Taunt Me (Rough Love Book 2) Page 14

  He stopped then, and raked a glance over my body, my silk panties and bra. I knew he wanted to touch me. It frightened me that he declined to do so. Was he afraid he’d hurt me? I was afraid he’d hurt me. Why had I decided to do this after protecting myself all this time?

  I could still run away. He’d never let me out the door, but I could lock myself in the bathroom, or barricade myself in the closet and scream until someone came to help me.

  I didn’t scream. I didn’t run, but my body moved away from him on instinct. I saw his hands come up, to hit me or grab me. He didn’t do either, just caught me from behind, wrapping one arm around my waist. The other caught my chin, pressing my head back into the curve of his neck.

  “Going somewhere?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No. Don’t. Don’t hurt me.”

  I meant that I wasn’t ready yet, that this was happening too quickly, or that maybe I hadn’t thought things through. I wanted him to do bad, awful things to me, but with Price, I never knew how bad and awful they’d be. I clutched at his arm where he held me pinned against his front. My shoulder blades slid against his sweater as I squirmed to get away.

  “Listen to me, starshine,” he said in his patient and terrifying voice. “I’ve waited weeks now to touch you. You made me wait, you made me suffer, never letting me have you. Now I’m going to have you. I’m going to take you until I’m done with you, and until I’m done, you’re going to do whatever the fuck I say.”

  My breath came in pants. “I... I’m...” I’m afraid. That’s what I was trying to say.

  His fingers tightened around my jaw and slid down the front of my neck. “Yes, Sir,” he said. “That’s your line. Say it.” He gave me a shake.

  “Yes, Sir.” I sounded weak, whimpery. I sounded every bit as scared as I felt. I still clutched at him, like he might relent.

  “Put your arms down, Chere. Stop trying to get away from me. You heard what I said.”

  Oh, yes, I’d heard. Until I’m done, you’re going to do whatever the fuck I say. Later, I’d masturbate to those words. I’d picture his face as he said them, although he wasn’t letting me see him now. That was always part of his control, to make me feel blind and helpless. I put my hands down at my sides, releasing some of the tension in my body.

  I could feel his muscles respond behind me. His arm left my waist and moved up to my bra. He pulled the cups down so my breasts were exposed, lying on the shelf of the folded-over satin. He slapped each breast and pinched my nipples. I rose on my toes and reached again for his arm.

  “Put your arms down,” he repeated, in a voice that dared me to disobey.

  I held my hands stiff at my sides as he pinched my nipples hard as any nipple clamp ever did. His fingers tightened around my neck as I moaned and wrenched my head from side to side. I bowed out my middle, trying to get away from the pain.

  “Ow. Please,” I begged. His sweater was soft against my back, but his muscles were hard and his hands were hurting me.

  “Push your panties down.”

  The agony of his touch compelled me to obey. I slid my fingers under the waistband and jerked them down over my hips with frantic tugs.

  “More,” he said impatiently. “Push them down to the middle of your thighs.”

  The fingers at my neck went tight again, and I scrabbled to comply, shoving them down with my fingertips. I could feel the unyielding girth of his cock through his jeans, pressed against my bare skin. I imagined him unzipping his fly with that intent, angry look of his, pulling out his monster cock, and then...what?

  “Please,” I whispered, not even sure what I was asking for.

  “Shut the fuck up. I tell you what to do and you listen. That’s how our thing has always worked. Now, part your pussy lips.”

  “What?”

  “Did I stutter?” His fingers tortured my nipples, first one and then the other. “Part your pussy lips with your fingers.”

  I reached down and delved between the hot folds, ashamed by my crazy wetness. His rough orders, the nipple torture, his hand threatening to choke me, all of it had me creaming myself. My fingers went immediately to my clit.

  “No.” He let go of my nipples to give me a short, sharp crack on the ass. “Did I say to touch yourself? I said to part your pussy lips, not to rub one out. Have you forgotten how to follow directions?”

  I gave a soft sob and nudged my labia apart to hold myself open. It was so humiliating, so cruel to make me do this. It was also so fucking hot. I was suddenly twice as wet as before.

  He made me stand like that, tits out, panties down, exposing my wet, needy clit, burning all over my body in a blush while he massaged my neck and kissed me, and nibbled at my ear. “This is how you should be all the time,” he said, sliding his arm around my waist again. “In my control, with your sex open to me, and your body open to me, all wet and ready for me. Doesn’t this feel good? Doesn’t it feel right?”

  I shook my head, blinking back tears. “No.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to admit what you really want. That’s why you need me. I take away the choice, and make you accept all the filthy, dirty cravings inside you.”

  The grip around my middle loosened. His hand slid down. I could have pulled away then. I could have escaped, but I didn’t move. I felt paralyzed with need, with lust. With shame.

  He touched me one place, one single, specific, slick and swollen place. He laid a fingertip atop my clit and my knees almost buckled. One touch, one second of pleasure, and his finger was gone.

