Play Me Real (7 page)

And she does. She takes it all, burning me alive with each silky glide of her tongue, each warm pull of her mouth. Again and again I thrust deep, again and again she takes me until I know that if I don’t pull out now I’m going to come before I ever get inside her.

But as I start to pull her up and away, she presses herself against me, sucks me deep, mutters a protest deep in her throat. Her words are unintellig
ible, but the rhythm of them send shock waves from one end of my cock to the other. My heart slams against my chest and I thrust helplessly into her mouth.

The need to come is urgent, the desire to empty myself into her mouth so intense that it shakes me to my very core. But at the same time, I don’t want this to end. I want to stay here, in this moment, connected to this beautiful woman forever.

I thrust against her, watch as I slide in and out of her red, swollen lips. I do it again, long and slow and deep, then nearly come as she moans. I start to pull out—I’m so close that it won’t take much to send me over—but Aria just sucks me deeper. Runs her tongue up and down and around my dick in a rhythm that has my eyes crossing and my balls aching for relief. I’m on the brink now, orgasm threatening with every strangled breath I manage to pull into my lungs.

Just when I’m ready to say to hell with it and come, she pulls off.

“Fuck! What are you—” I pull on her hair, try to get her mouth back where it fucking belongs as agony rips through me, but she resists. Pulls back sharply against my hold.

I let go instantly, not sure if this is some game she’s playing or if she really wants me to stop. Either way, I hold my hands up and wait to see what she wants, what she’s asking for.

Aria pauses for a moment, licking her lips and watching me through her lashes. “Baby. Are you okay? What do you—”

My voice breaks as she leans forward again, runs her tongue up and down my length in whisper-soft strokes that nearly make me insane.

I jerk against her, every muscle in my body tightening as I lose all control over my body—and the situation. In these moments, I know that Aria is taking me as surely as I’m taking her, taking everything I have, everything I am. The knowledge nearly throws me over the edge once and for all, even as it chills me.

“I want to fuck you,” I tell her, and my voice is hoarse, needy, as desperate as it’s ever been. “I need to come. I need—”

She leans back again. Runs her tongue over her lips. Licks the pre-cum leaking from me with the tip of her tongue. “I want you to come,” she whispers, licking her lips once, twice, before leaning forward to run her mouth over me once again.

This time she licks over my balls, strokes a spot right behind them that has my eyes crossing and my knees going weak. And then she’s telling me to come, her voice low and breathless as she pulls me deep into her mouth.

It’s too much—her mouth on my cock, her body pressed against my legs, her words in my head as the tables turn abruptly. I try to pull away, try to regain control—and the upper hand—but it’s too late. Aria has me down her throat, her tongue stroking the underside of my cock even as she sucks until control is a distant memory.

And then she hums one final time and the ensuing vibrations send me right over the edge of a very high, very jagged cliff. With a shout that is half-curse, half-prayer, I give myself over to Aria—and to the most amazing orgasm of my life—as I empty myself down her throat in long, pulsing jets.

Sebastian slumps forward, rests his head on the wall behind me. For long seconds, the only sound in the room is that of his ragged breathing as he sucks in air through his open mouth. He’s still shaking a little, his body trembling with aftershocks, and I turn my head, rest my cheek against his thigh so I can feel them better. And so that I can kiss him, softly, bring him down the same way he did to me.

This is the first time that I’ve seen him vulnerable when we’ve had sex. The first time I feel like I’ve opened him up the way he so easily does me. Though I enjoy being tied up, I wish my hands were free right now. I’d love to be able to hold him, to stroke and touch and pet him the way he does to me.

The way I so desperately think he needs right now.

I settle for brushing soft kisses against his thighs, his stomach. His cock.

After a minute, his hand comes to rest on my head, his fingers burrowing through my hair. It feels nice, this whole thing feels nice despite the fact that my body is still totally hyped up with the need to come.

But my brain is still ringing with everything he told me earlier, about Dylan and his father and Nico Valducci. Nico Valducci. There’s a name I never thought I’d have to hear again.

Just the thought of him turns my stomach, cools the need still jangling along my nerve endings. At least until Sebastian’s fingers tighten in my hair and yank my head up and back.

