Xtraordinary (16 page)

He pushed the dress up over her hips, exposing all of her to him. With the edge of his thumbnails, he traced a firm line from her hipbones, over her ass cheeks, down the back of her thighs as though tracing the seam in a pair of stockings. Every inch of the way, it was as though an invisible thread connected her skin to the center of her body, longing and need emanating out in concentric circles. She collapsed on her forearms, her will giving way to her need.

Ricardo growled his pleasure. He kneaded the flesh at the crook of her knees with his thumbs, and she responded by moving her hips, the dance of her desire begging him closer.

“You are so swollen,” he murmured. His face was inches from her pussy, her ass; she longed for him to take those dexterous thumbs and plunge them inside her, to stroke her clit, to rub her tight asshole. But he did none of those things, just massaged her as though he was trying to bring her knees to orgasm.

And she began to think it might actually be possible.

“Little
niñita
…what shall I do with you now?” he mused.

Chelsea shivered at the possibilities. As much as they had done together so far, she knew they had only scratched the surface. Perhaps he would tie her. Perhaps he would whip her. Perhaps he would introduce her to degradations and humiliations she hadn't yet imagined.

But despite the hard ache, the desperate desire for him, after the anxiety and danger of the last few days, she knew that none of those would be enough. Not unless he took her the one way he hadn't yet.

He had never fucked her pussy, never spilled his seed deep inside her.

“Y-you say you own me,” she whispered, forcing out the words between chattering teeth. “But you've never made me completely yours. You've done things to me, and with me. But I need...” She pressed her face to the arm of the couch, feeling more vulnerable than she ever had in her life. “I need it all. Everything.”

His hands stilled on her calves. He didn't speak. Neither of them moved; the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the air conditioner, a vacuum cleaner running out in the hallway.

If he rejected her, she would live. He had warned her from the start that he couldn't be with her. But in the past twenty-four hours they both could have been killed. He had lost a friend and she had lost the security of her former life. That changed everything, didn't it?

The silence and stillness continued so long that Chelsea was sure that the answer was no. Finally, Ricardo placed his hand flat on the small of her back and gently pushed her down so that her knees were tucked under her. He got up, took her hands and guided her so she was sitting up.

Her face was at a level with his cock, and as she stared at the intimidating bulge under the fine fabric, he ran his hand over it, cupping his balls and stroking his shaft. She looked up into his eyes, and there was no hesitation there.

“Beg me,” he muttered.

A thrill raced through her. Perhaps another woman, baring her soul to the man she was falling in love with, would need gentle entreaties and promises of fidelity, sweet nothings and butterfly kisses.

That was not what Chelsea needed.

His words cut to the core of her, searing the blood in her veins, causing electric sensations to race down every nerve, swelling her nipples. She moaned with need and pleasure; she could reach climax from his words alone, from the vibration of his vocal chords, the change in the air when he breathed it.

Slap
. His hand glanced off her face, hard enough to knock her head sideways. The shock of it—he'd
hit
her!—was quickly followed by blood rushing to her face and a nearly uncontrollable urge…for
more
.

“I said
beg
me, whore. Beg for it. Show me how you need me to fuck your tight little cunt. Show me what a slut you are, tell me all your filthy needs.”

Before he finished speaking, she was sliding off the sofa to her knees, clasping her hands in entreaty. “Please,” she whispered, “Please sir, please use me, please shove your cock inside me and ride me, ram me…”

His cock was right there, straining against the fabric, impossible to resist. She reached for his belt buckle and hesitated, wondering if he would hit her again for her audacity…wondering if she wanted him to.

But he seized the buckle and yanked it open with such force that the leather end whipped against her cheek. The sharp, focused pain was different from his open hand but just as arousing, and she turned her face upwards.

“You like that, don't you,” he murmured. He shoved his pants down, freeing his cock, which swayed toward her as though it had a mind of its own. His throbbing length was beautifully veined and sculpted, the smooth tip glistening with pre-cum, tapering to his gorgeous tight balls, his muscular thighs. He wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked it once, twice, throwing his head back and groaning.

Then his hand was in her hair again, seizing a fistful and yanking her face down onto his cock. She barely had time to open her mouth as he plunged inside her. There was no warming up, no tentative strokes to get a rhythm going: just her throat and his cock filling it, jamming hard, forcing her.

She could feel her eyes tearing up, her gag reflex protesting the massive bulk of him, but he was unrelenting. She tongued greedily at the underside of his shaft and reached for his balls, cupping them in her palm, feeling their heaviness. “More,” she tried to beg, and though the word was unintelligible, her meaning was anything but, and Ricardo pumped his hips against her.

The sensation of her hair being pulled from her scalp was sharp and intensely painful, the feeling of the slick head of his cock forcing its way down her throat a blunted urgency. She was intensely aware of the thick carpet under her knees, the earthy scent of him, the jangle of his belt buckle every time he thrust. The taste of the precious drops of his seed made her crave more, and she milked him with her mouth, feeling her throat giving way, opening itself to the unfamiliar pressure, taking him deeper, deeper until her face pressed against his dense, curling hairs, his firm muscular abdomen.

Abruptly he released her hair pushed her away, hard enough that she fell back against the couch, her mouth glistening with her saliva and his slick pre-cum.

“
Diablada
,” he snapped. “Not so fast. I am nowhere near ready to spill in you. Were you trying to make me?”

“No, no, I—”

He grabbed her hand and twisted her wrist back on itself, sending an intense pain shooting up her arm, making her cry out. When he didn't release the pressure, she twisted away from him, her arm up behind her and her chest pressed against the couch. He released her wrist and shoved her down on the couch with his hand between her shoulder blades, pressing her face into the soft fabric.

