Page 144 of Forced Vows

Then he takes his mouth away and I cry out in dismay.

He looms over me, and his hand comes down in a sweeping arc, the blade of his knife pointed toward me.

I don't move. I know he will not hurt me. With a thunk, the knife is embedded in the wood above my head.

He guides my hand toward the hilt of the blade and wraps my fingers around it. "Take it. Hold it tight with both hands."

I do as he says, one hand wrapped around the other.

"Good girl."

The praise shivers through me.

"If you pull, it will come loose and if you aren't very careful, stopping your own momentum won't be an option before you cut me. So be a good girl and don't move."

"I could just let go."

"But you won't."

He's right. I won't. And if I forget and bring my hands down, that sharp knife could cut him. Because I lose my ability to think when he touches me.

This is more effective than any restraint he could put me in. I will never risk doing him harm.

How does he know that though?

Does he realize I'm falling in love with him?

Yes, I realize I'm already there. But self-delusion is still my friend.

His talented, hot mouth returns to the apex of my thighs and his tongue slides over my clitoris in one hard swipe. My thoughts scatter and I am once again a mass of nerve endings on the brink of bliss.

Big fingers invade my tight channel pushing, rubbing, and causing explosions of excitement along my nerve endings. While his mouth gives my labia and clit one filthy kiss after another, he drives my pleasure higher and higher.

Miceli slides his fingers in and out of me one slow glide at a time, my slick wetness squelching against his fingers.

The sound only adds to the intense sexual heat burning me from the inside out. He pulls his wet fingers out of my core, sliding his big middle finger down and pressing the tip against my tight sphincter.

Rubbing the natural lubricant of my own wetness around, he builds my nervous anticipation to a fever pitch before pressing his fingertip inside.

Ecstasy detonates with the power of an exploding rocket from the single, tiny invasion. I scream, my hands clutching the hilt of his knife so tightly it's going to leave imprints in my palms.

Miceli brings me down slowly but keeps me on the edge, never allowing my pleasure to dissipate completely. His fingertip wiggles and stretches my tight backdoor.

Then he stands, his lips and face covered in five o'clock shadow glistening with my essence. Only then do I realize he's still fully dressed except for his leather jacket.

A wave of arousal rolls through me. Because apparently I am that woman. The one who is turned on by knives sliding over my skin, being told what to do (during sex only, but that's pretty obvious, yeah?) and having my lover fully clothed while he pleasures my body.

Miceli licks my juices off his lips. "I want your ass my little love goddess."

Everything inside me goes taut. "You're too big."

"I'll get you ready."

He doesn't say anything else. Just waits for me. For my answer. His gaze challenges me and asks a question.

One I have to answer once and for all, or how do I walk down the aisle toward this man in September, or any time?

Do I trust him?

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