Julia
Wearing only the robe with the hotel’s monogram and sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace, I reached for a piece of cheese from the tray filled with meats, cheeses, crackers, and jams. Before I had the chance to bring it to my lips, Van stole it from my grasp. His long fingers held tightly to the slice as he demanded my compliance.
“Open those luscious lips.”
Despite the earlier sex, the timbre of his tone, mixed with his intense stare, created a delectable concoction that twisted my core and made me want more of what we’d already done. Instead of replying verbally, I did as he said, opening my lips and accepting the creamy cheese.
There was no concern that we would go hungry. I hadn’t heard or seen when Van ordered our meal, but I was present when it arrived. One hotel employee after another wheeled linen-draped carts into the suite. Bottles of wine—yes, plural—and bottles of still water came first. The next cart was devoted to charcuterie selections and flatbreads. The third cart held two complete meals, one of roasted chicken and the other halibut and lentils. My eyes grew wide at the final cart with cheesecake, tarts, and brownies.
After the hotel employees left us alone, I shook my head. “Are you hungry?”
“No, beautiful. You will be. You’ll need your strength for what I have planned.”
That was nearly two hours ago and we’d yet to remove the silver domes from the main course.
After I swallowed the cheese, Van brought the rim of a wine glass to my lips. Unlike our holiday dinner, my hands weren’t bound by a visible binding. Instead, they were immobile because of Van’s commands, his encouragement, and his direction.
For a man who encouraged, supported, and helped me spread my wings and fly in everyday life, he was the polar opposite when it came to intimacy. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t encouraging and supportive. It was that in all things, he was in control.
His dominance came through in both his tone and his words. His commands reigned supreme in the sexiest of ways. All it took was a look or a change in his tone and I became putty, ready and willing to be formed into whatever Van desired.
Setting the wine glass on the nearby table and with only slight pressure from his fingers, Van laid me back on the soft sofa. The fire’s flames reflected in his stare as he untied the sash and opened my robe. Inch by inch his sizzling gaze scanned my nakedness, lingering so long that my nipples again beaded, becoming hard as diamonds without a word or a touch.
That was what he did to me.
“You’re fucking gorgeous.” His green orbs met mine. “You know that, don’t you?”
I shrugged. “I know that I’m glad you think I am.”
“I don’t think, Julia, I unequivocally know.” As he spoke, he lifted one of my legs to the back of the sofa, opening me to him.
There wasn’t any shame or even embarrassment on my part as he stared at my core, undoubtedly pink and wet from our earlier intercourse. I’d never imagined that I’d be this comfortable with a man, and yet with Van I was. It was as his touch moved slowly from my ankle to my inner thigh that I squirmed.
“Your pussy is perfection.”
My flesh peppered with goose bumps as Van leaned forward, adding kisses, licks, and nips to his current chosen form of torture.
That was what it was, torture, as he teased and taunted.
My back arched and unrecognizable sounds filled the suite as he worked me with his fingers, lips, tongue, and teeth. I was a bundle of nerves, ready to explode as he successfully avoided where I needed him most.
With each encounter I’d learned that I was basically helpless in Van’s hands.
I was an oarless boat being tossed at sea as wave after wave of sensations washed over me. I reminded myself to float and enjoy the journey, and yet as his patience continued, mine would fade until my lips betrayed me, asking—begging—for relief.
“Open your eyes, Julia.”
In the light from the flames, Donovan Sherman took my breath away. Statues of Greek gods paled in comparison. With his robe also gone, he was the definition of masculinity. All the stories I’d read and movies I’d seen created an ideal of what a man should be. That model seemed unattainable in any man I knew…until now.
The man standing above me was the epitome of those ideals.
Van offered me his hand.
Can I refuse?
I could.
Knowing that truth made acquiescing all the sweeter.