Tease (Songs of Submission #2)(15)

He made the I can’t hear you sign, and I got the game, but I was about to explode into his hand hours after I’d given him control of my orgasms. I couldn’t show so much weakness so early.

I rolled off the bed, letting his hand slip out of me, and ran out of the room.

I stood in the hall, back against the wall, and tried not to make a sound, but I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. I crouched, balled my fists up in front of my mouth, and just laughed.

I saw Jonathan in the doorway, phone to his ear, fist in the same position in front of his mouth as he tried not to crack up in the middle of a business call.

“Okay.” He cleared his throat. “Tom, I have to go.” The last word came out in the squeak. Tom, however, wouldn’t shut up. “I get it,” Jonathan said.

I got myself together, but I knew I could burst into audible laughter any second. I went back into the bedroom and hooked my hand in his waistband before I kneeled in front of him.

“Okay, that’s fine,” he said. “Just let me know if you hear anything else.” I unbuckled his belt and got his dick out of his pants. He leaned back against the wall. “Yes, and keep your ear to the ground on the other thing.”

I gave him a taste of his own medicine, licking the underside of his dick with the flat of my tongue from base to tip, then throating him.

“It’s an expression, Tom. It means listen hard.” He put his fingers in my hair and pulled my head into him. “Yes, okay. Really, it’s late here. Let me know tomorrow.” He hung up and threw the phone on the chair. “You,” he said, looking down at me, “are very naughty.”

I couldn’t respond. I had a dick in my mouth. When I pulled back, leaving it slick with my spit, he bent down and caught me under the arms. I laughed as he threw me on the bed, and I tried to get away until he crawled over me.

“No, you don’t.” He grabbed my arms. We laughed together as I tried to wiggle away, but he flipped me over onto my stomach and pinned my wrists behind my back.

“You shoulda let me come while the coming was good,” I said.

“Oh, you’re going to come.” He slapped my ass, and the sting made me catch my breath.

“You didn’t just …” I said, knowing he did and wanting him to do it again.

He did. One hand held my wrists behind my back and the other thwacked my ass as if I was a wicked, naughty child. I made some noise, like a breathy cry, that might have sounded something like “yes.”

I felt him bend down and whisper, “Have you ever been tied up, Monica?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Never came up.”

I waited for him to ask, maybe a formal request for permission, but he just bent backward while holding my wrists. I felt the pressure on the bed change, and I knew he wasn’t asking for permission or anything else.

He let go of my wrists and laid his body over mine, slipping his forearms under my face. I saw him holding the belt of my dress. It had fallen on the floor at some point, and he was making sure I saw it.

He kissed the back of my neck as he said, “I understand words like no and stop. Outside of those, your body is my playground.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re like a prodigy at this.”

Before I could answer, he pulled me up to my knees. I felt him behind me, still clothed, as he stroked me from my neck to my crotch and back up again. He ran his hands from my shoulders down my arms and placed my hands on the wooden headboard. The railings and runner across the top were roughhewn. He looped the belt around my wrists, binding them together, then around the railing. It was a good knot, firm and tight.

I wasn’t frightened. Nervous. I was nervous in the best way possible as he got off the bed and stood there in his jeans and sweatshirt, staring at me. Me, on my knees with my wrists tied to his headboard, hair in my face, ass out; him with his arms folded, checking out his work.

“Well?” I said.

He smirked a dangerous smirk. I felt the tingle of liquid dripping down my leg.

He pulled his shirt off, and when his face was covered and I only saw his body, another shiver went through me. His tight torso, with its patches of light hair, was a feast for the eyes, and when he got his shirt over his head, messing up his hair, he smiled as if he knew I was admiring him.

He took his time getting the rest of his clothes off. The condom went on, and he put his knee on the bed, tilting the mattress, and put his arms around my waist. One hand landed on my breast and the other between my legs. He found where I was wettest and rubbed gently, then harder. I rotated my hips, my tethered hands a fulcrum I rocked against, his dick waiting against my ass.

“Jonathan.” My voice was husky. Breaths without a voice. I didn’t know what I was trying to say. Just his name, as if that would tell him what I wanted. As if that would connect us to my pleasure. As if him binding my hands wasn’t enough for me to feel possessed, owned, protected.

He stopped rubbing my clit, pulled my ass up, and put the head of his c**k at my pu**y. I felt as if it would be sucked inside me by the sheer force of my desire. But no, he let it hover there, just touching the skin. I pushed back, but my tied hands held me. He kept himself just out of my body’s reach.

“Go,” I said with a squeak of desperation.

I thought I’d have to beg him to f**k me, but I didn’t. He slid in easy and sweet, pulling my ass up. The slow slide was good, the wet inches rubbing inside me and pushing against my hole. He moved so my wrists felts trapped and burned, the feeling of being held still almost stronger than the feeling of his stomach hitting my ass. He was doing everything right. He was f**king the hell out of me. But something was missing. He was holding back.