Lovegame(49)

“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” he interrupts, his hand stroking down the center of my body from my throat to my sex. He pauses there for a moment, gently rubs my clit. Then he gets a little bit rougher, presses a little bit harder, and I cry out, high and wild. My whole body starts to shake and I don’t know whether to beg him to stop or beg him to continue.

After a few more seconds, he takes the choice away from me as he slides one hand under my hip. He flips me over onto my stomach and for a moment, just a moment, I lament the loss of being able to see his beautiful, beautiful face. But then he touches me, just a single finger to the small of my back, but it’s enough to remind me just how desperate I am to come.

Besides, if this is the way he likes to have sex, with me facing away from him, who am I to blame him? I have too many of my own issues to ever judge someone else’s.

“Come back,” I tell him as I push up to my knees. It’s no easy feat, with the way my arms are still bound and stretched tightly above my head, but I manage it. “I need—” My voice breaks and I stop, unable to say the last word. Unable to make myself that vulnerable.

It’s crazy, especially considering how vulnerable I am at this very moment. It’s not my nakedness, or even the way I’m bound to the bed. Physical vulnerability I can take—I’m an actress, after all. I spend my life that way. But emotional vulnerability? No way am I doing that, especially when I’m already feeling so incredibly messed up inside.

“What?” he demands, even as he runs a gentle hand over the curve of my ass. “What do you need?”

“You know what I’m asking for,” I choke out, turning my head so that my hot cheek presses against the coolness of the sheet.

“Maybe I do.” He continues stroking me—petting me—in a calm, steady rhythm despite the fact that I can hear in his voice just how much that restraint is costing him. “Maybe I need to hear you say it.”

I wiggle my legs a little further apart, then arch into his touch just as his hand reaches the bottom curve of my ass. We both draw in a harsh breath as his fingers slide across my sex.

I arch even further, shuddering as he strokes his thumb down my labia once, twice. But then he’s pulling back again and I’m crying out, desperate for some kind of relief. I strain against the belt, twisting my arms and my wrists back and forth in a desperate attempt to get close to him. In a desperate attempt to answer his question without having to say the words.

But when has Ian ever let me off that easy? Instead of sliding his cock back inside me like I’m practically begging him to do, he pinches my clit between his thumb and forefinger. Squeezes hard enough to have me crying out. Then he brings the palm of his other hand down on my ass hard enough to make me scream.

Then he does it again. And unlike last night, in my kitchen, he doesn’t go easy on me. Doesn’t ease me into it. Again and again he smacks me. Over and over he brings his hand down, hard, until every inch of my ass is on fire and my whole body feels like a firecracker seconds before it explodes.

And still he doesn’t stop. Still he keeps it up until I can feel this spanking in my aching sex. In my rock-hard nipples. In the deepest, darkest part of me that I never let anyone touch.

My head thrashes against the sheets and tears pour down my burning cheeks even as I arch my hips in a silent plea for more. More pleasure. More pain. More…everything.

Ian gives it to me—of course he does—rubbing his thumb against my aching clit as he slides three fingers deep inside of me. I clench down around him, grateful for the sudden sense of fullness—and for the way he’s pressed right up against my G-spot. I wait for him to start stroking me, to start sliding his fingers in and out in the rhythm I’m so desperate for. In the rhythm that will finally release my body—me—from this agony of frustrated pleasure.

He doesn’t do it though. Instead, he stops. Stops stroking my clit, stops moving his fingers. He holds himself completely still, waiting for me to break. Waiting for me to beg.

I almost do.

It would be so easy. He’s right there—right here—touching me, taunting me, tormenting me with the promise of more. The promise of what he can give me with just a few strokes of his fingers.

But I can’t. The words are stuck in my throat, trapped there by ancient memories and a fear I just can’t shake. And so I start to move on my own, rocking and wiggling my hips against his hand in a frenzied attempt to get the friction I so desperately need.

“Don’t,” he says harshly even as he brings his hand down on my ass yet again.

The sharp sound echoes through the room and I bury my face in the bed, choke back a scream as heat pours through my body. I don’t stop, though. I can’t. I’m too needy, too desperate, too far gone now to do anything but whimper and push frantically against him. My body is on fire, the need to come so overwhelming that it’s a razor blade against my skin, scraping, slicing, peeling away at the layers of armor I keep between myself and the world around me.

“Fuck!” Ian wraps one big hand around my hip and squeezes tight enough to hold me in place, balanced on his fingers. Balanced on the edge of madness.

It’s almost enough—just the feel of his hand digging into my flesh—and I tighten around him, my body milking his fingers over and over again. I’m so close, so f*cking close. My head is fuzzy, my body light, and all I need is—