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me out of eyes that are such a dark forest green that they look almost black.

“Sebastian?” I ask, watching his eyes widen at how hoarse I sound. I’m not sure what he expects when he just spent the last twenty minutes giving my tonsils a hell of a polishing. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer, just pulls me against his chest. I go—of course I go—partly because I want to and partly because my hands are still tied behind my back and I can’t do anything else.

He kisses me then, fast and hard and frantic. Lips and teeth and tongue meeting, stroking, melding with mine. Delving deep inside my mouth, sliding over my cheek, my tongue, the roof of my mouth. Like he wants to explore—wants to claim—every single part of me.

With any other guy I’d be running for the hills right now, but with Sebastian it feels right.

Feels right to let him claim me.

Feels right to let him touch me, taste me,
take
me any way that he wants to.

Already, that sweet lassitude is creeping over me, pulling at me until it’s hard to think. Hard to choose. Hard to do anything but accept what Sebastian wants to give me.

I fought it earlier when I was on my knees because I wanted to give him as much pleasure as I could. I wanted to make him feel half as good as he always makes me feel.

But now, with Sebastian all but plundering my mouth, with thoughts of Nico Valducci and Dylan and the absolute, utter unpredicta
bility of fate racing through my head, I don’t want to be clear. Don’t want to be perfectly lucid. I’d much rather sink into the softness, into the strange, floaty feeling that Sebastian brings out in me with just a kiss, a touch, a
look
.

Air is becoming a problem, but I don’t care. I keep my head tilted and my mouth open for him so that he can take and take and take.

And he does. Oh, God, he does.

He
plunders
me. And I love every second of it.

He kisses me until my mouth is sore. Until my lips are swollen. Until my jaw aches and I don’t have the energy to do much more than move my lips gently against his own. And then he kisses me some more.

His hands come up, cup my still naked breasts. He toys with my nipples, pinching them hard enough to get my attention but not hard enough to hurt. I arch my back, push against his hands, trying to get more pressure. Trying to make it hurt, to make it sting just a little.

But he won’t give it to me.

He won’t do anything but rub a gentle finger around my areola.

Flick his thumb softly across my nipple.

Nip lightly at my lower lip.

“Sebastian?” His name is a question on my lips, a plea that I don’t know how to vocalize. He’s not giving me what I want but in this moment, when my brain is sluggish and my body feels like it’s drowning in sweet, sweet syrup, I don’t know how to ask for what I need.

I arch toward him again, push my breasts more firmly into his chest. Rub myself against him. Mutter soft pleas into his ear. And wait for him to understand—for him to give me what I’m dying for.

But the closer I get to him, the more he pulls back until our only point of contact is his mouth on mine and his finger against my breast. He’s stroking me now, his hand gliding softly, sweetly over the underside of my breast.

It’s not what I want, what I need, and I whimper in real distress.

“What’s wrong, baby? Doesn’t that feel good?”

It does, of course it does—every
thing Sebastian does to me feels good—but it’s not enough. Not close to being enough.

“Please.” I bite at his mouth, suck his lower lip between my teeth. He stiffens, lets me have my way for one brief second, two. And then he pulls away.

“Please,” I say again, so desperate for his touch that I’m begging now. Chanting, “Please, please, please,” in a broken voice I barely recognize as my own.

He laughs a little, then—final
ly—pinches my nipple. Quick and hard and just a little painful. Exactly as I like it. Fireworks go off behind my eyes, and I sink deeper into the lassitude, deeper into the warm and sticky syrup that pulls at me on a soul-deep level.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, his breath hot against my ear as he finally relinquishes his claim on my mouth.

“Yes,” I tell him.

“This?” he asks again, squeezing my nipple a little harder than he did before.

“Yes.” God, yes. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Or do you want this?” He grabs my nipple, twists it and I scream a little as the pain melts into the most wonderful pleasure.

“Yes,” I breathe, so far gone that I don’t even think to temper my response. This is all new to me—the way he’s touching me, the way I’m responding to the little shocks of pain with overwhelming, awe-inspiring pleasure. I didn’t even know I wanted this before Sebastian, didn’t have a clue what the right touch could do to my body. And now—now I can’t imagine what it would be like not to have this.

