Part 8 (1/2)
”Spread your legs and gather your skirt up around your waist.” His voice surrounds me. His tone is low, commanding, and achingly sensual. ”Lean back against the seat and close your eyes. Now leave one hand on the seat, but put the other just above your knee.”
I do. My skin feels feverish.
”Move your thumb,” he says. ”Move it slowly, back and forth. Gentle, baby. So gently. Are you doing it?”
”Yes, sir.”
”Are your eyes closed?”
”Yes, sir.”
”That's me you feel. My hand on your leg. My finger stroking your skin. It's soft, and you look so beautiful spread out wide for me. Do you want me, Nikki?”
”Yes.”
”Yes, what?”
My s.e.x tightens at the growl of demand in his voice. There's something delicious about surrendering to him.
”Yes, sir.”
”I want to touch your b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Nikki. I want to touch your nipples. I want to lower my mouth and suck until you come without me even touching your c.l.i.t. Do you want that, Nikki?”
G.o.d, yes. ”Only if you touch me there later, sir.”
His low laugh sends ripples of awareness through me.
My c.l.i.t is pulsing. I desperately want to touch myself but that's not the game. Not yet.
”I'm hard, Nikki. You're torturing me, you know that?”
”I hope so, sir, because you're sure as h.e.l.l torturing me.”
”Unzip your dress,” he says. ”Then take the hand that's on the seat and lift it to your mouth. Suck on your forefinger, baby. That's right,” he says when I groan a little as I close my eyes and draw in my own finger. ”That's good. Use your tongue. Suck hard, baby.” I can hear the tension in his voice, and my body quakes. I'm so wet, and the leather seat is getting slippery.
”Slide your hand into your bodice and touch your nipple. Is it hard?”
”Yes.”
”Stroke it,” he says. ”Just a tease. So light, like a b.u.t.terfly kiss. Do you feel it, baby? Is it making you wetter?”
”Yes,” I whisper.
”Now move the hand on your leg. Slowly-I want it to build. Do you feel it? That soft stroke?”
”Yes.” I imagine that my fingers are his. That he's burning a trail up my hot, trembling body.
”That's me. My hands. I'm right there. My hands on you. On both your legs. Can you feel me, stroking the inside of your thighs, teasing you, making you hotter and wetter?”
I take my other hand off my breast and put it on my other leg. Slowly, sensuously, I stroke the inside of my thighs with soft, delicate touches. This is forbidden territory-this is where my secrets are. But not now. Right now, nothing is off-limits, and everything is safe.
I can lose myself in his voice. I can close my eyes and imagine Damien kneeling before me. Damien's eyes watching me. Damien's hands all over me. ”Oh, G.o.d, yes.”
”Spread your legs more,” he says. ”I want you wide open, your c.u.n.t hot and dripping for me. Do you want to touch yourself, Nikki?”
”Yes,” I whisper. I feel my cheeks warm from the admission, though how I can feel a blush when my skin is already on fire is beyond me.
”Not yet,” he says. I can hear the amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice. He knows he's tormenting me, and he's loving it.
”You're a s.a.d.i.s.t, Mr. Stark.”
”And you comply so willingly, Ms. Fairchild. What does that make you?”
A m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t. A tremor runs through my body, tied to the erotic sweetness of my touch. ”Turned on,” I admit.
”We are deliciously compatible.”
”When telecommunications are involved,” I say without thinking.
”Always. Don't argue, Ms. Fairchild, or the game stops now. And that really would be a shame.”
I say nothing.
”Good,” he says. ”I like you compliant. I like you spread wide and ready for me. I like you wet for me,” he adds, as I just about melt into the upholstery. ”Put your hands on the seat on either side of your hips. Have you done it?”
”I have.”
The silence is ominous.
”I mean, yes, sir.”
My hands are pressed to the leather. My s.e.x is throbbing. Demanding. I squirm on the seat, but that only makes me needier.
My fingers twitch. I'm desperate to come. I swear if he doesn't let me touch myself soon, I'll- Well, why not? He wouldn't even know.
”No touching, Nikki. Not yet.”
”How did you-oh, G.o.d, are there cameras in here?” The idea is mortifying ... and embarra.s.singly t.i.tillating.
”No,” he says firmly. ”Though at the moment I wish there were. Let's just call it a lucky guess.”
That d.a.m.ned blush heats up again, and I squirm some more, trying to find a satisfaction that's staying painfully, frustratingly just out of reach.
”You're keeping me from an excellent Scotch and some very tasty appetizers, you know.”
”I'm not the least bit sorry,” I retort. ”But if you're in a hurry, I know how we can finish this off real quick.”
”Is that what you want? This to be over?”
”I-no,” I admit. It's torture, but it's d.a.m.n sweet torture.