“Bend over the chair,” he fairly snarled. “Before this goes any further, I’ll know for certain. Trust me, Courtney, you don’t want me to take you if you are.”
“Oh really, Ian…”
“Now!” The crack of his voice had her shuddering. Dominant, harsh, riding the edge of control. But not out of control. He was determined to hold part of himself back, to maintain a distance with her that she knew she would never survive.
Inside, she was trembling violently, fighting not to beg for his kiss, his touch, for so much more than she knew he was willing to give at the moment. She would have gladly bent over him for him, if it were more than an experiment, a furious test that he felt she would fail.
“I do not think so, Ian,” she snapped right back at him instead. “I am not a puppet for you to command, nor am I a toy for you to tease and taunt as you please. I could get better than this from a gigolo on any street corner.”
She turned on her heel and strode to the door, anger tightening her body. Not even a kiss. He had not even kissed her, caressed her, given her so much as indication that he desired more than just the pu**y that he believed still yet maintained its purity. Bastard. She would be damned if she would bend over for him.
“Walk out that door, Courtney, and you may as well forget sharing my bed, at any time.”
“As though your bed is what I am after,” she snorted as she paused, turning back to him, knowing well the lights from the foyer now bathed her body. “Poor Ian. The highest of all Trojans. The master of The Club, dominant extraordinaire. How sad it is that you would allow something as trifling as the suspicion of virginity to stand between you and the hunger I know eats at you. Eats at me. I do not care to submit to your desire, but never will I submit to your self-inflicted fury that you may want something more than your asinine rules. Go f**k someone willing to bend over and stare at the wall as you satisfy your inane curiosity. I deserve more, and I will be damned if I will accept less.”
She swept through the doorway, grabbing her jacket where it still lay on the marble floor and striding quickly up the stairs. Trepidation rode at her heels as she felt his gaze following her, knew that she was only pushing him further. It wasn’t a choice she could manipulate. She knew Ian would have to be pushed past his very rigid self-control and forced to admit that she was different. If she submitted as any other woman would to him, then she would become little more than one among many who had paraded through his bedroom. She was unique. She belonged solely and completely to him, and he must be forced to admit to this. Her own satisfaction, her very future demanded it.
She had no more than reached the upper landing when she felt him behind her. Tall and hot, overpoweringly sexual as his hands gripped her waist, turning her, pushing her forcibly against the wall a second before his lips possessed hers with a dominant, powerful force that left her knees shaking.
There was no warning, no seeking permission. This wasn’t a man asking for submission, it was a man demanding it. Unwilling to accept anything less. And Courtney found herself helpless in the face of it. Her head fell back into the hand that cupped it, his fingers tangling in her thick hair as he held her in place. Her lips opened, a fractured moan escaping as pleasure surged through every cell of her body. Electric, intense sensation exploded in the pit of her stomach, suffusing her in a wash of pre-orgasmic bliss.
How could the touch of another’s lips bring such pleasure?
Her hands gripped his shoulders, moving frantically over the fine fabric of his shirt before sliding into his hair, gripping the strands, her fingers kneading his scalp as she fought to get closer, to deepen a kiss that already reached to her very soul.
Oh God, he was consuming her.
His tongue licked at hers, twined with it, his head tilting until he could devour her deeper as his hands began to rove over her body. Hands slightly calloused, fingers rasping as he pushed her top over her br**sts to allow his fingers free rein on the sensitive swollen mounds.
She would have screamed if she had the breath left in her chest. The pleasure was fiery, destructive, weakening her muscles as she arched into the touch, her hands clenching tighter in his hair as his fingers plucked at her ni**les. He pulled at the hard tips until she mewled in frustrated desire, her pu**y spasming with need, the hot wash of her cream easing from her vagina to further slicken the bare folds beyond.
Courtney could feel flames licking over her flesh as he suddenly tore his lips free of hers, leaving her fighting to catch her breath as his lips moved along her arched neck, down further, until she felt them cover one violently sensitive nipple.
“Qué usted hace a mí…?” She shuddered as she slipped into her mother’s language. “What do you do to me, Ian?” She could barely breathe, let alone think to remember which language to use.
Her head fell back against the wall, her senses trained on each touch Ian bestowed to her flesh. His fingers wrapped around the swollen mound of her breast, flexing, testing the weight and feel of her as the deep suckling motions of his mouth sent wicked shards of sensation shooting through her.
He was sinfully sexual, nipping at her nipple as the fingers of his other hand played with the opposite peak. Every touch, every moved designed to destroy her sanity, to make her pliable. Submissive.
She struggled past the dazed mists filling her head, a small part of her recognizing, in much amusement, the tactics he was employing on her. As though she were one of the countless women he had bedded over the years. To drown her in sensuality, to capture her senses and hold them captive until he was finished. Until he had drawn every measure of pleasure from her body, leaving her weak and exhausted. Unable to make any demands on his heart, because she was insensible with the sensations he had filled her with.
And he was so close to his goal. The pleasure was like a whirlwind, engulfing her, pushing her deeper into the abyss of sexuality that opened wide within her.
It would be a battle.
Her hands moved from his hair, her nails raking against his neck as they moved beneath the collar of his shirt.
He shivered. She felt the telltale tremor as her womb convulsed in response. His hand clenched at her hip, the other in her hair, a muttered growl echoing from his throat.
It was a warning.
She fought to catch her breath, her head lowering against his, her lips at his ear as his hand moved from her hip to her thigh, just below the end of the short, flirty skirt she wore.
“I’m so wet, Ian,” she gasped against his ear, her teeth nipping at the lobe as she tilted her h*ps to him.
“Shut up.” His lips moved over her reddened nipple, the spike-hard tip so sensitive now that the caress of his breath against it was nearly painful.
His hand paused on her thigh as he fought for breath.