Page 15 of Kiss of the Cartel

I'm thrusting the finger inside her, raking her g-spot with enough pressure to make her jerk. Her eyes flutter as I thrust in and out, touching her tight walls with my rough finger, lighting her up with pleasure.

“I don’t do this.” Her words are a plea, but to stop or keep going? I don’t think she knows.

“Don’t do what?” I slide another finger into her, stretching her, filling her with my flesh. Still I don’t touch her clit. Her lips tug down at the intrusion, and then a small breath escapes her.

“I don’t come. Please don’t make me come again.”

I’m intrigued. The little bodyguard doesn’t come? “Never?” I can’t help myself, maybe because I’m a man, maybe because I can’t understand why someone wouldn’t want come as often as they could. It’s the best fucking feeling in the world. Those fleeting seconds, the build, the release, the perfect drifting sensation after spending oneself. My balls tighten at the thought of it and my cock strains against the zipper of my pants.

“No.” her voice is small, her eyelids squeezed shut. She doesn’t want me to see her confessions.

“But downstairs—” I forget that I don’t want her to come, that I wanted her to wait as I rake my thumb across her clit, gently at first, then a little harder.

“Yes.”

She’s fighting me, fighting her desire. It’s in the clench of her fingers as she tugs on the rope binding her wrists. In the strain in her neck. In the furrow between her eyebrows.

“Never before?” I search her face, disbelieving.

“Please stop.” Tears leak from eyes, down her cheeks.

“Lena, answer me. Never?”

She sobs. “No. Not ever.”

It’s a revelation for me and I’m lost in the moment, this damaged woman, a fighter, a killer, a sex slave, a victim. And a virgin to pleasure.

“Let go, Lena.” I speed my strokes up, my fingers thrusting, bringing her higher as she moans, fighting me, fighting it. “Let go,” I say again. “Just let go and accept the feeling. I’ll catch you.”

She moans, a single, hard gasp of air as her orgasm hits her. She cries out, shatters, the walls of her pussy tightening around my fingers. Like a bullet, crashing into her, speeding through her, I prolong the orgasm, gliding my fingers in and out as she shudders against me. I have the image of it ricocheting off her damaged soul, destroying her past. Letting her start over.

I watch as her shoulders shake, as tears run down her face, her nose leaking. I feel savage. I want my tongue on her pussy, her clit, sucking her, licking her, smelling her, tasting her. I want to climb up behind her, pull her ass in the air and sink my cock into her wet pussy. I want to take her deep, hard, unrelenting. I want to pull her up again, make her know what it’s like to come while being licked, eaten, fucked. I want to claim her in a way no man ever has.

But I don’t. I roll onto my back next to her and stare at the ceiling, rubbing my forehead with my hand. My fingers are shaking. All the things I want to do and all the things I should do. And I can’t seem to find my way back to who I believed myself to be.

I'm granted a reprieve from my thoughts by a small knock on the door and Theresa’s voice floating through it. Food and water for Lena. The means to this woman's survival.

And then I know. I know what I need to do.

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