Perilous Curves Collection (BBW Romance) (31 page)

His tongue darts out to run along the edge of his top teeth. "Are you this wet for all your lovers, Marie?"

I close my eyes, certain I will cry if I look at him any longer. He will discover the answer to his question all too soon. If I tell him before then, he might stop. As much as I might try to fool myself or Luke later, I don't want him to stop. My pussy hasn't unknotted, neither has any other muscle in my body. I am one thrumming, throbbing mass of need coiled tight and ready to burst.

He doesn't tell me to open my eyes as I expect him to. Instead, I feel his lips against my clit, the pressure so tentative I think he is deliberately testing my reaction. My mound lifts, my body yearning for more. He gives me more, running his tongue up the shaft and then angling his head to seal his mouth hot against my flesh.

He sucks. The room fills with the soft, moist sounds of his devouring me. His thumbs trail down my needy slit to find the entrance of my cunt. Feather light strokes moving in opposite directions tease its rim until my moans join, then smother, his audible sucking.

My hands, frozen at my sides since he finished undressing me, shoot down. I wind my fingers in his thick dark curls and groan. Luke lifts his head against my hands, as if letting me know he realizes just how very much I am enjoying his efforts.

I look across the swell of my stomach to find him watching my face. Another acknowledgement flickers across the brown irises and then his eyes shut. His head sinks lower, allowing his tongue to make its first, exploratory push inside me. My fingers straighten against his skull and I wantonly push against the crown of his head. He nuzzles closer, the bristles of his beard brushing against the sensitive flesh of my pussy and thighs.

Cunt contracting, I gasp.

Luke pulls back. Wet lips press against my thighs. His teeth gently dent my flesh as he leaves a love bite on each. Fingers stroke the shaft of my clit then slide to where my pussy weeps with need. A finger pushes in, my flesh crazy-sensitive and jerking in response.

"How many lovers have you had, Marie?"

I can hear the slight unease that tinges his voice -- as if he knows the answer and it bothers him. I wonder why he cares -- will my lack of lovers make him stop? Does it make me even less attractive or does he have a conscience buried somewhere beneath his carefully controlled façade?

"None-of-your-business." Each word is a labor to expel because he hasn't stopped slowly stroking his thick finger inside me.

"You're very narrow, baby." He eases a second finger in and traces the edge of something, not the outer perimeter but a very tender inner circle just an inch or so inside me. "You have had a lover, haven't you?"

"Of course," I bite out. My body betrays the lie with a squeeze against his fingers. I shut my eyes, praying he didn't notice.

"How many?" He pushes a little deeper, finding another sensitive spot against the roof of my cunt. He takes a little come-hither stroke inside me that curls my toes and makes answering him impossible. "I can tell it's no more than a few."

Another stroke and I almost pass out.

His lips return to my clit and the sweet suckling restarts. Licking, nibbling, he waits until he had driven me back to the point of distraction before he murmurs softly against my labia, "I bet your brother knows."

He wouldn't really do something like that, would he?

"Don't--" I start.

"Then tell me." His fingers slide back to the inner ring and trace its edge. "Two?"

"Yes…two. " My cunt gives another damning squeeze and I throw my hands over my face. "Please stop asking me questions."

"Mmmm..." His tongue dips back down, filling and stretching my hole as he pushes deeper. With one big hand across my mound, he presses his thumb against the shaft of my clit, just above the hood and the tender glans it holds.

He rubs a tight, continuous circle, bullying the sensitive pearl just below the hard press of his thumb. His tongue fucks in and out. My hips take up the rhythm, my hands returning to his head. Arousal takes control of my muscles, leaving me helpless to stop the unintentional scrape of my fingernails along his scalp as my fingers curl.

Small mewling sounds contort through my throat, shaming me with how quickly I have capitulated yet again. I shake my head, dislodging the shame. His fingers and tongue feel too good -- a hundred times better than my rushed efforts to draw out a quick climax in the shower or the rare moments I have the apartment to myself.

Tension building higher than I can hope to control, something flips inside me. I slam my head against the pillow, my hips pushing high up off the mattress. I grab two handfuls of Luke's hair, worried his sweet mouth will abandon my cunt before I climax.

"Don't stop," I plead softly, the words almost breathless. "Please."

Luke groans against me, inside me, the strokes and rubs of his tongue and thumb dominating my body and mind. He flicks, nibbles, and then I am spiraling down, plummeting hard into my release. He stays with me through every twitch and roll, every shake and shudder, his strokes and thrusts coming faster, more insistent until I collapse to the mattress in a quivering mess.

My pussy throbs with hard contractions around his immobile fingers and even that threatens to set me off a second time. I am sated and insatiable, satisfied yet ready for more. I wiggle restlessly against his fingers and begin to bite my bottom lip.

A plea of
fuck me, fuck me, fuck me
rolls through my mind and echoes across my body, but the words won't leave my mouth. Wanting, undeserving, I can only wait for his next command.

Surging up my body, Luke captures my head, his fingers knotting in my hair with the same possessive intensity with which I just held his. His tongue invades the deeper recesses of my mouth, the curling licks almost as pleasurable as the ones he took inside and against my pussy. His thick cock pushes against my mound and wedges my labia apart.

Small advances and retreats of his body force the shaft up and down my clit. My hands find his hips and fasten around them. I want to cry -- from pleasure, from confusion, from the dozen different emotions whipping through me.

It's not as if I live a sheltered life. I know about sex. I have viewed it on television and in movies, heard its sounds through thin walls, interrupted its early stages far too often in separating Rose from her latest boyfriend when she was a teenager.

But, whatever the medium, I have only and always been the outsider, the viewer, the listener -- until now.

Luke brushes his thumbs across my cheeks then kisses each one in turn. I realize my desire to cry has progressed to actual tears.

