“Always.”
“Then I’m game.” Alex shrugs one shoulder nonchalantly. “Look, I haven’t been with anyone spicier than vanilla bean ice cream, and I can’t guarantee I’ll like all of it, but as long as you promise to stop if I ask you to, I trust you.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone jump into a scene so excited. Part of me wants to shake her and tell her she’s not thinking it through, but that’s condescending as shit. If I can recite a list like that and have her be completely open to trying all of it, I have to trust that she’s being genuine. After all, she’s proven that she has zero issue telling me to fuck off. And if this is really what she wants—to see the real me? There’s no way I can say no.
15
Alex
Branson squints at me like he doesn’t believe a word out of my mouth. Or maybe I’ve just caught him off guard. I know he thinks I’m being flippant, and maybe I’m feeling more adventurous because of the atmosphere in the club, but every word out of his mouth makes me more excited to try this.
I’ve never been with someone this… adventurous? But watching him shed the good boy act is sexy as hell. If he wants to tie me up and make me come, I’m so game.
“We can go somewhere alone,” he offers, but I shake my head and bite my lip, thinking about the way he reached under my skirt at the concert. The rush of doing something so illicit in a crowd of people made my heart race.
“You like watching them or you like them watching you?” he asks, the frown morphing into a knowing smile.
“I—I’m not sure.”
“Maybe it’s the risk of getting caught,” he offers. My heart beats faster. Yeah, maybe that. Whatever Branson sees in my expression must be enough reassurance. He cracks his neck from side to side and takes my drink, setting it aside.
“Straddle me,” he demands, beckoning me into his lap with one finger. His voice takes on a deeper, smokey tone that cuts straight through me. I’m not laughing anymore. Branson’s eyes bore into me, and I move like I’m in a trance, rising up and bracketing his thick thighs with mine. Our faces are almost level and I have a front-row seat to the focused energy of his stare.
Branson’s hand circles my throat, and he pulls me toward him with gentle pressure until I’m close enough for him to nip at my lip. “Tell me your safe word.”
Jokes and questions are long gone. My enthusiasm seems to have flipped a switch in Branson. He’s shed his playful exterior, revealing this smoldering version of him waiting underneath. Maybe he thinks this place is his secret, but I can see it in his eyes: he wants to share it.
“Red,” I whisper, my chest rising and falling fast. His free hand slides up my thigh, inching under my dress. I turn to look over my shoulder, but Branson gives my leg a squeeze.
“Eyes on me,” he demands. I whip my face back to his. “Don’t look at them. They’re not going to let you come. I am.” He looks over my shoulder and gestures at someone, but I don’t turn. I lock my eyes on his face, and even when I hear something jingle behind me, I don’t look.
“Hands behind your back, gorgeous.” Branson raises an eyebrow as if waiting for me to jump up and say ‘red’. I blink at him innocently and do exactly what he wants. If he expects me to chicken out, he’s sorely mistaken. I smirk as he leans up into me, reaching around my back and strapping something around my wrists.
The position forces my breasts out and up, and Branson studies me appreciatively as he leans back on the sofa. I can’t tell what the handcuffs are made of. Leather maybe? They aren’t cold and metallic, and they sure as hell aren’t fuzzy. What they are, is sturdy.
I stare him dead in the eyes and give them a good yank. My wrists don’t pull more than an inch apart before the cuffs snap tight. Yeah… those aren’t going anywhere, and neither am I.
Branson smirks, moving his hands behind his head. He looks like he could just as easily be relaxing poolside. “Keep struggling. God knows I’m enjoying having you writhe around in my lap.”
I purse my lips and hold still, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Branson presses a palm over my sternum, warming my bare skin. “Your heart is beating like a little hummingbird,” he says with a devilish grin. “I think you like being at my mercy.”
His hand moves lower, pulling the neckline of my dress down until my breasts spill out. “Fucking hell,” he groans softly. “Look at you.” His thumbs circle my nipples, barely grazing the skin. They tighten instantly, making goosebumps prick my skin, running down my arms and up my spine.
Branson lowers his mouth, drawing a nipple between his teeth. He sucks hard, never taking his eyes off my face. A pulsing heat answers between my legs, and I move in his lap. He lands a sharp smack on my ass, and I squeal even as the heat burns into an inferno.
“Be still. If I want you to ride me, I’ll tell you to do it.” His hands steal under my dress, one tracing along the tattoo on the front of my thigh, the other bunching the skirt up higher. I’m still scowling at him for the spank when his finger hooks the front of my panties.
“You can pretend you don’t like me all you want, but a wet pussy doesn’t lie.”
He doesn’t pull them to the side, but bunches the panel, pulling it up and putting pressure over my clit. It’s just enough to make me wild for more without providing any level of satisfaction. To my great annoyance, a whiny little whimper escapes my lips.
Branson leans to the side, peering behind me. I turn, but before I can figure out what he’s looking at, he grips my chin, pulling my attention back to him. He puts a finger to my lips, leaning up and whispering in my ear.
“Shh… You keep moaning like that and everyone will know what a dirty girl you are.” He presses a finger inside me, and I gasp. Branson growls, tightening his grip on my chin. “Be quiet, Alex, or I’m going to have to find something to occupy that pretty mouth.”
His voice is rough with promise. I bite my lip, trying not to grin. I so badly want to ask him what he’d occupy me with, but he pumps his finger into me, dragging it back out along my g-spot, and I nearly go limp on top of him.
He chuckles. “There it is.” Lights pop in my vision as he does it again, over and over. It’s slow and intentional. He’s not trying to make me come, I realize. He’s trying to make me crazy. Has anyone ever fingered me just for the sheer enjoyment of it? Hell no. But Branson isn’t interested in making me go off as fast as he can. He adds another finger, thrusting and pressing and dragging until I’m panting in his lap.