Not to have him.

He moves his hand to my other breast, follows the same pattern—pinch, squeeze, twist—with my right nipple that he did with my left. I cry out, call his name again, but he just laughs. Does it again. And when my body sags against his, he takes the weight for several long, delicious seconds before he backs away again.

For the second time tonight, I wish my arms were free. If they were, I’d wrap myself around him, pull him close, touch him anywhere and everywhere. Claim his body the way he’s claimed mine again and again and again.

He drops his mouth to my collarbone then, sucks hard at the delicate skin at the base of my throat. There’s no pain this time, yet when he lifts his head, eyes dark with satisfaction, I know he’s left a bruise right below the hollow of my throat.

But when I turn my head, bare the other side for him, he moves away again. Spins me around so that I’m facing away from him just as I was the first night he made love to me.

And then his mouth is on my shoulder, sucking another love bite into the skin right over my shoulder blade.

He drops to his knees, leaves another bruise on my rib cage.

My hip.

The soft skin at the inside of my elbow.

Again and again he marks me. Again and again, I let him. Until I’m covered with bruises. With hickeys. With marks of Sebastian’s possession.

And that’s what this is, I realize. Sebastian is marking me. Branding me. Claiming me.

The thought sends heat straight through me in such a rush that my knees buckle and I know I would have fallen if Sebastian hadn’t been there to catch me.

But he is here—of course he is. He steadies me with one hand on my hip and another on my rib cage. And then he begins to stroke me, his long, calloused fingers tracing the line of my hip, the curve of my ass, the slight bumps of each individual rib.

With each touch, I get more turned on. With each touch, I fall more under his spell.

Until all I can see or smell or taste or hear or
feel
is him.

Until all I want is him.

Until all I
know
is him.

By the time he’s done, my body is boneless, pliant, completely at his mercy. And he knows it. He takes advantage of it, touching and kissing, biting and licking me everywhere. Everywhere.

My breasts.

My back.

My stomach.

My hips.

My thighs.

My interlocked fingers.

My ass.

And finally, my sex.

He shoves his fingers inside me, pulls them out. Thrusts back in again. Pulls them out. Slides back in. Then out. All the time, he’s circling my clit with his thumb, kissing my lower back, running his tongue along the seam of my ass. Sending me into sensory overload until my body trembles right on the brink.

I’m almost there, moments from tipping over the edge. “Please, Sebastian, please,” I tell him as he strokes my clit once, twice. “I need—”

“What?” he asks, as he slides a finger along my ass before pushing between the cheeks and rubbing gently at my anus.

“You,” I tell him on a broken breath. It’s so close I can taste it, can already feel the pleasure sweeping through my body. “I need you.”

And just that quickly, he’s gone. His mouth. His hands. His body. All removed from me as I stand in the middle of his living room, alone. Shaking with a need I can’t begin to appease. Can’t begin to control.

I turn my head, try to get him to meet my eyes, but he’s up already, walking away. “What’s wrong?” I ask, when I can finally force the words out of my aching throat. “Why’d you stop?”

“I’m thirsty,” he answers and I watch in disbelief as he fills a glass with ice. Then adds water. And finishes with a twist of lime. He takes a long sip, then holds the glass up. “Would you like some?” he offers.

Would I like— “No. I’m fine.” I wait for him to return to me, to pick up where he left off, but he stays where he is. Slowly drains the glass of water. Pours himself a second one.

I don’t understand what’s going on here, but my brain is still too fuzzy for me to think clearly. I try to figure it out anyway, but there’s no viable explanation. Nothing that makes any sense except that maybe he really is thirsty.

And so I wait, head bowed, body trembling, arms still tied behind my back. I wait and I wait and I wait for what feels like hours. For what feels like forever.

Eventually, he finishes the second glass of water. I know because I hear the clink of the glass as he puts it down on the granite. Hear the sound of his feet brushing against the thick carpet. And then, finally, hear his breathing—slow and rich and steady—inches from my left ear.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers to me as he reaches a hand out to caress my cheek. “So goddamn beautiful sometimes it hurts just to look at you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him even as I lean my face into his touch. “It’s all just genetics.”