Page 32 of The Irish Arrangement

“What deal?” he demanded.

I almost shivered at his growl. Why did he have to turn me on to the point of dripping cream with that husky rasp of his bossy tone?

I shook my head, fighting the urge to thrust my hips up to his hand. Damning still, his fingers remained unmoving on my skin. The rough touch of the back of his knuckles so low on my stomach reminded me of what it felt like when he'd stroked his digits over my slit, into me, when he gruffly shoved his cum back up into my pussy that night.

I wanted it.

“Tell me what you were talking about?”

Never. I held my breath, wishing I could beg him to fuck me already. Tension simmered between us, and as he looked me over again, I felt so full of pressure to explode, like my skin was too tight and my lungs couldn’t hold air fast enough.

“Make up your mind,” I retorted. “First, you instruct me to shut up. Now, you want me to talk.”

He grinned, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe I’d fight him. “Tell me.”

His fingers moved, undoing the button and zipper with agonizing slowness.

More. More. Please. I fidgeted. My body took over, and I felt my back arch in preparation to get my jeans off my ass.

“Tell me.”

I growled, glaring at him.

“Do you think this silence is going to earn you any favors?” He wrenched my jeans down, yanking my panties with them. The hit of cool air on my pussy stunned me, and I gasped out loudly.

“Do you really think you have any power here?” He pulled the garments all the way off.

I know I have none.

“Do you plan on holding out on me and winning?” He kneeled onto the bed, his huge body blocking out my view of the room as he crawled up over me, between my legs.

“Do you?” He gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles sliding as he reached up to force my shirt and bra off in one rough shove. The fabric didn’t cooperate. The stretchy top and sporty lingerie clung to me, trapping me over my head. He didn’t bother to remove it, instead leaving it as it was. Bound in my shirt and the even tighter elastic grip of my bra, I lay flat and helpless. My arms shot up, and my face was covered. Turning my head to the side, I avoided being strangled. I could breathe with my mouth and nose to the side, but I was stuck in my own clothes.

Blindfolded and bound.

“Are you feeling so powerful and confident now, wife?”

I wasn’t. He had all the control here. While I wanted to fight it, while the stubborn need to claim my independence burned within me, I came to understand how freeing it was.

To let go.

Not to think at all.

No plans or strategy.

Just to give in and surrender, knowing that he’d deliver such deep bliss.

He lowered over me, closing his mouth on my breast and sucking my nipple between his lips, hard. At the same time, he thrust his hand down my body and slid his fingers into my wet cunt.

I cried out, wincing at the dual hit of pain. Once I breathed through it, the sweeping wave of pleasure warmed me from the inside out.

“Who’s in control now?” he demanded, pumping his callused fingers into my tight entrance. Each push in had me crying for more. Every bite and forceful suck of my beaded nipple forced another gasp.

Writhing and shaking, forced to the buildup of an intense climax, he played me. Bruised me. Violated me. And forced me all the way to the brink of coming.

He stopped, leaning up from my chest with his breath whipping down on my wet flesh. His fingers remained splayed on me, holding my folds open but not driving his thick digits inside.

I cried out, panting and bucking to make him finish me off. I knew he was cruel, but this was agony.

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