He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like it one bit, and that translates through the crowding tension in his shoulders and the way his touch turns from explorative to downright dominating. He grips me by the hip, hard, even though his tone is still calm. “You do, huh?”
“Uh…”
“Answer the question.”
“Yeah.”
I thought he was seeking confirmation of my earlier words, but his hold is tightening by the second. “What do you let them do?”
“I let them touch me, grope me, and take my nipples into their mouths.” I’m not sure why I’m saying this, but I like how it drags out the harsh dominance from inside him, so I don’t stop. “It feels good, when my nipples are between their teeth, when they’re tugging and pulling and biting.”
Still gripping me by the hip, he rips my shirt from inside my skirt and I jolt with the movement, sliding over his desk. I nearly squeal when his hand shoots up my bare stomach and beneath my bra.
When his thumb and forefinger grab hold of my nipple, my mouth falls open in a wordless whimper. He squeezes it, pressing his thumb on the tight bud that’s been aching ever since he touched me yesterday.
“These felt good when the boys played with them, huh?”
“Uh-huh. They did.”
He presses harder until pleasure pools between my thighs, and I clamp them shut in a helpless attempt to keep the wetness from leaking.
“Open your legs, Gwyneth.”
“But…”
“Open.”
My pulse roars in my ears at the non-negotiable order and I do. I let my legs part, releasing the friction I’ve been fruitlessly attempting to keep there.
“Now place your feet on the desk, bend your knees, and keep your legs wide apart.” With each order, he strokes and squeezes my nipple until I’m gasping for air.
But I do as I’m told, stretching my skirt up and opening my legs.
“Wider. Let me look at that pussy.”
Holy shit.
I’ve never felt as exposed as I do when he’s watching me intently, as if he didn’t get a full view of me only last night. As if his fingers didn’t wreak havoc inside me and leave me spent.
Still torturing my nipple, he reaches a hand up and cups me through my panties, and I shudder, head lolling to the side because I want to watch him watch me.
“Mmm. You’re wet, baby girl.”
“I am?”
“You are. Very, very wet.” He slides his fingers up and down my folds, and even though it’s only through the material, my pussy pulses with need.
“Nate…”
“Yes?”
“I need…I need…”
“What do you need? Tell me.”
“More…just more.”
“But you’re a bad girl. You let boys touch you, grope you, put their hands on these nipples and this pussy, don’t you?”
“I…won’t anymore…”
“You won’t, huh?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want them… I want you.”
He stills at that, both his hands halting their assault for a fraction of a second, and I look at him then.
I wish I hadn’t.
His expression knocks the living breath out of my lungs.
His jaw is clenched tight, but it’s not with displeasure, it’s with an emotion I’ve never seen on his face, or maybe he’s never allowed me to see.
Possession. Raw and deep and so damn dangerous.
But instead of running away from it, I barge straight toward it. I bare my soul and body for it. I want it. His possessiveness.
I want every last drop of it.
“Fuck, Gwyneth. Since when did you learn to say shit like that?”
“Since you.”
“Me?”
“Uh-huh. Because you made me want to be a woman.”
“You wanted to be a woman for me?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you’d touch me. You’d want me.”
“That means these nipples belong to me, don’t they?” He squeezes one roughly, sternly, and I whimper, but it breaks into a moan when he cups my core just as hard. “This pussy is mine, too. It’s my pussy, isn’t it?”
“Oh, fuck…”
“Language.”
“Mmm.”
“Answer me, Gwyneth. Whose pussy is this?”
“Yours.”
“That’s right. Mine. So why did you give it to someone else? Why did another fucker look at my pussy, let alone touch it?”