Page 232 of Those Who Are Bound

When she looked up, he was watching her. He was spectacular, truly the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen, especially with the conflicted expression on his face. He loved her mouth on him, took pleasure in both the sensation and watching her, despite the circumstance… thus the conflict. As much as she could, her mouth full of him, she smiled. She watched him struggle. She was winning. It was both exciting and heartbreaking.

He tensed, his body tightening. His hips pushed forward. Elliott quickened her pace, encouraging him to orgasm, drinking him down when he came with a cry. She lapped at him as he sagged back against the cross, trembling.

Wiping at her bottom lip, she sat back on her heels again and looked up at him, waiting. His pulse was thumping erratically in his neck; his breathing was labored. His cock was still semi-hard; beautiful. She reached up and caressed his hard stomach; he twitched under her touch, not out of discomfort or dislike, he simply hadn’t been expecting the contact.

He scanned the auditorium before he looked down at her. Expectantly.

Heexpectedthat she would untie him, that they would be done with this, and they would go home. He was under the impression that he had passed a test. She answered his unspoken question with a small shake of her head.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “You got what you wanted.”

“Did I?” she asked.

“Try to humiliate me,” he said. “What you don’t understand is that I can’t be humiliated for enjoying what was given to me by God: desire, lust, love. For you. I told you, this doesn’t intimidate me.”

But it had. She’d seen it. She was so focused on the moment he faltered that she blew right by his words. “Okay, then,” she said, but the hint of relief was telling. “You won’t mind round two.”

She grasped his cock again, stroking, pumping him fiercely to hardness. He hissed, sucking in air. This time, he twisted a bit away from her, an instinctual bid to self-protect, but she followed.

He grimaced. His expression was torn: discomfort mixed with pleasure.

He’d be sensitive. She knew, based on experience with the man, that he needed more than a minute for the sensitivity to recede before he went again. Jonah wasn’t a shrinking flower, but his cock was more sensitive than most; she loved it about him. He probably loved it about himself, being able to fully enjoy himself more—if he even thought about it.

But that wasn’t the point, allowing him comfort. It was to push him past his limits, to make him come over and over again through the pain, to admit defeat.

Others had done it, and so would Jonah.

---