Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Still, my body arches under his hands when he leaves the toy inside me and rubs my clit.
“If you push it out, you don’t get to come,” he says with a cruel smile.
A gentle pinch almost sends me to oblivion, but my inner muscles clench involuntarily, making the toy pop out.
“Naughty girl,” he murmures. “And I was so impressed with how well you took this big rubber dick.”
I’m panting. I think I may go out of my mind.
“Let’s try again.” He pushes the toy back and rolls my clit underneath the pad of his finger.
My inner walls contract, every muscle pulling tight as an orgasm builds in my lower body. I lock my muscles around the toy, working hard on keeping it in, but when he uses his index and forefingers pressed together to spank my clit, I lose the battle again.
“Please,” I say, unable not to beg. “This isn’t fair.”
“No,” he drawls. “And it sucks, doesn’t it?”
I bite my lip to prevent my tears from spilling. “I don’t have to play this game.”
“You’ll play it, darling.” His eyes harden. “To the very end.”
The meaning of his words isn’t lost on me. He’s not talking about the kink he’s performing. He’s referring to us. He’s neither going to make this easy, nor let me go.
“Try again,” he says, lubricating the toy with my arousal before pushing it deep. “If you’re a good girl, you’ll get your reward.”
We carry on like this with him winning and me losing, proving his point over and over. When I can’t stand the cruel anticipation any longer, he stands and unzips himself, freeing his cock without removing his pants.
Fisting the root, he pumps twice. “Tell you what, darling. I’ll let you hold the toy in and touch yourself.”
It’s not a grant. It’s a command. I’m too far gone to stop now. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I crossed the line, if it was the first time I saw him, the time he cornered me in the kitchen, or the night I threw his expensive wine back at him, but I know it can’t be undone.
Grabbing the toy in one hand, I keep it in while massaging my clit with the other. He watches as he pumps himself in his fist, dark fascination etched on his face. He uses my need to fuel his lust, taking more from me than just a few moments of pleasure.
I’m over-stimulated and too sensitive. It only takes a few strokes before release finally crashes through me. Exhausted, my body goes limp. The toy falls from my hand, discarded somewhere on the sheet as he palms himself faster.
I turn my head to look at him. His expression is one of concentration. Now that I’ve broken, his focus is on finishing the game.
He grunts. “Open your mouth.”
His aim is to possess me, to stamp his mark on me in every way. I can refuse, but I don’t want to. I want to know his taste. I want to know his colors. I want to coat my fingers in his blacks and grays and paint my skin with his shades. I want to get dirty with him so that we can share our sins and shed our guilt.
When I open, he aims at my parted lips. He pumps one more time before he ejaculates, coating my tongue and chin with ribbons of seed. He tastes earthy and dark like the cloud that shed a single drop of rain but never unleashed the downpour. Like powerful potential and restrained promises.
“Swallow,” he says in a gruff voice.
He studies my mouth and the work of my throat with his gaze, his eyes darkening as I lick my lips clean.
Surprising me, he grabs my face in his hand, digging his fingers into my cheek and forcing my mouth open before crashing his lips on mine. He plunges his tongue inside, sweeping the depth of my mouth with a deviant kiss.
I melt beneath him, needing his gentleness, willing him to wrap his arms around me and dispel the coldness.
As fast as he grabbed me, he lets me go. He holds my gaze as he takes a tissue from the nightstand and cleans himself before zipping up. Then he takes his wallet from his back pocket and leaves two fifty-rand notes on the nightstand.
The point he’s making is crystal clear. I guess I deserve it. It’s ironic though that he’s paying me when I’m the one with the debt to settle.
Sitting up, I wrap the sheet around my body. He opens the nightstand drawer and takes out a small blue box.
With a careless flick of his wrist, he dumps the box in my lap. “Congratulations, Mrs. Hart.”
The logo is embossed in gold on the lid.
Hart Diamonds.
Not waiting for me to open the box, he saunters to the bathroom and slams the door behind him.