A little whimper escaped me, and I stepped out of the dress, spreading my legs.
“No.” His tone was sharp, and he backed away from me. “That’s breaking a rule, princess.” He began to unbuckle his belt. “You don’t move unless I tell you to. But I can help you remember to obey.”
He crouched down, grabbed the ankle with the dress around it, and lifted it up. After tossing the dress aside, he placed my feet side by side and wound his leather belt around my ankles, securing it tightly. When he was satisfied I couldn’t move either my arms or my legs, he straightened up.
Locked eyes with me again in the glass.
Removed his jacket.
Unbuttoned his cuffs. Rolled up his sleeves.
Picked up his glass and took a sip of his whiskey.
Every movement was masculine and deliberate, laced with unspoken power. Nothing rushed or frantic. It was as if he was letting me know by his sheer lack of haste how he relished the tease, that the kick wasn’t just in the bad things he wanted to do to me, but in the anticipation of them. In my helplessness to stop him.
And I was as feminist as anybody, but hot damn. My legs were trembling. My panties were wet. My nipples poked at the lace of my bra, hard and tingling. It wasn’t just being at his mercy that had me turned on, it was the way his eyes traveled over my body, like his desire was almost unbearable.
He set his glass down and pressed up behind me again, locking one forearm across my chest and sliding the other hand into my underwear. He rubbed my clit with slow, firm pressure so it swelled beneath his touch, then dipped his fingers inside me. “You’re wet already.”
“Yes,” I whimpered.
He pinched my nipple, hard. “That wasn’t a question. But since you’re having such a hard time staying quiet, I’ll give you permission to speak. Do you want to watch me make you come?”
I nodded, afraid that if I said something wrong, he’d stop touching me. I couldn’t take my eyes off our reflection.
“Say it,” he demanded.
“I want to watch you make me come,” I panted.
He pulled his fingers from me and brought them to his mouth. “The taste of you. That’s another thing that drives me crazy. I can’t stop thinking about it.” His hand edged beneath the lace again. “I want it all the time.”
He held me tightly against his body. At the small of my back, I felt his cock against my palm as he worked his fingers over my clit. I squirmed and writhed over his hand, frustrated at not being able to move freely. I tried to rub his hard length through his pants, hoping to get him worked up, but his arm around me kept my upper body completely immobile. Pretty soon it didn’t even matter that I couldn’t move—his fingers moved over my clit with the perfect rhythm, the ideal pace, the most sublime pressure. I was hot and sweaty and desperate, frantic little noises escaping my throat, so close, so agonizingly close—
And he slowed down, easing me back from the brink.
My eyes opened—I hadn’t even realized they’d closed—and I caught his knowing smile in the glass. “Not yet,” he said.
He did that two more times, taking me all the way to the edge, then cruelly yanking me away from it, seeming to enjoy it more every time. I understood then that he didn’t have to inflict pain to enjoy control—all he had to do was deny pleasure. I’d never even thought about it before. And at that point, I’d have begged him to hurt me if it meant relief from the tension.
Somehow he seemed to know I was at the breaking point, and the next time I got close, he let me finish. “Don’t close your eyes,” he warned. “Watch.”
I did as he asked, keeping my eyes on our reflection, watching his hand move between my thighs, my cries bouncing off the walls, my leg muscles growing hot and tight, my bones threatening to buckle as the climax shook me.
Finally, I went limp in his arms. “You’re perfect,” he said, his voice low in my ear. “You’re fucking perfect.” He kissed my throat, my shoulder, and the back of my neck, before easing my upper body forward so my chest and cheek rested on the cool wooden tabletop. “Yes,” he said, running his hand down my spine. “I want you just like this.”
He picked up his glass.
The next thing I felt was cool liquid being dripped onto my back, all along my spine from the base of my neck to my tailbone. The smoky sweet scent filled my head as he leaned over and licked the whiskey off my skin. I shivered, and he laughed. Then he popped open the clasp on my bra and poured more whiskey across my shoulder blades. This time, instead of licking it up, he put his hand in it and rubbed the liquid all over my skin.