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“I want you dirty. When I come back, I want you smelling of me.” The primitive possession in that statement holds no apology.
I feel the stamp of it all over my body. “When will you be back?”
“In a few hours. Don’t leave the suite. Are you hungry?”
I’m ravenous. For more than just food. Although how that could be when he’s commanded such powerful orgasms from me, I can’t fathom. A flush creeps up my neck as I nod. “Yes.”
His laugh holds a tinge of cruelty. “You’ll have me again soon, Lucky. Rest for now. Your food will be brought to you shortly.”
That he can read me so easily when I don’t know the first thing about him irritates me. “Thanks. You’re far too kind.”
“No. I’m not.” There’s a deadly ring to the three words that immediately chills my spine. They also tweak a part of my brain, attempt to make a connection that flounders for a brief moment, then fizzles and dies.
I catch a corner of the heavy coverlet and draw it over me. Whether he takes that as conversation over or he has nothing else to say, I sense the instant he clicks off.
Tiredness seeps into my bones. I’m the kind of sore that draws a moan each time I move, but not ones of distressing pain. I sink into the bed and surrender to the conflict raging inside me. When it exhausts itself without my help, it releases me long enough for me to fall asleep.
Stephanie wakes me gently what seems like five minutes later. Without windows, I can’t tell how much time has passed. She tells me I’ve been asleep for four hours.
The large tray she sets on my lap contains a steaming bowl of linguine in a creamy sauce. The cutlets of Parma ham melt in my mouth and I polish off the meal in minutes, soaking up the remaining cream with thick focaccia bread. I leave the wine alone, and settle for a club soda. Once she takes the tray away, I slide out of bed and make my way gingerly to the bathroom. Like everything else Q-related, the bathroom is huge, every luxury and amenity within reach. I stare with a little longing at the multi-headed shower before I shake my head.
I return to the room after I take care of business, but I don’t get back into bed. There’s an entertainment center with a sleek looking MP4 player sitting on a glass surface. This remote, unlike the one I used in the Hell’s Kitchen loft, looks simple. I press the power button and strings of an Italian operetta fill the room. I grimace and hit the next button.
Imagine Dragons’ Demons slowly pounds into life. My eyes widen and my shocked gasp ends in laughter. A tiny part of me is thrilled that I like the first thing I’ve learned about Q. No, not my first thing. This is the second. The first thing I like about him is stamped inside and outside my body. Q is extremely skilled when it comes to a woman’s body.
The song is halfway through when I sense him again. My skin grows feverish and my belly rolls with trepidation and excitement.
Was this some form of early onset Stockholm Syndrome? The remote slips from my hand onto the floor and I don’t bother to pick it up.
“Lucky.” He’s outside the door.
I return to the bed and put the blindfold back on. I’m not sure where he wants me so I remain standing by the side of the bed and place my hands on top of the rumpled sheets. I don’t need sight to confirm his purposeful stride toward me. The very air seethes with thick, sexual intent.
He reaches me, pulls me back against him and runs his hands all over my body. Each powerful caress pulls a shiver from me. He bends his head and sniffs the curve of my shoulder. “Was that amusement at my choice of music I heard a few minutes ago?”
“Ah…no. It was unexpected, that’s all.”
“Why unexpected?”
“They’re my favorite band.” I let out a self-conscious laugh. “I was just surprised that…I don’t know what you look or really sound like but we like the same music.”
He slides his hands beneath my breasts. “And that pleases you?” he rasps.
I shrug. “It helps make this a little less…weird.”
He pauses for a second. “What else would help?”
Instinctively, I know a request to take the blindfold off will be denied. That courtesy, if it happens, will come from him. “I would like to touch you. With my hands. Maybe see you?” I throw in there anyway.
My breath hitches when he picks me up. Since I haven’t been given permission to touch, my hands hang down by my sides as he strides away from the bed.
A few seconds later, he settles on a seat that I remember looks like a leather-studded La-Z-Boy recliner next to the fireplace, and he arranges me over his lap so my feet are on the floor either side of him. The thick rod of his cock lies snug between my pussy lips, but he doesn’t penetrate me. He lies back and grabs my hips, slowly grinds me into his hardness. I’m slick and wet and he groans at the delicious friction.
After about a minute, his hands caress up my sides. I jerk a little, and he chuckles.
“You’re ticklish just there.”
“Yeah…” My hips move over him, the desire to pump almost unconscious.