wet proof of our intimacy is instant, and I grab the towel on the sink.

Mark’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Still feel delicate?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“I’m sure.” I turn in his arms and wrap mine around his neck. “I need to know you can handle my past, and not do what you did tonight.”

“I can handle anything you need me to handle.”

My past simmers on my tongue, but I contain it, still uncertain of its release after the reserve he showed tonight.

He is a Master. It’s still a part of him, no matter how he’s softened.





Twenty-two

Crystal . . .

Sunday morning begins with Mark receiving a million phone calls. I hop into the shower to get ready for my spa day with Dana. By the time he heads to the bathroom, I’ve showered and dressed in dark navy jeans, a “Pink” brand T-shirt, and pink Keds.

I’m in the kitchen, coffee cup in hand and wondering about Jimenez, when Mark walks in and proves he does faded jeans and a navy blue Ralph Lauren shirt as sexily as he does suits. “I’m coming with you to my parents’ house,” he announces.

I crinkle my nose. “You want to be at our spa day? You realize it’s hair color and nails and other girly stuff, right?”