wants to hear. He wants me to tell him about my need to feel in control. About how I need to surrender it to him—I need to give it, rather than having it ripped from me. He wants to hear me speak about fear, and about how submitting to him is our way of giving me back control and battling the nightmares that these horrible photos will unlock.
And all of that is true.
But there is one reason that is more so.
“Because I love you.”
He closes his eyes and draws a long, deep breath. And his cock, already hard against my abdomen, pushes almost painfully against me.
I’d worn a dress to work today, and the low neckline dips to a V between my breasts. He draws his fingers down over the swell of my breasts, following the path of material and flesh. His eyes are on mine, as blue and deep as the sea.
“Mine.” The word is hard and harsh and full of passion and power. And in one bold, wild move, he fists his hands into the material, and rips the dress open, exposing my breasts and my stomach, all the way down to the band of my thong.
I gasp. I’d liked that dress, but I like this feeling—wild and abandoned and taken by Jackson—a hell of a lot more. And right now, I’m certain that I have never been so wet and so aroused in my life.
He strokes my breasts, finding and releasing the front clasp of my bra. He pushes the cups to the side, exposing me, then takes a single step back from me, breaking contact.
His eyes skim me, and I shiver from the slow inspection. “You’re so lovely.” His voice is rapturous, and there is something about such tender words said in a wild moment, that makes the words that much sweeter.
Sweet, however, isn’t what Jackson wants or what I need, and I am breathing hard when he puts his hand on my shoulder and urges me down until I am on my knees in front of him.
I know what he wants—hell, I know what I want. My wrists are still bound, but my fingers are free, and I manage to unbutton the top, then tug down the zipper on his jeans. I free his cock, hard and thick like velvet-encased steel, then use my tongue to tease up the length of him, all the way to the tip and the salty drop of pre-cum. My cunt clenches as I taste him, and my nipples—already tight with need—are almost begging for attention.
“Go on, baby.” His voice is raw, and I know that he needs this as much as I do. He needs it hot. Wild. But most of all, he needs us. “Suck my cock.”
The command, spoken with such precision and force, seems to ricochet through me, all the more powerful because those were the same words that Jackson said to me on his lot in the Palisades the day he told me that I couldn’t fight my nightmares unless I gave up control and submitted.
And that is exactly what I’m doing now.
I take him in, just a little at first. Teasing and tasting. Sliding my tongue along its length. Teasing the tip, then drawing him in. Playing and sucking and finding a rhythm that has his hands fisting in my hair and rough noises of pleasure escaping his throat. And though this started with the illusion that I have some control over this moment, that is all that it is—an illusion. Because soon enough, he has me at his mercy, and instead of me teasing him, he is fucking my mouth. Going deeper and harder until I have to concentrate to breathe. To take him in. Because I cannot move back or adjust, I can only submit to him and to this supremely intimate moment.
I’ve never really loved giving head, but this is different. Hotter. Wilder. I’m subjugating myself for his pleasure, and that is strangely powerful, and supremely arousing. I’m so desperate for him. But not to fuck—not yet. Instead, I want him to take this all the way. I want to feel him explode. To have him lose his grip completely.
I want that bite of pain when the fingers he has twined in my hair tighten. When he loses all reason and simply lets go.
Most of all, I want to know that I am the one who caused that.
I can tell that he is close—his body is tight and stiff, his cock throbbing