"Are you afraid, Marie?"

He sounds concerned again, like he will stop if I admit I am afraid. He has no right to sound tender and gentle. He has blackmailed me into this bed. I shut my eyes, more tears falling as I struggle with my arousal and anger.

His mouth finds my ear, his hand caressing a path down my body. His fingers smooth over my mound then slide inside me once more. I squeeze around him, thighs tightening, hips lifting. A fresh moan curls its way past my lips and I give a little upward pump against his fingers.

I haven't answered Luke's question, but he has ways to make me talk. I don't even have to open my mouth to tell him everything he needs to know.

Afraid or not, I want him.

He rolls onto his side, his hands and mouth leaving me. I suppress the traitorous whine scratching at my throat as I roll with him. I pull my legs up, my arms protectively covering my breasts.

Seeing me curl in a fetal position, Luke smiles. His attempt to flatten the expression turns it wry, just the corners of his generous lips flipping upward. Blinking, he turns away and sits up.

I study his back. Light olive brown and muscled, it makes my fingers itch with the need to stroke the supple flesh. I roll my lips in appreciation, my gaze jumping, as he extends his arm and opens the drawer on the nightstand next to the bed.

I don't pay the slightest attention to the drawer or his interest in its contents. My attention whispers along the slight turning of his narrow waist, the glimpse of his firm, shapely ass as he leans forward, the flex of his shoulder and biceps as he reaches into the drawer.

Mesmerizing.

Withdrawing his hand, Luke places an object on the nightstand.

Seeing the object, I freeze then thaw just long enough to shake my head. Whatever that black, rubbery column of three balls of increasing size is called, it is not going in me. I don't care which direction or which hole. It isn't going in. Period.

Looking from that thing to Luke's face, I see his wry smile split a little wider. He breaks it with a lick of his bottom lip then reaches back into the drawer. He pulls out something I recognize -- a leather flogger, its suede strips cascading over the edge of the nightstand. I press my lips together, my gaze narrowing to ensure my entire face is tightly locked down in disapproval.

"Which part of complete submission don't you understand, Marie?"

There is a tease to his voice, playful and sexy, but I am not about to be suckered in by it or by that charming lift of one brow or the way his eyes glitter when he looks at me. Those are just the effects of light and acoustics and--

My brain comes to a full stop as he pulls out a third item -- something that looks like a metal antenna but narrower and without the little knob at top.

I suck a breath in, the air entering me with a choked, wheezy cry. I blink, my eyes shuttering and opening a couple dozen times in the space of a few seconds as every muscle in my body constricts defensively.

"Marie..." Luke drops the rigid strip of metal and lightly rests his hand against my cheek.

I pull back. He knows how to please a woman, I have no doubt on that point, but that switch, or whatever it is, has nothing to do with pleasure.

"Is it this?" Bending down, he retrieves the rod from where it landed on the floor.

I flinch. His sharp gaze catches my reaction and he slowly brings the tip to rest against my cheek. His eyes narrow in concentration and he moves the switch a fraction of an inch to the right. I know what he is studying so intently. The line of the scar is thin and faint, undetectable with makeup on, but I am not wearing makeup.

"What happened here?" He strokes the tip of the switch over the scar.

I close my eyes. I don't want to talk about it. I won't.

My expression must reflect unrelenting obstinacy because he orders me to roll over. He guides me with a hand on my shoulder until I am flat on my stomach. His hands brush the hair from my back and then his fingers gently explore my flesh. He takes his first long pause at the bottom edge of my left shoulder blade. I screw my eyes more tightly shut, trying not to remember the way my father's belt strap cut into me once as I tried to run.

Luke's fingers resume their slow walk down my spine. He leans closer, his breath light and warm against the center of my back as he inspects two more faded scars. Same belt, different nights. Pressing my face deeper into the pillow, I clench my right hand in a fist.

"Show me your hand."

Nothing escapes his attention it would seem. Trying to comply, I lift my left hand and press it to his chest.

"Not the one I want." His soft, tender voice reminds me for a moment of my mother despite the clear masculine timbre. Resting his arm across my bottom, he strokes the tense lines of my fist.

I refuse to relax the hand. He sighs, the heat of his breath sending a shiver up my spine. Retreating, he strokes my shoulder and tells me again to roll over. I raise my face just enough from the pillow to speak.

"If you stop your inventory." My emotions too raw to look at him, I hide my face against the pillow once more.

He strokes my back. "Show me your hand and I will."

I shake my head, the motion lost in the down-filled pillow.

"Roll over." Nothing soft remains in his voice. This is a command, calm but resolute. He won't let go of the issue until I obey.

I roll over. The movement brings my right hand to his side of the bed. I feel as transparent as a child in trouble, but I cannot help tucking it beneath me, the palm open and flat against the mattress.

"Look at me, Marie."

I answer with another shake of my head. I am afraid of what I will see -- pity or a sadistic monster getting off on my prior pain. Either is unacceptable. Feeling Luke move, I brace against his anger even though he has yet to explode in my presence.

He drapes an arm across my chest as his weight settles onto the bed and his body sinks toward me. His lips press lightly against one shoulder while his fingers stroke the other. "The scar on your cheek is from some kind of metal rod."

I clamp my lips together. I don't want to discuss my childhood, my scars or the man who gave them to me.

Luke redirects his focus from my shoulders to my head. He brushes his chin against my ear, his hand cradling the other side of my face. "There are no abuse reports because your father kept the three of you out of school and never stopped moving."

I screw my face tighter. Shifting, Luke covers me with his body. His arms support his weight so that I feel only the animal heat radiating from his skin and the reassuring bulk of his cock and balls as they settle against the Y of my clenched thighs.