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24
FRENCH HOURS
My body has a mind of its own. It revels in the power it has over the mysterious man taking such thorough and expert possession of it.
It prepares to fall apart again, crash with mindless frenzy on the shores of bliss.
“Come for me, firecracker. Kill me with that pussy.”
Convince me you’re worth dying for.
The words from our first meeting slam into my head. It triggers a strange sensation inside me. Suddenly, I don’t want this to be a forgettable fuck he tosses over his shoulder the moment he leaves the room.
I may be selling my body to save my life. That doesn’t mean my pride is dead too.
My hands are shackled in his, but I have my hips. My legs.
I throw them around his waist. He’s lean, superbly honed. Perfect to lock my legs around. Thanks to my recent fitness regime, my thighs are stronger. I use the purchase to lift myself, meet his thrust mid-air. I almost black out from the overload of sensation that hits me.
“Fuck!”
The roar blisters my ears. This one is for me. Not the cameras recording our every move. Shame is still a live wire twisting inside me. But alongside it, there’s also pride. This one is for me.
His next thrust drives me back into the bed. But I’ve unleashed something within myself. An animal that needs to be fed.
I execute the move again, and a strangled moan leaves his chest.
Between the pressure building inside my body and the pleasure-pain high of meeting his relentless thrusts, I know I won’t last long.
Sweat drips off his body onto mine. The heat between us is combustible. I’m about to perish in the inferno. I’m not sure where the words come from. They must have been building from that single memory.
His rough keening growls from his chest. His free hand digs into my hips, guides me into his final thrust.
And I murmur into his ear, “Am I worth dying for?”
Q tenses as if he’s been shot. Then he’s coming like mad, flooding my insides with thick, hot semen. His release triggers mine. My body jerks and twists beneath his and we fight for air. Several minutes later, he’s still twitching inside me.
My mind staggers beneath the lessons my body has thrown at me. I’ve never known anything like this. I want to hate it, but it feels good. I battle with myself for a full minute, then abandon the fight. I breathe out, and let myself revel in the moment.
His head falls on my chest.
The touch of cold metal freezes everything inside me. From one instant to the next I’m reminded of everything that is wrong about this situation.
As if he senses my withdrawal, he tenses. Then rises off me.
My wrists are released from his hold. Before I can lower them, he growls, “Stay.”
The bed dips for a second, then levels when he steps away. As quickly as he entered, I hear him leave.
A minute ticks by. Two. I’m frozen in a twisted tableau of shame and satiation. The blood still roaring in my ears means I can’t tell if the cameras have stopped rolling. My senses won’t calm and I can’t stop the onslaught of emotions that batter me. I’m not sure how long I lie there, before his voice flares into the room.
“The cameras are off now. Take the blindfold off.”
My hands shake as I free myself. The lights are low enough not to cause my eyes discomfort. I’m alone in a sea of silk pillows and indignity. I raise my gaze, and thank God, the cameras have receded. I throw the blindfold to the side and stare down at my body. The evidence of his rough possession is everywhere. My thighs, my breasts, my wrists. I look around the room and spot a door to one side.
“The bathroom. Use it if you have to, but don’t clean yourself up.”
My eyes widen. “Why not?”