Page 98 of His Pretty Little Duet

I moan my response, stilling my hips but feeling as though they are a rubber band wanting to spiral free. I press my thighs together to fend off the pull, the tug of desire.

“Don’t stop,” he commands, his voice deep, husky. “Keep rubbing your pussy on my thigh. Can you make yourself come? Let me see you try."

I do as I’m told. Sinking my fingers into the cushion below my head and dragging my body along his thigh. I spread my legs and grind against him. It’s dark enough that I don’t feel much shame, a dim hue to slightly veil my wanton motions. But it is light enough that I know he can see everything, know he’ll like it. The pressure is light, not centralised, not enough, but I’m dripping all over his pants with need.

He sucks on his cigar.

I grind on his thigh.

When he leans forward slightly, I twist to see him blunt out his cigar in the ashtray on the table and retrieve a wooden box about the size of a book.Is that my present?

He places it on the curve of my back. “Now. Close your eyes. I didn’t want to blindfold you. I am very fond of your eyes, of your lashes, but don’t defy me. This is about trust. Do you trust me with your body?”

"Yes." I close my eyes, waiting. Acutely, I listen to the box open, to the contents being moved. I hold my breath until his fingers, wet and authoritarian, slip through the valley of my arse cheeks. His fingers slide around as if in a thick fluid...wait.I’m not holding my breath anymore. I start to pant. The thick pad of his finger presses to the hole between my cheeks before massaging the tight rim of muscles. A groan from deep inside me rolls up my throat.

“God. Sir. Please.”

When he pushes the tip of his finger through the taut muscles, I claw at the cushion, arching my back as a raspy sound leaves me. I grind on him harder.

“This will become your favourite time of day,” he states.Oh. My. God.Is that his voice? It’s thicker, deeper, with a trace of an accent. The same timbre from the night he first took my body for himself, whispering to me in another language. He continues, and I swear his voice alone could make me come. “Every night, when I get home, I will lay this pretty body over my lap, and we will stretch your tight hole until you can take me the way I like. Hard. Deep. You’ll soon come from just the feel of my finger on your pretty hole. It’ll be visceral."

I shudder over his thighs; emotions war inside me. I’m not afraid. I love him. I love what he does to my body... but I’m intimidated and nervous, and my butterflies are not at flight but instead trembling.

While he explores my little hole, sinking deeper, savouring the motions, delivering me pleasure in slow movements, I twist internally with ecstasy.

God, it feels so indecent in all the best ways. I never liked decency anyway. I never fit in withdecentpeople. Right now, I want him to pop his finger out only to sink it back in. And out. And in.

“Please,” I hear myself beg while my knuckles go numb, losing sensation from the killer hold I have on the cushion.

“Deep breaths, little deer.” Something cold touches my sensitive rosette, and I squeeze my eyelids together, wrestling with the innate response to widen them.

I breathe through the pressure as he stretches my quivering rim, and then... I’m full. There is no movement, and that makes it somehow worse. And better.God,I don’t know. The pressure, lingering pleasure, unnatural and erotic sensation, is a constant.

Still.

Perpetual.

He hums his approval, lifting his hips, his cock bashing my navel from beneath his pants. “Fuck. This looks so pretty inside you." He removes his hands from my body. "Climb off me and have a look in the mirror, sweet girl. You’ll like it.”

On unsteady limbs, I crawl backwards from his lap. He assists me, stands with me, and leads me over to the mirror. I can feel it moving inside me, and I’m desperate to pull it out, to allow the muscles tautly hugging it to shrink back—relax.

I stop in front of the silver panel and stare at the naked girl with blonde hair hanging far too long and nipples standing like hard peaks.

Clay Butcher stands behind me so I can see his towering physique, a wall of muscles inside a black suit—his armour. He grasps my shoulders, encouraging me to turn.

I do.

Then I peer over my shoulder to see a shiny white crystal poking out from between my cheeks. It’s beautiful, and I look beautiful wearing it.

I gaze up from the sparkling crystal to his heated gaze. My heart shudders. He is staring at the little gem, and I’m gazing at him.

“I need you to fuck me,” I whisper.

His scorching gaze rises to my face. “Say please.”

“Please, Sir.”

“Crawl around the bed while I take my suit off. Stay on your hands and knees,” he says darkly.

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