Page 69 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

Her breath catches, her pupils dilating slightly at my words. But still, she doesn’t protest, doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans infinitesimally closer, her body betraying what her pride won’t allow her to admit.

I slide my hand down from her jaw, trailing it along the curve of her neck, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath my fingertips. She’s afraid, yes, but there’s more than fear making her heart race.

My hand continues its journey downward, skimming over her collarbone, between her breasts, down to the flat plane of her stomach. She shivers under my touch, goosebumps rising on her skin despite the warmth of the room.

Finally, my fingers reach the waistband of her jeans, pausing there for a moment, teasing, savoring the anticipation. Then I press my palm firmly against her over the denim, cupping her, feeling the heat of her even through the thick fabric.

A soft sigh escapes her lips, so quiet I might have imagined it if I hadn’t been watching her face so intently. Her eyes flutter closed for just a moment before she forces them open again, refusing to give me the satisfaction of seeing her completely surrender.

But it’s too late. That tiny sound, that brief moment of weakness—it tells me everything I need to know. She wants this as much as I do, no matter how much she might deny it.

I rub my palm against her in slow, deliberate circles, watching as her breathing becomes shallower, as her thighs tense and then part slightly, unconsciously seeking more pressure. The restraints on her ankles prevent her from opening fully to me, but the gesture is unmistakable.

“Look at you,” I murmur, my free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from her flushed face. “Fighting so hard not to show me how badly you want this.”

Her eyes flash with renewed anger, but she can’t hide the way her body responds to my touch, the way her hips shift minutely, seeking more contact. “I hate you,” she whispers, the words catching in her throat.

I smile, slow and predatory. “Maybe,” I concede, increasing the pressure of my hand between her legs until she bites her lip to stifle a moan. “But your body doesn’t lie, Dove.”

I withdraw my hand, and she can’t quite suppress a small sound of protest. The sight of her—flushed, frustrated, fighting her own desires—sends another surge of arousal through me, my cock throbbing painfully against the confines of my jeans.

Standing, I move behind her chair, out of her line of sight. I can feel her tension increase, the uncertainty of not being able to see me making her nervous. Good. I want her on edge, every sense heightened and alert.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice strained as she tries to turn her head to follow my movements.

I don’t answer, focusing instead on the task at hand. The key to her cuffs is cold against my palm as I withdraw it from my pocket. The metal clinks softly as I insert it into the lock, and I feel her stiffen at the sound.

“Be still,” I command, and to my satisfaction, she obeys, her body freezing in place.

The cuffs release with a decisive click, falling away from her wrists to clatter against the concrete floor. Before she can react, I grab her freed hands and pin them in front of her, my grip firm but not painful.

“Don’t move,” I warn, my breath hot against the nape of her neck.

She shivers but doesn’t try to pull away, her compliance sending a thrill of satisfaction through me. Slowly, I bring her hands down to her lap, positioning them palms up on her thighs.

“Keep them there,” I instruct, releasing her wrists to trail my fingers up her arms, feeling the goosebumps that rise in the wake of my touch.

She does as she’s told, her hands remaining where I placed them, though I can see the effort it costs her in the slight tremorthat runs through them. The restraints on her ankles still keep her anchored to the chair, but her upper body is now free—free, and yet still under my control.

I move back around to face her, drinking in the sight of her—hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes dark with a mixture of resentment and reluctant desire. Beautiful in her defiance, even more so in her surrender.

“Stand up,” I order, reaching down to release the restraints on her ankles.

She hesitates, confusion evident in her expression. “I thought you said—”

“I said stand up,” I repeat, my tone brooking no argument. “Now.”

Slowly, warily, she complies, rising from the chair on unsteady legs. I step back, giving her space, watching as she stands uncertainly in the middle of the cold concrete room. Without the chair to support her, she seems smaller somehow, more vulnerable.

“Take off your jeans,” I say, my voice even despite the anticipation coiling tight in my gut.

Her eyes widen, a flash of genuine fear crossing her face as she remembers where we are, who might be watching. “Here?” she whispers, glancing around at the bare walls, the surveillance cameras mounted in the corners. “But—”

“Here,” I confirm, cutting off her protest. “Now.”

For a moment, I think she might refuse, might make me force her. But then her hands move to the button of her jeans, fumbling slightly as she undoes it, then the zipper. The sound of it sliding down is unnaturally loud in the quiet room, a promise of what’s to come.

She pushes the denim down her hips, over her thighs, the movement awkward and halting. When the jeans reach herankles, she steps out of them, kicking them aside with a small, defiant gesture that makes me smile despite myself.

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