Page 83 of Sold to Her Enemy

This is torture for her; I know that by how the sweat breaks on her brow, how she stares at me, but her eyes are to the left of my nose, not quite meeting mine, the breathy little sounds she’s making my blood surge with a fresh wave of want for her.

But this is also sweet torture for myself.

All I want to do is touch her, hold her to me, and say soothing things, but I’m not going to do that, not until she meets my request.

“Let me see you thrust on that dildo, Mckenna. How does it feel in your cunt?”

“It feels…warm and hard and,” she grits out. Her pussy juices cover her fingers. Her fingers fall off the base for a half second before she grabs hold, her other hand stopping on her clit.

“Keep touching that clit. Why does it feel awful?”

“I’m so sensitive! It hurts.”

“Give that swollen clit more. Hurt for me.”

She throws her head back, her fingers dancing in a circle to her hood.

“It feels…awful…because...it’s not your cock, Sir!” She moans out the words, her eyes close, and she heaves with the force of the orgasm crashing through her.

I lean down and grip her leg before it can close.

Her hands lay against her opening, the dildo in front of her pussy now discarded. She’s shuddering, gasping as her eyes close tight.

I can’t help it. I kneel on the bed.

“Good girl, Mckenna.” I brush her sweat drenched hair off her forehead and slide my knuckles against her cheek.

Her green eyes open, they are glassy like emeralds, wet with the sheen of tears.

“That…that was so much.”

“We’re not done yet, but stay here.” I take the dildo from the bed and rinse it off in the washroom. Then I take a warm washcloth and a towel.

Mckenna has part of the bedspread around her legs.

“Cold?”

“A little.”

I move the bedspread from her legs and gently run the washcloth along her legs, patting her clit as I wipe her down.

“Thank you,” her tone is so sorrowful it pulls my heart open.

“You’re welcome.” I return the washcloth to the bathroom. “I don’t have staff in this house right now.”

Mckenna’s lips press together in a smirk. I twirl a piece of her hair around my fingers. “I can make a sandwich.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you thought about it.”

Mckenna laughs, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, her hand covers mine. It’s an intimate gesture, strangely more intimate than anything we’ve done this weekend so far.

“Yes, but I remember my mother teaching you how to make food.”

“We were never allowed in the kitchen. Especially not Ava.”

“It’s amazing that your parents wouldn’t let her have a knife, but they had no problem with her being around equines.”

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