Page 21 of Forbidden Heat

Burn

I’m pickingat my lunch when Cam walks into the dining room. After he got his mysterious phone call this morning, he came back looking grim and told me he did have to go into the office for a while, but he’d try to leave early. Since he’s almost never home before dinnertime, I didn’t expect it to happen.

When I see him, the butterflies in my stomach stop fluttering around and start doing barrel rolls. Everything that’s happened between us so far has been amazing; but this is the main event. What if it turns out to be kinkier than I can handle? I’m afraid of letting both of us down.

“Hi,” I say, a little shyly. Cam fixes his dark eyes on me and strides to my chair. “How was — oh!”

I’m up over his shoulder again, like I was that first night. Without a word, he carries me out and up the stairs. I don’t pound on his back this time; all I feel is anticipation.

In his bedroom, he shifts me as he sits, so that I wind up in position across his lap. I’m wearing a dress today since the weather’s been warm, and its thin fabric doesn’t offer me much protection.

Like that first night, he spanks me in phases: over my dress, over my panties, and against my bare skin. I gasp and whimper as layers of sensation grow and build and swell, and eventually I cry, the same as my first time — but this time I almost come, just from him spanking me. Then his hand moves between my legs and finds my clit, and I do come, violently, my body bucking with the force of the climax that’s battering me.

When I’m drained, he sets me on my feet and starts to strip off the rest of my clothes. His movements aren’t violent, or rushed, but I can feel the intensity rolling off him. It’s like there’s a fever burning him up inside.

I’m afraid to speak. His mood doesn’t scare me; it’s that something in it feels profoundly right, and I don’t want to shatter it.

Once I’m naked, he lays me on the bed and fastens leather, velvet-lined cuffs around my wrists, then my ankles. My heart is pounding, but I don’t resist. His movements are deliberate, almost reverent, and even though I’m nervous, beneath that I feel absolutely safe.

He stretches out beside me, still clothed, and lays a hand on my belly. “How do you feel?”

“Okay. Good.”

“Everything comfortable? Nothing pinching?”

“No pinching.” I’m spread-eagled on the bed, completely exposed, so my discomfort exists solely in my mind. Physically, everything’s fine.

“Remember the rule,” he says.

I blink. “Which one?”

“If you need me to stop …”

Oh, that one. “Tell you to stop.”

“Right. I need you to pay close attention to your own feelings. A flash of fear that dies away is different than an ongoing sense of not being comfortable, or safe. The first may be more intense, but the second is what you need to tell me about. Make sense?”

“Yes.” I tug at my wrist restraints. “Can I get out of these?”

“No.”

I manage a tiny smile. “Hardcore.”

“I think you’ll find it more satisfying to be truly restrained.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” His mouth brushes mine, just a tease before he lifts his head. “Let’s see how it goes.”

And then he starts to worship my body.

There’s no pain, no punishment. His hands and lips and tongue savor and sample, squeeze and smooth, every inch of me. And all I can do is take it, take the endless pleasure he’s dishing out, without the ability to reciprocate.

I had no idea what an exquisite form of torture it would be. There’s a bit of extra room in the cuffs, so they’re not too tight, and there’s some give in the ties that connect them to the bed, so I can move. A little.

It’s not enough, not when I can’t touch him, can’t give back any of what I’m receiving. I force myself not to beg. My willing helplessness is the point, and I want to be strong for him.

When he’s kissed and licked and nuzzled and nibbled and sucked me all over, he moves back up to my head, gives me a long, deep, slow kiss ... and starts all over again.

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