Page 61 of Penny for Your Saints

He’s far too strong for me to catch his foot before it crashes into my jaw, like he caught mine earlier; so I drop to the ground and sweep his supporting leg out from beneath him—or at least I think I’ve managed to until I watch him plant one hand onthe floor and cartwheel out of the way—nearly kicking over into Quentin’s hastily assembled nest.

I somersault backward, rolling up onto my feet from a low tuck—Frank already rushing at me—fists raised, a snarl of a smile showcasing all those pearly sharp teeth.

In front of the heavy oak door to the hunting cabin, I straighten to standing—but I’ve miscalculated Frank’s raw speed. I hesitate for only a second—the sparkle of sweat on his sculpted form, his scent—heady styrax, sweet cedar, sharp gun powder, softening my stance.

Frank seems to process my lapse in defenses just before he slams into me—his fists morphing into open palms that close around my wrists and pin them to the solid wood door behind me just above my head—his body pinning me to the unyielding oak.

Our mouths tear at one another—careful never to introduce that edge of teeth that would betray a bonding bite; my body doing its best to rise off the door and grind against his—but Frank gives me no quarter—my breasts pressing against the hard planes of his glistening chest through the thin cotton t-shirt, his knee rising between my thighs.

“Well, well, well,” he growls, practically seating me on his thigh as he holds me pinned and whining against the door. “You’re pretty good for someone only thinking with their joy buzzer,” Frank rumbles—sensation singing through me as the gray cotton creates delicious friction.

“Would you rather me whine and beg for you to ‘make love to me’?” I tease, my teeth clicking together as I kittenishly bite the air between our lips—willing him to put his mouth on mine again, but he uses a good portion of his waning resolve to resist.

“Sweetheart, the kinds of things you and I will do…” he sighs dreamily, one hand reaching for something as the other keeps my wrists pinioned over my head, the thigh of his sweats nearlysoaked through with my slick. “It’ll be one hell of a ride, but I’m not sure any of it can be called love.” Those eyes, focused—dangerous; his lips turned up in that glass-shard thin smirk as I hear the telltale jingle of a brass belt buckle; Frank’s fingers closing around the black leather left hastily atop his abandoned jeans on the back of a nearby chair.

I could fight him if I wanted to—but I don’t want to.

It’s been so long since I’ve had a real alpha during a heat—not since… a time I’m not going to revisit right now.

Thankfully, before I can sink beneath the quicksands of time, Frank brings me back to the immediacy of the moment; turning over the strip of well worn black leather and brass in his single hand until it resembles a sloppy figure eight with a long tail.

“Smart ass sigma thinks she’s going to get one up on me,” he scoffs a laugh—slipping the improvised set of handcuffs onto my wrists , opening the door only a sliver before slamming the tail of the belt into the space between the top of the slab of oak and the door jamb; my bound wrists forcing me up onto the balls of my feet.

“If I wasn’t so fucking helpless for your knot, I would have had you.” A cruel laugh escapes me, and it isn’t ego or a goad; it’s the truth. Frank may be big and he may be strong—but he’s slow too. Both Sébastien and Q may lack his brute strength, but make up for it with their speed and agility.

Frank must know I’m right too, because he doesn’t argue with me directly—just lets out a low snicker as he lifts the hem of the t-shirt slowly, first exposing my pussy as I grind helplessly on his rock hard quads—then the hard pink peaks of my nipples ; the soft worn cotton resting atop my upturned breasts as he dips his head to suck gently at the sensitive rosy point of one nipple, his teeth tenderly closing to gently pull at blushing buds of stiff flesh.

Words escape me as Frank’s lips move lower, his scruffy raven beard grazing the soft skin between my breasts and belly, his hands gripping the bracket curve of my pelvis as he works downward onto his knees.

My eyelids flutter and I feel myself nearly topple off of my tip-toes as Frank eases onto his knees in front of me—my lack of balance ultimately made obsolete by my leather bonds, which keep me suspended somewhere between dangling and flat-footed on the swept board floors of the hunting cabin.

One of Frank’s hands slips down the curve of my right hip to the outside of my upper thigh while the knuckles of his other hand graze the inside of my left thigh, moving from my slick pussy toward the backside of my left knee.

“Let’s see if I don’t have you doing some of that begging and whining,” He challenges, lifting my left knee.

I stifle a surprised yelp as he hooks my knee over his shoulder—my lower leg instinctively tensing against his upper back—drawing my pelvis toward his face in the same fluid motion, my right toes barely making contact with the floor as he creates a partial floating suspension between my captive wrists and Frank, my true anchor to the floor.

“You’re not going anywhere, Sweetheart,” he growls, his long, flat tongue lapping at my dripping pussy, my throbbing clit.

“Fuck,” I hiss, a tiny upward squeak getting the best of me as he runs the tip of his tongue from the center of my trembling petals up to the most sensitive pearl of nerves—willing my eyes not to screw shut as he makes a tracery of ever-tightening concentric circles, flicking that magic 2 O’clock spot with the point of that clever tongue.

My hamstrings tremble as I struggle to stay upright on the ball of my right foot—my body swinging unsteadily likean improperly hung hammock between my leather cuffs and Frank’s unyielding mouth in a tipsy dance of rising pleasure.

“What’s the matter—can’t stay still, Sweetheart?” Frank takes only a moment to taunt me before closing his lips around my hard clit and sucking; a rolling heat spreading up through my trembling abdominal muscles.

I nearly topple my delicate balance—an orgasm rolling through me, my knee buckling back and popping forward uncontrollably, making a low, a-rhythmic thumping noise against the door as I spasm in Frank’s grip.

When I surface from the intensity of sensation and look down at Frank, his beard still shining with my slick—his steely blues are alight with a dangerous mischief—his left hand slipping up my right leg, toward the hinge of my right knee.

“Remember that time you told me I would never make you cum?” he laughs cruelly—lifting my right leg off the ground—my control over my body nearly slipping entirely through my fingers as Frank guides my knee over his sculpted trapezius muscles. he entirety of my weight is now braced on his shoulders, my wrists still belted high over my head, keeping me helplessly dangling from the door, his hands cupping my ass—bringing my slick cunt back to his eager mouth.

I wish I could remain stoic—that I could deny him this delicious humiliation—but my body is a traitor. Instead, I cry out when he pushes his tongue inside me—carefully balancing so that he can work a finger or two inside me when his long tongue withdraws to lavish more attention on my clit, just barely back from the brink of over stimulation.

“Should have put money on that after all,” he sneers, his lips ghosting against the sensitive bead of flesh as he strokes me slow and deep inside.

Frank is no amateur—he knows what he’s doing. I wail and moan as he moves his fingers with increasing speed in time withthe rapid circling and flicking of his tongue and I start to feel that deep quaking feeling—an almost frantic elision around his index and middle fingers that almost always precedes a squirt.

Midway down his back, my legs cross at the ankles for stability, unconsciously digging into his lats as I force his face further into my slick heat. High keening noises escaping me through ragged breaths as Frank pulls me back down into the pit of frenzy—my pussy exploding like a glistening fountain as he continues to lap fervently at my overstimulated clitoris .

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