*
Theo stared down at Claire, transfixed by the beauty of her laid out with her arms outstretched and legs spread open, for him to take as he wished. She’d given in to him. Watching her be swamped by the joys he’d shown her was an incredible experience. Almost as good as burying his cock inside her. He pushed forward, watched his member slide into her anus, slow as treacle, slippery with the cream he’d applied. Her cleft glistened with moisture. The base of the vibrator jiggled in her vagina. As he built up a rhythm, he pressed on the vibrator. The tremors came through her flesh to his cock, and he butted into the thing at the deepest point of his thrusts.
Nice. So darn tight. Claire raised her head for a few seconds, neck straining, as if she could see him through the blindfold. Her mouth gaped open as she sucked in air; then her head sagged back down. Her inner muscles seized on him. Her breasts shifted as he reamed her. Not too hard—he didn’t want to hurt her, and she might not register an injury until too late. He’d taken her to the very top.
Sweat beaded on her breasts. The veins in her neck stood out, and she sighed and groaned with every thrust, the muscles at the fronts of her thighs tensing and relaxing. Her nipples poked up like pink buttons. Next time, he’d put clamps on her. With that thought, his balls swelled and felt as heavy as lead.
Her breathing accelerated. Would she come again? Thumbing her clit, his other hand cupping her bottom, he grunted and slid back in.
“Ahh!” Her beautiful scream set him off.
The coiling tension took over; he shoved into her to the hilt, his legs pushing. Every muscle strained, shoved. His balls squeezed up so tight they might’ve been rocks. He grunted. His cock pulsed as he released into her, jetting, then twitching. Yes. He shut his eyes, then opened them to slits, devouring the sight of her body sagging with the aftermath of an orgasm. Time to let her go. He shifted a little, slipped the vibrator from her cleft, turned it off, and dropped it to the bed. He pulled back, his cock slipping out. She gasped. Gradually his ragged breathing came down to almost normal.
His hands smoothed along the contours of her belly; then he went to the crank and lowered her to the bed. The straps and ties came off. She barely moved.
“We’re done, Claire.”
Her eyes opened when he took off the blindfold, blinking at him through those long blonde lashes. He kissed her forehead, then collapsed beside her, snuggling her body up to his, her head in the corner of shoulder and arm.
“How was that? Happy?” he whispered.
She stirred a little, heaved a sigh. “Mmm. Tell you…later.”
He propped himself up on his elbow and watched her eyes close, her breathing become shallow and regular. Ah. How could he even think of losing her? Maybe…maybe this one was a keeper? He fingered a strand of her hair.
Chapter Seventeen
After having a quick bath himself, Theo had watched her from the door of the bathroom for a while, as if he thought she’d sink beneath the soapsuds and drown in the bath. Not a chance, Claire thought. Life was too good, too amazing right now, for her to go and drown. No matter how worn out she felt. And oh, Lord, everywhere ached or throbbed. She even had bruises on her wrists and ankles where the straps had been. Not from Theo putting them on too tight; no, she’d bruised from her own straining during orgasm. Several uncountable fricking orgasms.
Overcome for a moment by remembering, she slid underwater and let the muffling sounds of the water soothe her.
It was strange—to have done all those intimate and plain bizarre things with a man. Yet sex that way had been so much more wonderful than she’d thought it could be. An earthquake had shaken the foundations of her universe—an amazing, stupendous earthquake.
She rose from the scented water, let it stream off her body, and looked down at the pink-tipped mounds of her breasts, wondering at how Theo saw her.
Having dried herself and dressed in an apricot negligee and satin gown, she ventured into the hallway and down to the bedroom. Theo sat reading at one end of a sofa set at an angle near the huge bay window. Night had fallen. Insects tapped against the glass as they tried in vain to enter. On the table in front of him was a covered plate, a carafe of orange juice, glasses, and a bottle of red wine. A graceful flower-shaped voltaic lamp shone a blue circle of light upon the table. He lifted the cover off the plate, revealing a meal still steaming with heat.
“Please, sit and eat, Claire.” He indicated the sofa next to him. “Charcoal-grilled pigeon, olives, and dolmades—stuffed vine leaves. I’ve already eaten.”
“Oh. Thank you.” The common courtesies seemed even more ridiculous than before. “Am I supposed to call you, uh, sir?”