Driven By Fate(32)

On impulse she lifted the hem of his shirt, noting the way his stomach muscles shifted, hollowed, rose. She placed a kiss on his chest, glorying in the exhale of air that bathed the top of her head. They would get there. They would get there together.

Her phone rang again.

A whimper escaped her lips because somehow she knew that ring signaled loss. Her loss of him. Whatever headway she’d made. She felt his fist wrap her hair until the strands pulled at her scalp. Then he used that grip to turn her, walking her across the room. No longer did the window make her feel stirrings of excitement. No, the gazes burned now. Branded her unprotected skin, her body. She searched through the mayhem of her thoughts, trying to remember the safe word. Beetlejuice. Okay. She had that card to play. Please don’t let me need it.

As he marched her across the room, she saw the piece of furniture—a leather A-frame bench, one you might see at the gym, except this one had shackles, metal ones, glinting in the dim light at the base, cluing her in as to how it was used. She would be bent over, face down and bound, with the bench lifting her backside.

It was positioned right in front of the window.

Now that they were closer, she could make out her reflection, the image everyone could see—her breasts, the tiny triangle of material at the juncture of her thighs. Then she could no longer see the material because Porter’s hand hid it, palming her core from behind, molding her with his rough touch. The warring inside her grew even more muddled and confusing. She needed him there with her. It didn’t feel as if they were on display. It was only her. She felt alone.

“Please,” she whispered, not entirely sure if she was asking him to stop or keep going. Her nipples ached, her panties grew wetter, her inner pulse beating in time with his massage. Did that mean she should keep going? Eyes on me. So many eyes.

“They got a look at you when we walked in, Francesca. So fresh and wide-eyed. Dressed like you took a wrong turn on the way to campus.” He knuckled aside her panties and slid a long, smooth finger inside her, the unexpectedness making her knees tremble. “You can’t see it, but they’re all fighting their way into the room right now. Getting a front row seat to torture themselves, watching something they’ll never have, the poor bastards.” He added a second finger, pushed deep until she went up on her toes. “They’ll appease themselves with other women, all the while wondering if you were as tight as you looked. If your knees got those marks from spending so much time positioned to service me. If you’d agree to call them daddy.”

A moan got away from her, but it was cut off when he urged her forward, onto the bench. One of his hands maintained its grip on her hair, the other assisting her in climbing up. Her knees sunk into the taut, leather padding, her belly meeting the softer partition. Porter guided her down by the hair until her upper half angled downward, bottom raised in the air. He shackled her hands one by one, his movements precise and methodical.

“Let’s show them what they’re missing, shall we?”

Porter tore her panties off, clenching them in his fist a moment—as if they offended him—before tossing the ripped material to the floor.

…

He finally had Francesca exactly where he wanted her.

Beautiful, so f*cking beautiful, with her ripe backside in the air, no way of escaping what he had in store. Just the right amount of shyness over having her breasts, her bare * on display. He ran a firm hand over her ass and felt some of the tension leave her.

Yet it did nothing to ease the tension inside himself. The intruding feeling prodded his gut like a hot sword, wrapped around his neck like a serpent. He’d rushed into this. Rushed her. Even with women he never planned on seeing again, there was always a conversation, a mutual agreement. This was inexcusable and part of him was angry, livid, that she hadn’t stopped him yet. Oh, but there was also potent desire to take it all the way. The bravery she’d displayed in removing her clothes, facing the window with her chin raised. God, he wanted that girl at his mercy, if only to harness the positivity, the certainty, he lacked and demand she share it with him.

So why were his instincts imploring him to end what he’d started? His hands shook with the need to unbind her hands, drag her off the bench, and rock her in his lap, to ask her to kiss his chest again. To tell her she never had to do something she wasn’t ready for. Goddammit, his head was too f*cked for this right now. She didn’t deserve to be subjected to the product of his chaotic mind. He’d let the phone call earlier get to him, and even if she hadn’t realized it yet, he’d overstepped because of that. Severely. And yet, even knowing how wrong it was to put her in this vulnerable position, he still longed to climb behind her and f*ck her until neither of them could think straight. But God, he did. She was so gorgeous and trusting. Trust he didn’t deserve.

Porter reached for the leather bag he’d brought, opened it carefully, and drew out his Egyptian flogger. He ran his palm over the abrasive, crop-like handle, shook out the leather strips, for once hating the whispering sound that usually filled his lungs with oxygen, pumped his veins full of power. It was there, the power, the desire, but it was tempered by the anger he directed at himself. If she wouldn’t put an end to this, he would have to.

He traced her spine with the leather strips, swallowing hard when her back arched almost unconsciously. Her head tipped to the side, revealing her swollen, open mouth that trembled as she sucked air past her lips. Long, dark hair brushed the floor. She was a goddess.