Anything He Wants 2: All's Fair (5 page)

I nodded
vigorously, his fingers making my breath catch. A chuckle came from behind me
and lips pressed against the small of my back, just below the bustier.
"You'll have to work for it, are you willing to do that?"

Before
I could make any response, his thumb slid back through my folds and pressed
firmly against my rear opening.
I surged forward in shock but the table
prevented any escape from the foreign invasion. I trembled as his hand caressed
both my entrances, the alien sensation a puzzle my body couldn't quite figure
out.

"Many
women enjoy backdoor play," Jeremiah murmured behind me, his fingers
continuing their surface explorations. "Some actually prefer it as the
forbidden gets them off." He leaned in close, his body molding to mine.
"Some men also prefer this entrance, the tight fit and taboo as much of a
turn on as the sex itself." His lips were behind my ear as he added,
"Guess which kind of man I am?"

I moaned helplessly,
trapped between the cold marble table and his hot body. His fingers kept
working on the hard nub between my folds, causing my hips to jerk and breathy
pants to escape my lips. The two sensations at once made it difficult to
differentiate which was the turn on; his thumb would rub over both and I’d
crave more. Confusion was difficult to sustain as the sensations threatened to
overwhelm me. So when Jeremiah’s thumb pushed inside, stretching the tight
muscles in a way I never would have remotely considered sexy, I moaned and
tilted my hips back against his hand.

His laugh
was deep and sexy, washing over me and making my skin tingle. Those fingers
redoubled their pace, finding places inside myself that left me shaking and
bucking against him, my moans loud and unabashed. “You are so fucking hot,” he
whispered in my ear, rolling his hips against my backside. Still naked from the
waist down, he slid his hard member between my thighs alongside his hand before
repeating the motion. The inside of my legs were moist with my own juices and
the roll of his hips against my backside was sexy as hell; my grip on the edge
of the table tightened until my knuckles were white. My cries were long wails,
the sensations and growing urgency making my body tense in anticipation.

“You’ll
come when I say, only when I say.”

I whined,
this time in protest, and his hand fell away. The sudden absence was like a
cold bucket of water - an unwelcomed interruption no doubt punishment for my
complaint. To my delight however the space was quickly filled by another sway
of his hips as he slid his hard shaft slid between my thighs and a hand came up
to clamp behind my neck. He didn’t push inside, merely sliding along the wet
folds. “Please,” I moaned, lifting my hips to grant him better access.

“Please,
what?”

His voice
held amusement although I couldn’t see his face, but this time I was sure I
knew the answer. “Please, sir.”

“What
would you like, little cat? Do you want me inside you, that gorgeous ass of
yours spread to take me deep? Should I ride you hard, force you to come with my
cock pounding deep?”

That deep
voice, gravelly and rich and right next to my ear, could melt stone. He slid
across the hard bud between my legs and everything rushed back; I was so close,
it wouldn’t take much...

I felt
his bulbous tip nudge at my aching entrance at the same time hands spread my
butt cheeks, fingers running along the puckered skin. He pushed inside both
openings at once and I almost
sobbed,
the pressure and
stretching a welcome relief. He wasted little time, his hips picking up a
steady tempo even as his fingers worked my back hole. Within a minute I was
moaning with each thrust, my cries echoing off the marble table and ornate
mirrors in the room.

As his
thrusts grew more forceful, banging the tops of my thighs repeatedly against
the edge of the marble slab, I looked up into the large wall mirror above the
mahogany dresser in front of me. It gave a clear view of the man behind me, and
although I heard very little from him I saw the raw need on his face. His mouth
opened in muted gasps, the long arms reaching to my neck straining against the
white shirt material. The corset back of the bustier with its strings and white
lace was hot; it was impossible to believe it was my body reflected in the
mirror.

Very
quickly, however, it became all about the various sensations, the build of an
explosion I’d been desperately seeking and prayed would come soon. He was
pounding into me now, each thrust slamming me into the table which, for all the
abuse, remained steady. I wailed, my orgasm rushing to meet me. “Please, I
can’t stop. Sir, please!”

The hand
between our bodies disappeared and Jeremiah increased his strokes, jerking hard
inside me. Fingers on the back of my neck squeezed, throaty cries and guttural
groans coming from close behind my head as fingers slid around front of me,
gliding over the beating core between my legs. “Come then, I want to feel your
body’s reaction around me.”

