My whole body jolts and without really thinking about it, both my hands fly to his head. I don’t know if I’m trying to encourage him or yank him away.
What the hell am I thinking—yank him away, definitely yank him away.
But I barely register the feel of his thick, wavy hair before he grabs both of my wrists in one of his hands and pins them above my head.
I struggle in his hold. The sensations he’s pulling out of me are so foreign.
It’s all so much, so fast. My whole body just feels restless. I need to be moving. To be doing something.
Or maybe not. God, what am I even thinking?
I should just be lying here, taking whatever this bastard has to do to me. Right? That was always my plan for my first time, even before this insane scenario.
Close my eyes, pretend really hard I was somewhere else, stare at some spot on the wall and let him just rut and get it done with. That’s how a some friends in high school and college had described it—at least that’s how you got through the pain of the first time. A couple of girlfriends loved sex. But even they admitted their first times were awful. Definitely something to just be survived.
But now here is this man—no mere guy—making me feel such crazy, intense, oh my God things.
This is all wrong. Not at all how it’s supposed to go. Most especially because I’m being forced to be here.
This is not some romantic fling with a man I’ve finally decided is the one that I trust to try this with. This is some monstrous stranger, taking something he has no right to, except for the fact he basically bought it by helping my Dad and—
The hand not holding my wrists traces down between my breasts and grips my hip. And dammit, I can’t even be bothered to disguise the fact that I’m all out panting now.
My legs twist underneath him. When did he sling one of those jean-clad legs over mine? His leg is huge and heavy and it acts as a clamp. To try to keep me from getting away? Or to keep me from grinding against him like a tramp in heat?
Oh God, the thought washes me in shame and I try to still all my restless shuffling as his fingers grip and knead the flesh at my hip. What am I doing? Why is my body reacting this way?
My breath hitches as his hand reaches around to my ass and he pulls me up and into him. He’s hard. I can feel him through his jeans.
The thought should terrify me.
And I am.
Terrified, that is.
But I’m also damp between my legs.
Oh who the hell am I kidding?
I’m drenched.
I’m so goddamned wet my juices are probably going to make a wet spot on the front of his jeans.
My face heats in utter humiliation.
But then his hand that was just gripping my ass caresses back around to the front of my body, dipping down between us.
My first thought is that I want to howl in embarrassment because he’ll feel exactly how wet he’s made me.
And then I want to just howl because holy hell, his fingers immediately seek out my engorged little bud and he starts to press and circle with perfect pressure and—
It feels both so wrong and so right. My stomach clenches as he continues to rub and rub.
All I can do is feel. Sensations cascading over one another: The rasp of his slight beard against my breast. His tongue and teeth torturing my nipple so exquisitely.
And those talented fingers. Taking me higher and higher.
Without meaning to, my pelvis arches up into his hand. The rising ache of needing release—it’s so much higher than those rare occasions when I’ve nervously touched myself in the dark before.
I’ve never felt anything like this. His large, blunt fingers are nothing like my thin ones. I always tease myself with the gentle press of my middle finger but he uses his thumb, rolling and pinching, alternately gentle and rough. I would have thought I’d hate this… this lack of control. This giant stranger taking what he wants like this. It’s so wrong. But that very thought seems to amp my pleasure even higher.
“Need to taste,” he mutters and then he shifts himself off of me. The next second his fingers and hands and mouth are gone.
I stop the whine of protest right before it crosses my lips. Still, I can’t help the brief moment when my whole body arches in the direction he seemed to go.
And then I’m flooded by both shame and relief. Maybe he’ll stop now. Maybe that’s all I’ll have to endure for tonight.
I flop back against the bed, squeezing my eyes shut underneath the mask. But there’s no time to try to get my head on straight before I realize that the noise I’m hearing is that goddammed nightstand drawer being opened and shut again.