The following has been excerpted as part of an ongoing Refinery29 series of erotic stories for women, by women.
“Give me your hands.”
I frowned at him.
“Talia.” His voice was sharp. “Give me your hands.”
I did. He held my wrists in the stretch of one big hand, lifting them over my head, laying me down again. I watched the pulse hammer in his throat as he leaned down to tie me to his headboard. The knots weren’t tight, but I had no interest in trying to get away. I lay stretched out on his bed, and he finally — finally — unzipped my skirt and slid it down my legs.
To be honest, I hadn’t expected to be naked in front of Sean Poole when I got dressed that evening. I’d indulged in some wishful thinking (as I did basically all the time), but I didn’t really own any sexy underwear. Tonight’s panties had a green heart-shaped argyle pattern. They cut a little high up on my cheeks. Nothing special.
But he murmured, “Jesus, look at you.”
I blushed and looked away. His hands slid up my thighs and his fingers curled around the waistband of my panties and pulled them down.
Oh, come on. The lights were on, and he was going to look, like he’d fucking looked at everything else, like he could memorize it.
“Hush,” he said again, and looked up at me. “Are you going to make me gag you?”
Heat shot through me like fireworks. I shook my head.
“Good.” He slid my panties down over my calves, over my feet. He examined them, put them in his pants pocket, then turned his attention back to me. His palms pressed against my thighs, easing them apart.
Oh, God. Oh God oh God oh God.
His fingers feathered over my hips, my stomach. My muscles danced under his touch. I wanted to plunge my fingers back into all that blond hair, and it took pulling against the tie around my wrists to remember I couldn’t. I whimpered, my hips pressing up to meet his hands.
He slid his hand between my legs again, velvet slick against the wetness there. My eyes fluttered shut, and I groaned. I felt like I was coming apart, and he hadn’t even gotten inside me yet.
“Sean,” I whispered. “Please.”
“Hush, baby. Look at me.”
I opened my eyes, saw him watching me with a hooded expression.
He knelt between my legs, pants tight across powerful thighs. “Don’t move,” he said, sliding his hands around my calves. The heat of his skin shocking, even through socks. He pushed my knees up, my feet flat on the bed. “Let me take care of what’s mine.”
I wanted to run, then, more than any other time, watching his face framed by that collared shirt, this intelligent, powerful man putting me at the center of his universe for these few minutes — yeah, I wanted to fucking run. But his eyes trapped me, held me in place, as he leaned forward, dipping his head.
No one had done this before. Not even Matthew.
“You’re shaking,” he said softly. His hands hadn’t stopped moving: up my legs, over my hips, his palms tracing the curve of my waist, my ribs. “Are you okay? Do I need to slow down?”
I shook my head.
“Tell me if I do,” he said. “Tell me if something changes. Any time. Okay?”
“Say the words.”
“I’m okay,” I whispered. “I’ll tell you if I’m not.”
He smiled. “Good girl. Thank you.” His hands dragged back down my stomach, up my thighs, and he pressed my knees farther apart. Cool air on wet skin like its own touch. He slid his knees back, lowering his chest to the mattress, curling his arms around my hips, all in one fluid motion, all grace and power.
The first brush of his lips against mine was electric: I jerked as if I had been shocked, and his arms tightened around me. I was staring down at him, in surprise, in awe, in — I don’t know, I didn’t know anything right then — and he looked up at me, those blue eyes almost black. His fingers pressed into my hips, into that sensitive spot between thigh and labia, and the noise I made was only barely human.
“I love how sensitive you are.” The heat of his breath might as well have been his tongue. “And how sweet you taste.”
He kissed me like I was kissing him back, dragging lips and careful tongue, heat singing through me, pleasure crawling through my belly, spreading through my hips like fingers. His nose brushed my clit, and my back arched so sharply he dug his fingers into my thighs to keep me steady. And instead of backing off, instead of letting me breathe, he turned the full attention of his mouth to it, holding tight onto me, following the movement of my hips.
His tongue traced the contour of my cunt, his beard brushing soft against my thighs. Every muscle in my body was flexed and hard against him, against my bonds, the pressure ratcheted up tight and hot in my midsection. I wanted to curl up into a ball, wanted to wrap my arms and legs around him. I wanted his grip to bruise me. I wanted to come so bad I could barely think.
He uncurled one arm from around my hip, and I felt his fingers brush my ass, under his chin. His tongue dragged up the length of my lips, fingers following the trail, pushing into me at the same time he sucked my clit into his mouth.
My cry was sharp and loud and made me acutely aware of the near-silence in the room, of the sounds he was making, the sounds I was making, but he hummed again and smiled against my cunt. And flipped his hand over, palm up, and curled his fingers.
“Shit,” I breathed, “Sean, God—”
The rhythm was incessant, insistent, and I was pulling so hard at the tie on my wrists I knew I’d bruise. I needed to bruise.
He lifted his head, letting his thumb take over where his mouth had been. “Are you going to come for me, baby?”