There was
no way I could have stopped myself. My orgasm flooded over me like a wave of
light; I cried out, my hands gripping the table like a vise, body shaking.
Jeremiah’s thrusts hit places inside me that had the waves roll on and on, but
then I heard a guttural, hoarse cry from above and he jerked over me with only
a couple last erratic thrusts. I laid there for a moment, panting and thankful
for the cool surface of the marble beneath my too-hot body. Jeremiah laid his
forehead against my shoulder blades and we stayed that way for a moment,
struggling to catch our collective breaths.

Finally
he pushed himself off me and pulled out, running a hand along my spine as he
stepped back. “You can let go of the table now.”

Easier
said than done.
My hands were stiff and difficult to free and as I tilted
upright I flexed them to return feeling. Leaning against the table for support,
I gave myself time to catch my breath as Jeremiah rearranged his clothing then
walked over to a nearby seat. He picked up a small paper bag with some big
swirly name I didn’t recognize and brought it over, setting it gently on the
table beside me. Leaning in close, he placed a surprisingly soft kiss to my
forehead then nudged me gently toward the bathroom. “Go, clean up and put these
on. Keep the lingerie on underneath, I want to know it’s there beneath the
clothing.”

My legs
were like jelly but I took the bag and wobbled to the bathroom, remembering to
grab my purse before locking myself inside. Setting the bags on the floor, I
stood in front of the sink mirror and stared at my reflection in the tall
mirrors. My blonde hair was a mess, still damp from the shower, but the tousled
look seemed to fit the rest of my outfit. I ran my hands down the stiff white
fabric, turning so I could see the corset strings across my back. I’d never
before worn lingerie this fine – heck, I’d never really worn proper lingerie
ever
– but staring at the flare of my bottom beneath the white lacy contraption, the
strings barely covering the tiny thong that hadn’t been much protection...

I
looked good
.
It was a novel concept for me and I admired my reflection in the mirror. Then I
sobered.
I’m not going to end this farce, am I?
Whatever games Jeremiah
Hamilton was playing had gone too far; I’d allowed myself too many liberties to
play the innocent in this game any longer. 
So what does that make me,
a well-paid office assistant, or a glorified mistress?

The
question disturbed me and I tried to block it from my mind. Taking a few
minutes to clean myself up thoroughly, I discarded the tiny panties before
turning to see what was inside the bag he had given me. A trendy pair of pants,
simple yet silky blouse, and a pair of red flat shoes made up the clothing
portion, while a brush and other toiletries lined the bottom. The clothes, as
far as I could tell, were the right size even though I knew my curvy figure
wasn’t exactly the norm in Europe.
He’s obviously done this before to know
exactly what is needed.
I didn’t care to explore why that thought annoyed
me, it brought up more questions I didn’t want to hear right now, so I pushed
them aside and hurried to make myself presentable.

Twenty
minutes later I emerged, fully clothed and refreshed, to see him waiting beside
the table with the domed dishes I’d seen earlier. They contained a simple
selection of fruits and crepes, with real whipped cream in a chilled metal
dish. Looking at the clock I saw it was still morning and I thanked the powers
that be that I had managed to sleep on the plane. “What’s the plan for today?”
I asked, remembering Ethan mentioning something about a gala.

He took
my hand and lifted it to his lips before popping a handful of grapes into his
mouth. “Eat while you can,” he said, watching me pile the fruit onto the thin
crepe wrap. “Today, your work really begins.”

***

About The Author

Sara
Fawkes has always loved spinning tales. One who’s been writing since she was a
little girl (and has the home made books from preschool to prove it), she loves
creating stories and characters and interesting messes for them to get into.
And for the handsome guy to always get the girl in the end. An avid traveler
and adventure motorcyclist, her dream job includes selling everything off and
leaving civilization to see the world on two wheels, writing in cafes in each
country she visits, and living off her writing. In the meantime however, she
lives in California with her menagerie of pets and, when not writing, loves to
rebuild old motorcycles/cars and practice her fiddle. You can find her on
Twitter @
sarafawkes
or online at
http://sarawriteserotica.wordpress.com
talking about whatever strikes her fancy.

Anything
He Wants 2: All’s
Fair
.
Copyright © 2012 by
Sara Fawkes.
All rights reserved.

No
part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or
mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This
book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the
products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.