Page 47 of The Secrets That Kill

I am under the delicious assault of his fingers, coming over and over because he won’t let me stop. He keeps the beat and pace and melody all in place. It only goes up a notch when my body gives the hint that I’m coming off the euphoric wave.

My entire being is one big blooming cloud of ecstasy. I grasp at the sofa cushion and then I really start to fray. I ride him hard, grinding down, thrusting my clit into his mouth because the entire world is there.

No…it’s in my pussy, where his fingers plunge in and pull out, their work sublime. And his tongue…it works my clit, fast and hard, and I shudder and quake and scream. The orgasm crashes over me. Pure hot, pulsating pleasure that makes me shake and clamp down over and over on his fingers, on his lips, and I cry out again.

He doesn’t stop. Tears spring to my eyes. He keeps the pace, the friction so delicious. I pull away, the pleasure too much and not enough, but he grips my thigh, stopping me. It hurts. Hurts so good. I choke on my gasps. Pleasure morphs into the sweetest pain, then I’m assaulted by pressure.

It’s big and it pushes on me, almost like I need to pee. Another scream tears from my lungs as I’m hit by an orgasm that launches my whole body into the clouds. A deep soul throb of pleasure that hits me, wave after delectable wave.

Black spots of color start to bloom behind my eyes, and I half collapse.

I think every cell of my body contracts in the waves of the otherworldly orgasm.

Slowly I float back down to Earth and into my apartment.

A hand strokes the slope of my spine. “Pollyanna? You’re not done.”

“I’m beyond done.” My words slur and he pushes me to the floor.

I crack open my eyes. His face glistens with my juices, his eyes searing into me where he sits on the sofa, his erection massive behind the confines of fabric. He starts to stroke it, watching me with devilish intent.

“You’re not done. I sent you shoes. The high strappy black ones. Put those on. And a bra. Panties back on.”

I stare at him. Today I spent way too many hours researching all the New York sex and kink clubs. And the whole dominant and submissive thing. Shouldn’t he be nice to me now. Comforting? Isn’t that the way things are supposed to go?

But then again, this is Mercer Vale.

Comforting isn’t a word that exists in his wheelhouse, at least not when it comes to me.

Watching him stroke himself like he’s about to have Sunday lunch or go to a board meeting is so disconcerting, I do as he says.

I must be some kind of screwed-up submissive who needs to get her ass to therapy.

At least I’d go if I could afford it.

But seriously, what would I even say during a session? A very rich man just keeps forcing orgasms on me, and I hate him and crave him and want to please him even though he’s blackmailing me? Oh, yeah, and I also got him arrested when I was a teenager.

Jesus. That’s a whole lot of baggage.

I gulp in a breath and put on the matching bra to the wet panties. Then I put on the shoes and almost fall flat on my face. Heels really aren’t my friend.

Sexy jazz music with a hint of dark floats into my room. It whispers strip.

And I’m pretty damn sure that’s what he wants.

My heart beats fast, battering against my ribs.

The music gets louder. My pulse starts to pound as everything in me is pulled to him.

The gorgeous, hard, uncompromising man touching himself in my living room.

Whatever the song is, it stops and starts again.

His voice is in my hand. That music restarting is a command and I obey. God, I hate myself.

With more teetering than slink, I walk out of my room.

The music has a touch of lazy blues, the kind that understands the filthy underside of the world and what glories can be found there.

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