Page 32 of What Blooms in Barren Lands

Pressure began building in earnest at the base of my spine, but I throbbed with an impatient desire to be filled and taken more than with a necessity to come yet.

“I want you inside,” I mewled. “I need you, now. Please.”

Einar’s lips closed tighter around my clit as if in a kiss, and he gave it a final, sharper pull.

“God, you taste delicious,” he said, straightening up. “Addictive. I could spend the rest of the night with my face buried half inside you if I didn’t want so damn much to give you exactly what you need when you ask like that.”

His eyes fell instantly to my hands in their makeshift shackles. Self-conscious at first, I let go of the burgundy belt and wrenched my arms free of it. With a sinful smirk, Einar glanced from my face to the rope and back again in contemplation. With an equally feral grin tugging at the corners of my own mouth, I hoisted my hips up slightly to allow him to pull the belt free from the bathrobe underneath me.

Throwing caution to the wind, I raised my hands up as if in a prayer, offering them up for him. The lustful lines in his visage deepened. He wrapped the blood-coloured cord around my wrists firmly and then, raising my hands up above my head by pulling at the rope, he tied them to the wooden headboard. Hisdeft competence, indicative of far more experience than I could claim, made me very conscious of my loud, shallow breathing. I positively hummed and throbbed with tension, but I was relieved of my embarrassment by Einar’s own visceral arousal etched in his face.

“Not too tight?” Einar asked, testing the product of his efforts with a sharp jerk.

“No.”

“No,what?”

The dormant kindness in his eyes was the only assurance I had left of being allowed to refuse participation in the dark game I had myself proposed. His features hardened. His voice had changed very abruptly and was suddenly ice-cold with warning and flatter than his usual cadence. Strict. Commanding. Merciless.

I nearly squealed with delight.

“No,Sir,” I corrected with a squeak, barely suppressing an unhinged giggle that bubbled in my chest.

“Good girl.”

Before I could regain some basic semblance of composure, the imposing bulk of him leaned over me, and he entered me in a swift, practised motion. Carefully, but without any hesitation. My whole body tensed instantly in response as I clenched around him inside, and I wrapped my legs around him.

“Does that feel alright,babydoll?” he asked a little breathlessly.

Out of all the words I had heard him say so far, he pronounced his bedroom pet name for me with by far the most practised, pristine British accent, and hearing it leave his lips set a potent shot of euphoria down my already pleasure-saturated bloodstream.

“Uhm-hm,” was about all I managed in response, adjusting myself both to the crushing weight of his hips and to the way he filled me inside.

“Do I have to ask again?”

“No, Sir. It feels amazing. I want to worship every inch of your massive cock for stretching my cunt the way it does.”

The hard line of his mouth slackened, his lips parting in something close to an astonished smile.

“And here I was thinking a girl like you probably doesn’t even know words like that.”

He moved his hips in a slow circular motion, teasing me with languid friction, the kind that put pressure on all the right spots, only to take it away and bring it back again, the anticipation of the next firmer phase of the contact and the brevity of it adding generously to its enjoyment.

“Oh, I know them alright,” I assured him before deciding that I had absolutely nothing to lose and adding on a wild impulse, “But like a good girl, I save them only for my master’s ears for when I want him to rail me into oblivion.”

“Bloody hell,” he guffawed, eyes wide and dark. “Do you now?”

Amused and encouraged, and enjoying myself more than I thought humanly possible, I rode on my streak of success like a wave, hoping to prolong it with a question: “Or would you prefer it, Sir, if I let the whole world hear what a greedy slut I am for you?”

An exhilarated grin of a child on Christmas morning flashed through his face, but he regained control of his expression fast, suffusing it with command, as he moved his hips forward in a careful, slow thrust.

“No, I most certainly would not. It’d be too much work having to rip everyone’s ears off after.”

I moaned not only in reaction to his movement, but also to his words. His tone was light, but there was a chord in it that rang a little too sincere to be only make-believe. I knew enough of men to recognise his possessiveness as genuine. I also knew that common sense dictated I shouldn’t encourage his claim of ownership of me. But why should common sense matter more than the exceptional thrill his implied threat granted me?

“If other people would lose their ears just for hearing, what would you do to me?” I asked in a small voice, breath hitching in my throat, my galloping heart threatening to give out.

With a knowing look, he ran his hand along the side of my face, and I pressed my cheek into it, closing my eyes, in what I hoped was a gesture of blissful surrender. He thrust into me again, less gently this time. The tip of him hit my cervix, the shock wave of the impact rippling through every nerve of my body, painful, but in a way I wanted more of.