Page 60 of Untether

Need.

To.

Get.

Her.

On.

A.

Fucking.

Bed.

I’m shaking with the need to shoot my load. Inside her. All over her. I don’t fucking care at this point. I’m an animal, my fancy education and usually polished social skills shot to hell in the face of one woman’s exquisite cunt.

She still looks far too together for someone who just came as hard on my tongue as she did, beautiful mask and immaculate hair and perfect, scarlet lipstick still intact.

We’ll have to do something about that.

Won’t we?

As soon as I’m fully standing, I kiss her hard, my tongue still ravenous for more of her holes. I want her to taste herself on me. I thrust my dick against the silk that’s covering her up again. It’s both a threat and a promise.

She wraps one hand around the back of my neck, her other clawing at my back as she lets me invade her, explore her with my tongue.

‘We need to find our room,’ I tell her, barely able to hear my own voice above this insane music. There’s just enough blood flow left in my brain to recognise that what we just did is a step far enough towards exhibitionism for now. She’ll need privacy for the next part.

Besides. I don’t want to be an exhibitionist for once. I need a bed and some cuffs and Aida all to myself. I’m the only lucky fucker who gets to see her laid out and begging for it tonight.

I tug her into my arms and turn her around, my hands roaming over her hips, her arse, as I direct her towards the corridor bearing the private rooms as gently as I’m capable of.

Our room is ready, and I utter a quick prayer of thanks to a god I almost certainly don’t believe in.

And then we’re in.

I’m turning the lock.

I’m pulling down the blind on the window that lets voyeurs see what people are getting up to if all parties are up for it.

No fucking way.

I lean back against the door, my head hitting the wood with a dull thud, and survey her. She’s standing in the middle of the room, right in front of the foot of the bed, surveying her surroundings. It must look a bit different from when she was at Alchemy for her massage. She’s a lobster in a pot who’s realised too late she’s fucking boiling.

I take her in. Silk—blood red in this perfectly dim light—pouring over her curves. The slender lines of her arms and throat illuminated in gold. The gleam of her dark hair. The slash of crimson at her mouth. When she moves, her reflection glitters and shimmers above us in the darkened mirror that dominates the ceiling.

The ache I have for her is so extreme that I’m not far off being a danger to her and to myself. This need is burning every last binding that tethers the beast within, and I can practically smell the acrid smoke as they blaze.

‘Aida,’ I say in as normal a voice as I can muster. ‘You don’t have to—you can get out of here right now.’

She smiles at that and comes towards me. She doesn’t hesitate, though she should. Her hands go to my shoulders and she glances down at my torso. I’m too far gone to even remember to contract my abs like I usually would if a woman was checking me out.

‘No fucking way,’ she says. That glorious music is playing through the speakers, but at a much lower volume,and it’s fucking with my head. It’s classy and decadent and sophisticated and insidious and sensual and dangerous.

Just like her.

‘Safe word,’ I say weakly, because there’s no way a safe word is an adequate substitute for her running for the hills.

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