“Open yourself for me,” he murmured. “Let me see you.”
“Gideon . . .”
He waited patiently and I knew that patience would hold. Whether it took me five minutes or five hours, he would wait for me. And that was why I trusted him. Because it was never a question of whether I would submit, but when I was ready to, and that was a decision he most often left to me.
I widened my stance and tried to slow the quickness of my breathing. Reaching down with both hands, I touched the lips of my sex and spread them, exposing my cl*t to the man it ached for.
Gideon straightened slowly. “You have such a pretty cunt, Eva.”
As he leaned closer, I held my breath. His hands lifted from his thighs, reaching for mine to hold me steady. “Don’t move,” he ordered.
Then he licked me in a leisurely glide.
“Oh God,” I moaned, my legs shaking.
“Sit down,” he said hoarsely, sliding to his knees on the floor as I obeyed.
The glass was cool against my bare bu**ocks, a sharp contrast to the heat of my skin. My arms stretched back, gripping the far edge of the table for balance as he pressed my thighs wide with his palms, splaying me open.
His breath was hot against my damp flesh, his focus fully on my sex. “You could be wetter.”
I watched, panting, as he lowered his head and wrapped his lips around my clit. The heat was searing, the lash of his tongue devastating. I cried out, wanting to writhe but held fast by his grip. My head fell back, my ears ringing with the rush of blood and the sound of Gideon’s groan. His tongue fluttered over the tight bundle of nerves, driving me relentlessly toward orgasm. My stomach tightened as the pleasure built, the soft silk of his hair brushing along my sensitive inner thighs.
A low moan escaped me. “I’m going to come,” I gasped. “Gideon . . . God . . . I’m going to come.”
He drove his tongue inside me. My elbows weakened, dropping me lower. His tongue f**ked into the clutching opening of my sex, stroking through the sensitive tissues, teasing me with a promise of the penetration I truly craved.
“Fuck me,” I begged.
Gideon pulled back, licking his lips. “Not here.”
I made a sound of protest as he stood, so close to orgasm I could taste it. He held his hand out to me, helped me straighten and then stand. When I wobbled, he caught me up, tossing me over his shoulder.
“Gideon!”
But then his hand was between my legs, massaging my wet, swollen sex, and I didn’t care how he carried me, as long as he got me someplace where he’d take me.
We reached the hallway and turned, then stopped too quickly to have reached his bedroom. I heard the doorknob turn and then the light flicked on.
We were in the bedroom that was mine. He set me down on my feet, facing him.
“Why here?” I asked. Maybe some men would head to the nearest bed, but Gideon had more control than that. If he wanted me in the second bedroom, he had a reason for it.
“Turn around,” he said quietly.
Something about his voice . . . the way he looked at me . . .
I looked over my shoulder.
And saw the swing.
—
IT wasn’t what I expected.
I’d looked up sex swings on the Internet when Gideon had first mentioned one. What I’d found were rickety things you hung from door frames, not-so-rickety things that hung from four-legged frames, and ones that hung from an eyebolt in the ceiling. All of them consisted of some combination of chains and/or straps that acted as slings for various body parts. Pictures of women actually harnessed in the damn things looked uncomfortable.
Honestly, I couldn’t see how anyone could get past the awkwardness and fear of collapse, let alone manage an orgasm.