“I come when
I'm
ready,” he growled. “It's not your call.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, her words muffled by the couch cushion. She didn't dare lift her head, but she was incredibly aroused at the way he was handling her. Using her.

Every stinging slap, every crushing squeeze, only intensified her need for more. For the first time, she wondered how much she could take. Her safe word,
magnolia
, was available for her at any moment. All she had to do was utter it and she knew that Ricardo would instantly stop. For some reason, the further he pushed her, the
more
she trusted him.

In fact, it seemed to her that the trust ran both ways, that as Ricardo took her further and further, the path he was following was his own emotional connection to her. Did he love her? Maybe not, not yet—but intuitively Chelsea understood that he had gone further with her than with any other woman.

The fire between them was rare.

It was also irresistible.

He pushed the coffee table out of the way as though it was made of Styrofoam, then knelt behind her and shoved his hands roughly between her legs, forcing them apart. Then he grabbed the hem of the dress and pulled. Her arms were yanked back as the fabric ripped and slid off of her, and Ricardo tossed it aside like trash.

Now she was naked, her hair mussed and knotted, her face slick with their sweat and saliva. If she had any makeup on, it would be streaked across her cheeks, but Chelsea hadn't been home in days, and home itself seemed like a concept that was part of another lifetime. All that existed was the two of them: this ethereal place, the sooty twilight outside the windows, his cock pressing against her hip as Ricardo pulled his own shirt off, then tossed it to join her dress.

She was as vulnerable as she'd ever been, her parted legs exposing her ass and pussy to him, her arms cradling her head on the couch. Very lightly, Ricardo traced the outer lips of her labia, feathering his fingertips in an oval from one end to the other. He dipped one fingertip lightly between, then used it to paint on her back with her own fluids. “You're so wet for me,
putita
,” he breathed. “You gush for me, don't you?”

She nodded, murmuring her assent.

“Late at night, when you are alone, you touch yourself, thinking about me. About my cock, ramming you, taking you. Don't you?”

“I do,” she moaned because it was true. So many nights she'd woken to dreams of him, slick with the fever of her longing, and found relief imagining it was him who touched her, rubbed her, plunged inside her. But it was never enough. She could never fuck herself as hard as he took her; could never coax the sensations he could command just with a look, a word.

“Fuck the couch,” he ordered, continuing to stroke her softly, now and then interrupting the rhythm to slip his finger in and out, in and out. She rocked against him, trying to force him to take her harder, but he was maddeningly imperturbable. Didn't he feel what she did—the same urgency, the same need? She tried to twist around, thinking she might touch him, guide him inside her, but he pushed her back.

“Stop it,” he said, “unless you want to be restrained.”

She fell against the couch, resigned to his torment, and then replayed his words in her mind.

Unless she wanted…

He had restrained her before, and it hadn't been meant as a punishment. Now he was dangling the threat before her…taunting her…tempting her. A small smile crept onto her mouth.

She was his to use, his to own. But maybe, just sometimes, she was a
bad
girl.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Chelsea twisted again and grabbed for his cock, barely brushing its hard, throbbing surface before he grabbed her wrist. She held her breath, waiting for him to bend it again, but though the pressure of his fingers dug into her flesh, he didn't repeat the punishing maneuver.

“Really?” he mused, his voice low and throaty. “Is that how it's going to be?”

She kept her face down so he couldn't see the excitement in her eyes. She was as shocked at her behavior as he was…but it felt so
right
.

She darted out her other hand, through her legs, trying to reach him that way. This time she got her hand around his shaft for a second before he jumped to his feet, yanking her with him.

“
That
,” he breathed, “will not go uncorrected twice.” He kicked his pants off the rest of the way, leaving him completely and gloriously naked. Then he started toward the bedroom, dragging her with him.

He did not go slowly and he did not wait for her to keep up. She crawled awkwardly, but with only her knees and one hand, it was impossible to keep pace, and she ended up being dragged the last few feet. The rug burned the skin of her knees, and her arm felt like it would be pulled from its socket, but her excitement only mounted.

The suite's bedroom was nearly as large as the living room. She had time only to register the night sky through the wall of windows, the lights of the buildings twinkling like a million tiny stars, before Ricardo picked her up and dumped her unceremoniously on the bed.

“Be still,” he snapped, before turning to a leather valise that lay open on the luggage stand.

She dared a glance around the room at the modern, sleek furnishings, the heavy draperies pulled open, the paintings decorating the walls. Very expensive, very tasteful…but anonymous. This was not home, this was only another way station in her lover's unknowable life. There were no clues to follow here.

She would have to learn him by other means.

She returned her attention to what Ricardo was removing from the carryall. This time, it wasn't red scarves or clothespins; in his hands was a coil of slippery, thick rope glinting with silver threads.

“This is made of silk and cotton,” Ricardo said as he picked up her wrist and looped it around, then began tying her to one of the smooth slats in the headboard, leaning over so he could position her near the center. “It has its advantages. Its only disadvantage is that it is extremely hard to find and very expensive.” He gave his knot an experimental tug; it held fast. “However, it lends itself to some rather elaborate shibari techniques, which I don't have the patience to execute or even discuss right now.”

He took her other wrist and bound it to the first, working quickly, passing the ends in and out until a network of knots secured around her wrists and forearms.

Then he stood back and regarded his work. “Lovely,” he said. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered.

“You won't be for long.”

He reached for another length of rope and formed a loop at the end. Then he spread her legs with his hand, exposing her drenched slit, her swollen pink lips.

“Can you keep your legs still without being bound, I wonder?”

Chelsea didn't dare express her disappointment at the question. It wasn't his mercy she wanted.

“Make me,” she said before she was even aware of forming the thought.

“Make you?”

“Make me…force me. Please.”

One eyebrow quirked up. “My little
niñita
is learning to beg.”