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Adrenaline that’s been spiked with lust.
She glares at me, that angry, damning, hungry expression on her gorgeous face. I back her into the wall and kiss her hard, deep, like she’s a lifeline, like I might die without it.
And she fights.
To get away, to pull me closer, the constant push and pull where she shoves me and comes at me like a demon. This is exactly what I want, what I need.
I grab her, wrapping my hand around her throat. “Me and you? We’re the same, and you want me to take you while you fight me every step of the way. You both hated and loved what I did, didn’t you?”
“You think I wanted you to give me to those men?”
“No, I don’t,” I say, walking her backward through the apartment, one hand on her throat, the other on her hip so she doesn’t fall. I’m not squeezing or blocking air flow, but it’s the game of it that has her panting, her hands clenched around my forearms. “But I think you’re getting off on the idea of it. The fantasy.”
“If you want me to get off on a fantasy, you dick, you tell me it’s a fantasy.”
I reach one of the sofas in the living room and push her down on it. Then I climb on her, because I’ve discovered that I like that physical aspect of domination with her. The wild dilation of her pupils tells me she fucking loves it, too.
“There’s no fun in that.”
“It wasn’t fun.”
“Okay, I get that,” I say. “But how about now?”
A shaky breath expels from her lips. I need some tools. Rope and a whip. A vibrator. I get off her and Scarlett whimpers.
“Now?” She half rises, but I cut her a look and she stays put. That sub part locking on to my unspoken command. Fuck, she’s hot. “I don’t know. If I say yes, I like the fantasy now that I know it’s not happening, what does that make me?”
I bend down and kiss her rough and violent, and her hungry response is more than enough of an answer. “It makes you hotter than fucking hell, Baby Red.”
Hurrying out of the room, I get my equipment. When I get back, she’s still there, on the couch, her hands held above her head.
Something’s happening, I can feel it in the shift in the air, whispering against my skin. I think as I take her deeper into our games and play, I drag myself farther down, too. There are places I haven’t been, it seems, places that are sink or swim, shallow or deep, raging waters. And I’m fucking there for it all.
As long as she’s right next to me. Under me. Over me.
Whatever the fuck way I can get her.
“Good girl,” I say, gazing at her, the way her tits press against the neckline of the dress. “But I’m going to need you naked. Take off your dress.”
I don’t want her to strip, even though I fucking want her to. The denial of that pleasure is something that feeds the need for domination, fuels the desire to punish. I’m denying myself, and I’ll take it out on her. Exquisitely. With maximum pleasure for her when I’m done with the torture.
The soft whisper of the dress hitting the floor is like a thump in my head. I don’t hear the panties, but I can imagine them landing on top of the purple dress.
She hasn’t taken off the shoes, and they click as she turns to sink back onto the couch.
At least, I presume that’s what she’s doing. I look down at the rope and run my fingers over the smooth, soft fibers, then the leather of the whip.
The vibrator is silicone, and it’s bouncy when I press into it. This is one of those weird-shaped ones. Turquoise in color, rounded for both penetration and G-spot stimulation along with a little sucking cup that vibrates the clit.
It’s new. I don’t reuse toys on different women. Besides, the things in this place are all new. I can’t wait to use it all on her. I haven’t decided how, but the ritual of studying the pieces, touching them, soothes the wild edge inside.
I pick up the rope and turn.
My heart throbs in time with my dick at the stretched-out form of her. She’s sensuous perfection, a painting, erotic art.
And her hands are back above her head. Fuck me.
“I’m going to tie your hands.” I make myself do it slowly, threading the rope, tying it so the knots hit her pulse points.
