A cool, heavy hand came to rest on the nape of her neck, sending a shiver trickling down her back. She took him deep again, reveling in the way her muscles clenched, unafraid. While the sensation wasn’t strictly pleasant, the result was reward enough to go there, tenfold. She might tense with every fresh violation, but it was nothing compared to how her reaction affected him.
Like an electrical pulse, his entire body jerked each time she gagged. Sometimes a “yeah” or a “fuck” rewarded her, sometimes a half-swallowed moan. Her mouth was awash with spit, a reflex she’d once found embarrassing, but now welcomed part and parcel with the rest of this act. It bathed his flesh and eased the motions, slipped from her lips in warm ribbons. It made her feel sloppy but that only sharpened the taboo. The biology of his desire was ugly, and these were the things that turned him on like nothing else. She welcomed the wet heat as it slid along her jugular, welcomed his deepening moans as his hips began to work.
The hand on her neck moved to her hair, fisting her ponytail. “Take that cock. Nice and deep. Show me how bad you fucking want it.”
Held this way, her chance to own some part of this act was gone. Her only options now were to submit or to flee, and that choice needed no deliberation.
In time she felt her face flushing, her nose growing runny. Just as she was beginning to hope he’d finish soon, he eased her off him by her hair. She sat back on her knees, resisting an urge to sniff, or to flex her aching jaw. She kept her eyes on his chest, watching its quick rise and fall and awaiting whatever came next.
“On my bed,” he ordered, face and voice both cold as January.
She got to her feet, legs tingly. She could feel his eyes on her every step of the way, found them studying her hips or thighs when she turned and sat. His cock was hidden by his shorts once more. He fisted his jeans and belt and approached, stopping before her, seeming mountainous. He peeled away his sweater and undershirt in one pull, then slid his belt free with a slow, smooth motion. It looked like a bullwhip in his fist. He tossed it behind her on the bed. She’d expected him to keep his jeans on, but he pushed them down along with his shorts, stepping free of the pile and stripping his socks. Usually when he was playing the cold and controlling stranger, he kept his pants on. It seemed that power play wasn’t needed tonight, and it made her wonder exactly who this was.
Whoever he might be, he looked powerful and impenetrable even without of stitch of clothing hiding that pale skin. Whatever he might want, it was as dark as his shaded eyes or the hair framing his ready cock, or the stitches marring his brow.
“Take your top off.”
She undid each button on her blouse, revealing a plum-colored bra patterned in white vines. Her panties matched. She’d dressed as she’d felt only hours ago—womanly, sexy, confident. She couldn’t say what she felt now or what underwear would best embody it, only that this wasn’t quite right.
“Your bra,” he said.
Reaching back, she freed the hooks. She let the straps fall from her arms just as he reached down to grab one of her legs. He lifted it, unzipping her boot, sliding it off. It hit the floor with a thump, a little jangle of its decorative buckle. Next came her sock. Again, on the other side. If it excited him, that face didn’t give away a thing.
She expected her skirt to come next, but he said, “Hands and knees.”
She obeyed, moving to the middle of the mattress on all fours. The belt was there, close enough to touch if she splayed her fingers, and she doubted its presence was accidental.
His weight shifted the mattress beneath her, an ages-old trigger that had anticipation winding tight inside her. Heavy hands sought her thighs then rose, pushing her skirt up, kneading her ass, her hips, roaming along her sides and ribs and finally cupping her breasts. He taunted with grazing caresses of his calloused, workingman’s palms, then mean tweaks of her nipples. She gasped from the pleasure and pain equally, that balance he could navigate like a tightrope walker.
Her skirt had fallen back into place and he shoved it roughly up to her waist. His thumbs slid under the hems of her underwear, bunching the fabric into a strip between her cheeks. She waited for it—the first spank. Instead she got his short nails dragging over her skin, then the teasing, pleasurably demeaning sensation of her panties being pushed up farther, wedged tight in her cleft, damp cotton cleaving her labia.
“You look good, girl.”
She swallowed.
“You wet for me?”
“Yes.”
“Gimme the belt.”
She passed it back, nerves flashing cold, then hot.
“All the way down.”