Claim Me(76)

I want the pain and the pleasure and everything that comes between.

Slowly, methodically, Damien places his hands on my shoulders, then traces his fingertips down my body, over my breasts, along my waist, down my inner thighs.

I bite my lip, fighting against the painfully sweet sensation, but he’s right; bound like this, there is no escaping—and the pleasure crescendos, leading toward the edge of pain.

When he finally stops touching me, I exhale in a burst, only then realizing that I’ve been holding my breath. I gasp, my chest rising and falling, my eyes wide open as I watch Damien rise and stand near my own bound feet.

Slowly, so painfully slowly, he takes off his clothes. His cock is hard and thick and I inhale, my breath shuddering in my chest, the desire pooling in my wide open sex. Then, with slow deliberation, he comes to me and kneels over my bound feet. Gently, he places the pads of his thumbs on each of my inner thighs, then slides his hands upward. I shiver, my body primed to explode, but he still doesn’t touch me where I crave him most, and I am left hanging on a precipice.

“You’re a cruel man, Mr. Stark.”

“Am I?” He leans farther in, and those hands that I want so desperately between my legs move up to cup my breasts. I gasp as he pinches my nipples, once again sending hot threads of desire all through me. I bite my lower lip and squeeze my eyes shut. I swear if he does that again I really will come, and I silently beg him to do just that.

Naturally, he doesn’t, and I teeter there on my imaginary cliff, so very ready to leap into the chasm, but quite unable to take myself there.

“Cruel?” he whispers. “Or am I being very, very good to you?”

“Cruel,” I say very firmly, then smile when he laughs.

He slides his hands off my breasts to curve around my sides. I can feel the fragile bones of my rib cage beneath his strong hands, a reminder once again of how much I am his in this moment. Bound. Helpless. His to tease, to torment, to command.

Tenderly, he kisses the tiny scar above my pubic bone. I feel the rough brush of his beard stubble against my sensitive skin.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. “I want to hear you say it.”

I open my mouth, but no words come. “You,” I finally manage. My voice is rough. “I want you inside me.”

“Why, Ms. Fairchild,” he murmurs, his lips grazing my pubis and his voice so low I can barely hear him. “Are you saying you want to be f*cked?”

“God, yes.”

“I like your answer.” He gently cups my needy sex. His skin is hot, but not as hot as mine. “But I don’t think you’re quite ready.”

It is entirely possible that I will die from frustration. I suck in a breath and find my words. “Mr. Stark,” I say sternly, “if you can’t tell how ready I am, then I’m afraid you’re not as skilled a lover as I had thought.”

“On the contrary,” he whispers. “I’m an exceptional lover. You just need to be more patient and let me prove it to you, slowly, methodically, and very, very thoroughly.”

I say nothing. Every sensation in my body, every ounce of feeling and desire has rushed between my legs. I feel heavy and swollen and desperate.

I need him inside me. If he doesn’t f*ck me soon, I’m one-hundred-percent certain that I will implode. “Damien, please.”

“This?” He slides two fingers inside my vagina, and I gasp as my body tightens hungrily around him. My hips gyrate without me even thinking about it, and it’s an odd, amazing sensation with my legs bound open like that, because he is right. Not even the slightest shimmer of my desire can be hidden.