My wetness is soaking through the fabric of my underwear as I chase my high. His length pulses against me, growing more rigid with every roll of my hips. The thought that I’m the one doing that to him, that I’m the one causing him to become so hard, sends a burst of confidence through me, and I double my efforts, something hot coiling in the base of my stomach.
His gaze soaks me up like a sponge, and I close my eyes, imagining what it will feel like with him inside me. My core clenches, aching for something to fill it, even though nothing has been there before.
He leans forward, his lips brushing up the side of my neck, causing goose bumps to sprout along my body. “When you’re all alone in your room, how do you make yourself come?”
I can barely focus on his words, my mind foggy from pleasure, but I get what he’s asking. And for some reason, I trust him to know. So, instead of speaking—something I’m not sure I’m even capable of right now—I show him.
Moving his hand from where it’s resting on my waist, I place it back on my neck. And then I press his fingers in, because I want him to squeeze.
His eyes flare, his arm wrapping fully around my waist and jerking my body flush against him. “Do you like to be choked, darling?” His fingers grip tighter with a thrust of his hips. “Want me to squeeze your throat until you’re on the edge of oblivion and seeing stars?” The pressure increases.
I moan, my eyes rolling as my head tilts back. Pleasure skitters along my skin and rushes through my bloodstream. The truth is that even with my inexperience, I have urges. Nights where I lie in bed, playing out my fantasies in the shadows of the moon. And there’s only been one way I’ve been able to make myself come; by holding my breath until my lungs seize and my mind goes dark.
Maybe it’s stupid of me to allow this virtual stranger to control something so vital as the air I breathe, but for some reason, I trust him.
“Please,” I force out.
He flips us, my body pliable and willing beneath him as he lays me on the cushioned bench. His body looms over me like danger in human form, his eyes dark as he applies the perfect amount of pressure against my windpipe. His other hand glides down my body, lighting up my insides with sparks, his touch like gasoline to the fire in my veins. His palm skims along the hem of my skirt and he slips underneath, running the pads of his fingers right along the crease of my drenched underwear. My hips push against his hand, desperate to feel him touch my skin.
His grasp tightens on my neck at the same moment he sneaks beneath the seam of my panties. “So wet for me,” he says, his fingers coming up and smearing my arousal along the seam of my lips.
My heart skips, my stomach screwing up so tight it may shatter at any second.
“Such a delicious temptation.” He licks the juices from my mouth.
My legs tremble.
And then his hand is back at my core, two fingers spreading me open and slipping easily inside from how soaked I am. I gasp, my back arching at the intrusion.
His face is still next to mine, his mouth laving kisses along my jaw. “So tight. Has anyone touched you here before?”
I’m not sure if he wants me to say no, but the thought of him assuming I’m some untouched flower with zero experience is so unappealing, I can’t find it in me to lie. “Yes,” I rasp.
His eyes darken, fingers twitching against my esophagus. His breath coasts along my ear and down my neck, sending a chill racing along my spine. “No one is allowed to touch you here again.” His fingers pump in and out while his thumb circles slowly against my swollen clit. “I’m a very possessive man, Wendy. And I want you for myself.”
His words should set alarm bells ringing, but all they do is stoke the flames of my passion, making it hard to breathe.
Or maybe that’s his hand slowly increasing the pressure against my neck.
I suck in as deep a breath as I can with his iron vice grip, feeling like I might die if I don’t get to come. My head grows lightheaded as my lungs beg for air, my mind screaming for me to claw at him to try and relieve the pressure. My hand flies up, fingers wrapping around his wrist, the veins of his forearm tensing under my palm. My center contracts.
His grip on my throat tightens as the pressure in my clit pulses and throbs, spreading a tingling sensation through my body. A burn grows through my chest, radiating outward, and darkness rims my vision. And then I explode, my mouth opening on a silent scream, inner walls milking his fingers as if they want to suck him up and never let him leave. His hand immediately loosens, turning into soft, soothing strokes as I suck in mouthfuls of air, my chest heaving against his.
“Such a good girl,” he purrs.
Satisfaction courses through my veins and burrows deep into my chest; warm, and fluffy, and everything good. He moves, lifting my body so he can settle in behind me, and I curl up on him, his large hand stroking my hair and whispering words of praise.
I don’t try to speak, don’t try to think too hard over what I just let happen. How he’s treating me like some type of pet that he’s proud of—or how it makes me feel when he does. I just close my eyes and let this moment be what it is.
And when I wake up, I’m no longer on the deck, and I’m all alone.
15
James
The teakettle boils on the stove, and I stare at the backs of my hands as they grip the counter. That—what happened earlier with Wendy was unexpected. But Christ, the way she came apart under my fingers, the way she begged me to cut off her air supply and trembled beneath my touch, had me dangerously close to losing control.
And that is unacceptable.
I’d love to deny it, but unfortunately knowing one’s own weaknesses is paramount to overcoming them, and Wendy becoming a weakness is painstakingly obvious. Especially after I carried her off the sundeck to my personal quarters, and then proceeded to watch her sleep, enjoying the way her dark hair contrasted against the cream of my sheets.
I glare at the teakettle, irritated that she affects me so strongly. That she calls to my base urges and brings them to the forefront, making me wrestle for control. With a scoff, I push the kettle off the burner, running a hand through my hair.
“I can do that for you, you know,” Smee says as he walks into the room with the remaining dishes from dinner.
“That won’t be necessary, thank you.”
He nods, heading to the sink, placing the glasses next to the basin. “She’s a beautiful girl.”
“Hmm?” I ask, my thumb and forefinger rubbing against my chin.
“I said she’s a nice girl.”
I turn, taking him in. Smee is close to my age and has been working on my boat since I found him on the streets next to the JR when I was eighteen—the weekend after I killed my uncle. He was homeless, begging for change, but there was a look in his eye. Something that told me he was dealt a bad hand in life and just needed a way to regain control after it had been stripped away.
And that’s something I can relate to.
For weeks, I would visit him, taking small rations of money and warm food and clothes, watching from the sidelines to see if he was a byproduct of the drugs I funnel onto the streets, or if he was something else. Someone worthy of a second chance.
Luckily for him, it was the latter.
When I bought The Tiger Lily with my parents’ inheritance; the one that was kept from me by my uncle, I went straight to Smee, and offered him room and board. A new chance. A fresh start. So long as he swore his loyalty and only worked for me. Outside of Ru, he’s been the most constant thing in my life.