His Name Is Sir (The Power to Please #3) (23 page)

I answered, “Everyone likes steak, don’t they?”

“Not vegetarians. I had them bring a pasta dish just in case, if you’d prefer.”

“Nope. I’m definitely a carnivore. And I’m suddenly starving.” I glanced around. “I don’t have any silverware.”

Gibson picked up his own knife and spread some butter on a piece of bread. “That’s right.”

I was stumped for a moment. Then I said, “You’re not going to let me have any silverware.”

He laid his bread on his small plate and said, “Exactly.”

“So, I have to eat with my fingers.”

He met my eyes. “Yes, you do,” he said, then he began cutting a piece off his steak.

I exhaled loudly. “You’re going to sit there, looking all proper and civilized in your clothes, eating with utensils, while I sit here naked and have to eat with my fingers. Is this supposed to make me feel like a savage or something?”

“No, if I wanted you to feel like a savage, I’d have you on your knees, on the floor, eating out of a bowl with your hands tied behind your back.”

My heart gave a loud thump in my chest. “Uh ... okay.”

“If you’d prefer, I can make that happen for you.”

“No, not necessary.”

“As you wish. I cut your steak into strips, by the way, so you should be able to manage it.”

I reached out and picked up an asparagus spear. I leaned forward, over the plate, but Gibson told me to sit up straight, demanded that my shoulders be pressed against the chair back. I obeyed without understanding why.

Gibson chewed slowly and watched my lips close over the vegetable. He watched every bite I took, his expression as inscrutable as I had ever seen it. A drop of butter from the asparagus landed on my chest and when I picked up my napkin to clean myself off, Gibson said, “Leave it.”

Now I knew why I wasn’t allowed to lean forward. I left the butter on my chest.

I took up a piece of bread, tore it in smaller pieces and dipped it into the butter before popping it into my mouth. Okay, this wasn’t so bad.

The steak, though, proved more difficult to manage. It was impossible to get the whole strip to my mouth without dripping sauce all over myself, from my chest down to my stomach, and once again, Gibson wouldn’t allow me to clean it off. And when I tried to cup my other hand under the steak, he told me to put my hand down, that I wasn’t allowed to use it.

He did, however, allow me to wipe my mouth with my napkin.

I reached for my wine glass and said, “I guess I should be grateful you’re letting me drink out of a glass.”

He nodded. “I considered pouring it into your hands whenever you wanted a drink, but that would be far too messy.”

I raised an eyebrow and looked down at my spattered chest and stomach.

He said, “That’s an acceptable level of messiness.”

I took a drink. “I see. The Gibson Reeves Scale of Mess. Ratings from one to ten, with ten being wine drunk from hands and a six being dribbled sauces.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t say anything. We ate in silence for a while, his eyes on me most of the time, and me feeling self-conscious under his watch, but trying to brazen it out.

The food was delicious, some of the best I’d ever eaten, but I only knew that in a vague sort of way, my attention focused mostly on Gibson and my situation.

I said, “Can I ask you some questions?”

“Of course. You can ask me anything.”

“Does this excite you, watching me right now?”

His lids lowered slightly. “Yes. Does it excite you?”

I shrugged a little. “I don’t know. Yes, I guess. What excites you about it?”

“For one thing, you’re naked. That always excites me.”

“Anything else?”

“I like watching you put your fingers in your mouth, the dainty way you suck them clean. You have beautiful lips, and your lower one is swollen, from my bite, making it all the more beautiful. I like that you’re favoring it and trying not to touch it much.”

A twinge shot between my legs. I asked, “Are you a sadist?”

He appeared to give the question some thought, then answered, “In some ways, yes, in others, no. Are you a masochist?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

I remembered that Michael asked me that question once. I answered, “Because I don’t get off on pain. If I hurt myself, it just hurts, it doesn’t excite me.”

“I see. But I’m not talking about pain in that sense. I’m talking about it in a sexual, sensual way.”

“I didn’t know there was a difference.”

“There definitely is.”

“So what is it?”

“I think that’s something we should explore later tonight. Showing is a much more effective teaching tool than telling.”

My stomach clenched. “I think I’ve lost my appetite.”

He chuckled, a low sound with more than a hint of promised menace in it. “You haven’t eaten enough yet, so try to get it back. Unless you’d prefer that I feed you.”

“No, that’s okay.” I drank a big gulp of wine.

He said, “You did say you wanted me to do as I pleased with you, did you not?”

“I did.”

“If you’re having second thoughts, tell me now.”

I shook my head. “It’s just, I’m nervous.”

“Good.”

I managed a few more bites of steak and bread, a few bites of potatoes. As always, he watched me.

Then I asked, “You said you’re a sadist in some ways, but not in others. What does that mean?”

“It means that I enjoy giving some pain to a woman who knows what to do with it, but not to a woman who doesn’t. The delivery and acceptance of pain can be an exciting tool in several ways, with the right person.”

“And you think I’m someone who knows what to do with pain?”

“I think you have an ability that you don’t understand yet.”

“You’ve called me special before. Is that what you meant?”

“That’s part of it.”

I chewed on some bread and thought for a few moments.

Gibson studied me and asked, “What happened when I bit you during your orgasm?”

“I screamed.”

“Why?”

“Because it hurt.”

“Is that all?”

“Yeah, what else could there be?”

He raised his eyebrows for a split second, then returned to his meal, not saying anything else.

I had eaten all I could manage. I sipped on my wine and watched him watch my lips and mouth, my breasts. Try as I might, I couldn’t calm my thudding heartbeat.

