I nod.
“Good. Let’s continue to discuss the parameters of my promise. Perhaps you want me to slide my hands between your legs. To spread you wide. To lay you back on this bench and kiss my way up your legs. To breathe in the scent of your sex, and dip my tongue in your sweet folds, more delicious than any chocolate could ever be?”
Yes, I want to say. Oh, yes, please.
“Maybe you just want me to fuck you.”
I whimper, but Damien ignores the sound.
“To all of those possibilities, Ms. Fairchild, I am saying no. I promised I wouldn’t touch you, and I won’t. I won’t touch your sex, at any rate. As for the rest of you—well, perhaps we shall make one or two small exceptions. Nod if you understand.”
I nod.
“Good girl. Now try this.”
I open my mouth, and discover a truly decadent treat. Creamy cheesecake that Damien has dipped in chocolate. I moan and swallow it, then lick every bit of chocolate from my lips.
“Naughty girl,” Damien chides. “Not even leaving a taste for me.” As he speaks, he plays with the cord again. Behind the blindfold, I close my eyes and let the sweet sensations roll through me.
All too soon Damien stops. It’s time for another treat. This time, a piece of dipped pound cake. Then a dipped marshmallow. And then—oh, God—it’s Damien’s finger in my mouth. I lick the chocolate off, then greedily pull him in. I run my tongue over his skin and suck and draw his finger in and out until I hear his soft moan and know that, yes, I’ve gotten to him.
I wait for the next treat, but instead, Damien tugs at my sleeve. “Pull your arm in,” he says, and I do. He repeats on the other side, until both my arms are out of the sleeves and he is able to pull my shirt all the way up to my shoulders. “That looked like such a good idea, I may have to try it myself.”
I have no idea what he means—at least not until I feel something warm and wet and sticky on my breast. And then Damien’s finger is back at my mouth, and I am once again sucking the chocolate from his skin. But this time, he is doing the same, because as I suck, so does he. His mouth is over my chocolate-coated breast. He licks, he sucks, and with each erotic motion my nipple tightens and my areola puckers. My sex clenches, too, hot and demanding, and wildly stimulated by the cord that Damien plays with, the tempo of the gentle tugs matching the rhythm of his mouth on my breast.
Again and again, the cord slips and slides, sweet friction that comes close to sending me spiraling off.
Again and again, his mouth teases and taunts. Sucking and pulling and biting, not too hard, but enough that I feel it. Enough that the sharp, sweet sensation shoots all the way through me, straight to the cord that is so sweetly tormenting me.
Over and over, more and more, building and building until finally the tremors in my body build to a crescendo that breaks like a wave over me.
I ride it, letting my hips shift as I glide over the cord, concentrating on the feel of Damien’s mouth tight on my breast. It is explosive and raw and I gasp as it builds, and then sag with spent pleasure when the orgasm inevitably fades, and I am left grinning in the heady glow.
Slowly, Damien tongues the last bit of chocolate off my bare skin. Then he gently helps me put my arms back through my sleeves. “So tell me, Nikki,” Damien says, his voice soft and seductive. “Did you enjoy your dessert?”
“God, yes.”
“Do you want more?” he asks, as he tugs off my blindfold.
I blink and breathe in the sight of him, my beautiful Damien with just the slightest smudge of chocolate in the corner of his mouth. I lean in and kiss it away, using the tip of my tongue to taste those last sweet drops.
“No more than that,” I breathe. “Now the only thing I want is you.”
4
There is no traffic on our return to Malibu, and Damien takes advantage of the empty highway, driving like a demon up PCH and then along the curving roads of the Malibu canyons.
He manages to make the jaunt in less than twenty minutes, which is probably both a record and proof that the folks at Bugatti haven’t misrepresented the car’s zippiness.
Despite the shortness of our trip—and even despite the thrill-ride quality of the drive itself—it is the longest twenty minutes of my life.
Now we’re in the house, and Damien is slowly—achingly slowly—drawing the cord out from under my outfit. The waistband of the skirt is snug, and that provides some resistance, so that as the cord slides between my ass cheeks and over my sex, I have to bite my lip so as to not cry out against the growing power of the sensations building within me.
“Damien,” I murmur. It is the only word I can manage. We are standing in the barren foyer of this unfinished house. The room is huge and empty and even my breath seems to echo. Behind us, the front door still hangs wide open.