Page 34 of Misadventures in Blue
I consider her, reading her body’s signs. Her nipples poking through her blouse trying to get my attention. Her pulse thrumming at the base of her neck. The blush below her collarbone that disappears down into that sexy silk shirt. She likes it when I’m possessive. Jealous, even. I remember that from the first time we had sex at the station.
But this is something different. “You’re asking me to claim you,” I say, making sure we’re on the same page. “While I’m angry and hurt and jealous. While I want to be rough.”
“Yes,” she moans, pressing her breasts against my chest as her hand wraps around my denim-clad erection.
And that’s all I can take. All the permission I need. I scoop her up and sling her over my shoulder, just like the Viking I wanted to be a few weeks ago, and smack her ass hard as I walk toward her bedroom. I feel her stomach hitching where it presses against my shoulder, and for a moment I wonder if she’s crying or trying to speak, but then I hear—
She’s laughing.
She’s happy.
It’s a roller-coaster laugh, the kind of laugh that’s pulled out of you by adrenaline and joy and terror all mixed together, and I take it as extra confirmation that she’s on board. I still say over my shoulder, “Say stop when you need to stop, baby.”
Her voice is full of smug cop pride when she answers, “Fine. But I won’t need to.”
I don’t think she will either. She’s tough, tougher than anyone gives her credit for, and I think under all that good breeding and money is a woman who wants to test her limits. Who wants the edgy, filthy, primitive challenges no one else has known to give her.
But I know. I know what she needs.
I drop her onto her bed without warning, without delicacy, without even flicking on a light, and then I fall on her like a predator in the dark. I nip at her jaw and throat until she whimpers, and then I eat her mouth with stark, brutal kisses until both of us are breathing hard and my dick is leaking all over the inside of my jeans.
Taking her wrists in one hand, I pin them above her head as I grind into her clothed pussy with merciless hips. “How much did this cost?” I say, working a hand between us to pluck at her silk blouse. “Two hundred? Three hundred?”
“Three hundred,” she pants.
It’ll be hell on my bank account to replace, but so fucking worth it. I let go of her wrists and move up so I’m straddling her hips, and then I take one side of the blouse in each hand. She’s wearing it in her usual way, unbuttoned to expose just the right amount of décolletage, and the fashionable part of the placket gives me just the right handholds to grab and tear the blouse apart.
It’s a well-made shirt, and it takes plenty of strength to rip the buttons from their moorings and send them scattering across the bed, but I manage, revealing a lacy bra and Cat’s stomach, both ivory-pale in the moonlight streaming through her window.
She looks wrecked like this, wrecked already, with her shirt rumpled and torn around her breasts and her hair mussed and her lips swollen from my attentions. I run my fingers over the swells of her lace-covered tits and down to her quivering belly. “All this is mine,” I tell her.
“Yes,” she says.
I move off her. I find the zipper to her skirt and yank it down with impatience, peeling the fabric from her body and tossing it on her floor like I don’t know it probably also cost an unthinkable amount of money. And before I straddle her again, I allow myself to appreciate the vision she makes like this, with her white garter belt highlighting the nip of her waist and her nude stockings giving off a faint sheen in the moonlight. With her heels still curving her feet into sexy, chic arches.
She looks expensive. Cultured.
And I’m the man who gets to bite and bind and dishevel it all. I’m the man who gets to make her mine.
I remove the remains of the blouse from her and then straddle her again to knot her crossed wrists in the fabric. There’s plenty of it, and it’s soft and thick enough that I can bind her tightly, and I do, relishing the jagged exhale she gives when she tests the knot and finds it unyielding.
“Now,” I say, climbing off her. “Let’s see what the queen keeps in her toy box, hmm?”
With as much sex as we’ve had in the last few weeks, we still haven’t dipped into her toy collection, although I know it’s in her end table, and I know she must have some things in there that are at least mildly shocking, because she blushes whenever I ask her about what she has.
Well, there’s no time like the present to find out.
I leave her trussed up on the bed while I make my way to her nightstand and pull open the drawer. I growl when I see what’s inside.
“Dirty girl,” I say, holding up the cool metal of a jewel-ended butt plug for her to see. I toss it on the bed, along with the bottle of lube she has stashed inside the drawer. “So fucking dirty. I knew you were. Knew you were keeping all kinds of secret filth wrapped up in all that silk.”
She makes a needy noise and drops her bound hands to her stomach, and I only realize why when I see her fingers sliding under her panties to get at her pussy. I’m back on the bed in an instant, pinning her arms above her head again.
“Bad,” I tell her. “You’re doing bad things when you should be trying to be very good for me right now.”
“Just make me come first,” she demands, trying to rock her hips against my erection. “Make me come, and then I’ll be good.”
“Nice try,” I rasp, biting her breasts until she listens. “You are mine right now, which means your orgasms are mine too. And you’re not going to come until I know you’re very, very sorry.”