When he finished his meat, he asked if I were going to eat any more of mine. When I told him no, he speared my steak with his fork and put it on his plate. Something about him eating my food made me feel warm. Perhaps it was because that was something couples did, finish one another’s food.

He asked if I wanted desert, saying he had a wonderful chocolate desert, similar to a tort, that he thought I might like. I declined, telling him perhaps later. I was too wired to eat anything more, even chocolate.

He finished off my steak then leaned back in his chair, a manly gesture of satisfaction. He said, “Well, I want some desert,” then he stood up and walked behind me.

He pulled out my chair and when I stood up, he moved the chair to the side and asked me to turn around. He leaned around me and grabbed up my plate and other items, stacking them over where he had eaten.

When he had a space cleared, he picked me up by the waist and sat me on the edge of the table. I clutched his shoulders for support. He spread my legs wide and looked me up and down. I was warm everywhere.

He lowered his head and began to lick up the droplets of sauce and butter on my chest. I sighed loudly. Slowly and deliberately, he licked my chest and breasts clean, then he leaned lower and licked over my stomach.

I groaned when his tongue grazed the top of my pussy. He pulled my hands from his shoulders and placed them on the tabletop slightly behind me, telling me to arch my back. I did, and he laved my breasts again.

His fingertips stroked my mound, around my wet slit, tickling my labia. Then his fingers slid inside me, two of them, into my pussy in a smooth and silken entry. With his other hand, he dragged the chair underneath him and sat down, trailing hot kisses down to my stomach as he descended.

When his head lowered and he closed his lips over my clit, I shuddered. Heaven. His mouth on me there. I threw back my head and closed my eyes.

His fingers moved inside me, slow and steady, twisting and rubbing inside me, sending thrills through me. And his tongue flicked over my clit, soft and slow, then harder and faster. Soft and slow again. Hard and fast. Around and across.

I wondered at the glory of his mouth on me. His fingertips rubbed against a spot inside of me that made me want to wrap my hands in his hair and grind my hips against his face. I tried to control myself, tried to make it last, tried to keep from going so quickly. But I couldn’t do it.

I came, crying out at the release of all the tension that had built up over the long dinner, over the way he had watched me.

He stroked me until my orgasm passed into twitches of aftershocks, taking long licks up and down my slit, then he stood and picked me up into his arms. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders as he carried me to the bedroom. After he put me down next to the bed, he pulled back all the covers, tossing them halfway across the bed, before settling me onto the mattress, curled on my side.

He pushed my hair off my face and ran his thumb over my swollen lip, a gentle smile on his face. I sighed.

He walked over to the dresser and with his back to me, took off his clothes, one piece after another. I admired the defined musculature of his back and the smooth, firm contour of his fine ass. My fingers ached to explore him. Maybe he would let me, some time tonight.

After opening a drawer in the dresser, he pulled out a pair of thin, white cotton pants. He stepped into them, unfortunately cutting off the view of his fabulous ass. While he tied the drawstring waist, he turned back toward me. I could see the clear outline of his hard cock making a tent of the front of his pants.

My mouth watered. I sat up, looked pointedly at his dick and said, “I’ve changed my mind. I want desert, too.”

He gave a short laugh. “Maybe later.”

I collapsed back onto my side. “That’s mean.”

He smiled and pulled a small black bag from the drawer. I remembered that black bag from our time together at the hotel. His toy bag. I shivered.

He said, “If you think that’s mean, I don’t know how you’ll manage what’s in store for you tonight.”

I shivered again. Delicious, my fear, the intensity in his eyes, the anticipation ... and the trust I felt in him.

He crawled into bed behind me and dropped the bag in front of me. After spooning up against my back, he put one arm under my head and the other around my waist, pulling me closer to him, nestling my butt against his hips.

He asked, “Are you cold?”

I closed my eyes at the pleasure of his smooth chest against my back. “No. I’m perfect.”

He kissed my ear. “You are.”

I sighed and found his hand, wrapped my fingers in his.

He lay his head down on the pillow behind my head while his free hand stroked up my side, then down over my hip and thigh. Soothing touch, thrilling, too, the gentleness of it, raising goosebumps on my arms.

He splayed his hand across my stomach and rubbed his way up to my breasts, where he cupped my flesh and tickled my nipples before moving down again, over to my hip and up again.

I was hypnotized by his touch, his roaming hand and fingers, the sound of his breathing mingling with the music, the warmth of skin on skin, the clean smell of the pillowcase, the spicy scent of my lover, the scent of my sex on his lips.

I floated, awed at how easily and quickly he aroused me. Already, a low burn gathered in my belly and pussy. My breasts tingled. My bitten lip began to pulse slowly.

He caressed me until I moaned and pushed my hips against him. He slid his hand over my bare mound, cradling me, making me want more. Then his hand traveled up over my hip and down over my ass, his fingers pushing between my thighs, seeking out the moisture in my slit. I lifted my upper leg slightly, to give him more access.

He swept his finger through my juices, then back toward my rear, between my ass cheeks, where he pressed the tip of his finger against my tight asshole.

I groaned. I couldn’t help it. Why couldn’t he keep his finger in my pussy where it belonged?

Gibson raised his head and kissed my neck. I shivered when he nibbled on my ear lobe.

He didn’t say a word, or stop nibbling at my ear, when he took his hand away from my rear and reached for the black bag. One handed, he opened the bag and pulled out a small bottle. I groaned again. Lubricant.

He made a quiet “shh” sound. He flipped open the bottle and passed it off into his other hand, which released my own hand to take the bottle. He squeezed some of the slippery liquid onto his finger.