  “Oh God.” The words burst out of me with angry frustration.

  He released my neck to cover my mouth. “Quiet,” he snapped. “Not one word. Keep holding yourself open. I didn’t tell you to stop.”

  I complied, knowing I’d die if he didn’t touch me again just that way. He did, several times, but never long enough to satisfy me more than a second or so. I moaned behind his hand.

  “This is what happens to girls who tease, and say no,” he said. “They get taught lessons. Look how wet you are.” He left my clit to slosh his fingers through my drenched pussy. “You told me you didn’t want this. You told me you didn’t want sex, that you wanted us to be one hundred percent professional, but feel how wet you are. If you don’t want sex, why are you humping my hand?”

  I whipped my head back and forth, voiceless, breathless, humiliated by his demonstration of my hypocrisy, but too worked up to care. He returned to torturing me, delivering fleeting, electrifying caresses and pinches to my swollen clit, chuckling when I bucked helplessly against his hand. I knew he’d only give me what he was willing to give me, and he was punishing me at the moment, so it wasn’t very much.

  Why had I chosen this? Why was I subjecting myself to his whimsical sadism, his torturous scenes? Just to feel his power and have his cock, and earn those magical orgasms if he deemed me worthy?

  Yes. Good God above, yes, that was why. I held my pussy lips open for him like an obedient masochistic slut, dreaming of sex and kisses and poetry. I forgave him for everything that came before: the secrecy, the desertion, the binoculars, the machinations with my internship. I forgave him and cursed myself for denying our bodies the pleasure they could have enjoyed for weeks now. I deserved the torment he was heaping on my poor, exposed sex.

  “Please, no more,” I begged from behind his hand. “Please, just let me come.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said with a chuckle. “Not this time. Not after all the time you denied me. Maybe later, if you’re good.” He rubbed my clit a little longer, a little harder, just to drive me those last few inches to insanity. As I strained back against him, he whispered in my ear. “Don’t you wish you could come? Don’t you wish I’d fuck you hard and fast, until your walls clenched around my cock? Don’t you want to feel that release? That bliss?” His fingers traced around the petals of my clit. “I wanted it. But you wouldn’t give it to me. Bad girl.”

  His fingers ceased their wandering and clapped over my held-open pussy
with a squeeze and a firm slap. A tear escaped the corner of one eye and slipped down my cheek. I wanted to come so badly, but he wasn’t going to let me, and I didn’t dare do it on my own. I was so weak. He was so much stronger. I was in so much trouble, and now I was getting what was coming to me.

  He let me go, waiting a moment to be sure I didn’t collapse. I almost did. He straightened me and gave me a look. Now that I could see his face, the gleeful sadism in his eyes, my humiliation was complete.

  “Stay right there, naughty slut. No, keep holding yourself open. Don’t dare rub your clit.”

  It took all my brazen determination not to scream at him to go fuck himself while I wildly masturbated myself to orgasm. It would have taken about six seconds from the place I was now. But I didn’t scream at him or masturbate, for two reasons. First of all, I was scared of what he’d do to me in reprisal. Second of all, I knew any orgasm I gave myself would be a mere shadow of the orgasm he would give me. Please, God. He was going to give me an orgasm, wasn’t he?

  He went into the bathroom. I heard running water, the sound of him washing all my messiness off his fingers. I could have masturbated now without him seeing me. I knew it. He knew it.

  Still, we both knew I wouldn’t do it. That wasn’t the way we played our game. He came out of the bathroom with his sweater off and his pants undone. His cock jutted from the front of his fly, thick, straight, hard. He worked his palm up and down the length of it, and leaned over his phone.

  I salivated, watching. Put it in me. Please. I’ll never, ever deny you sex again.

  “The others want to go to dinner,” he said in amusement. “I am kind of hungry.”

  Oh God. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

  “Meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes,” he said, reading me his response as he typed it. “I’ll tell Chere.” He turned back to me. “Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?”

  I shook my head in agonized dread. His laughing gaze raked over me. How did I look, close to tears, on sexual display for his amusement and pleasure?

  “Can’t...go to dinner...now,” I managed to say.

  “You can and you will, my horny little penitent. But first...”

  He pushed me down on my knees. When I tried to reach for him under my own power, he made a noise that stopped me.

  “Keep your hands behind your back.” He showed me what he wanted, making me grip my forearms with my pussy-slickened fingers. Then he tipped my face up and looked at me as if searching for some answer.

  I had no answers, only questions. Why are you doing this to me? Why do you love hurting me, and why do I love being hurt by you?

  I didn’t have to ask the questions. He already knew my conflict, had understood my conflict from the start and knew exactly how to exploit it for his benefit. He shoved his cock in my face and I opened my mouth, feeling naked and vulnerable and so, so submissive. How had Andrew described it? Like being high on drugs, but to me it was much more grounded than that. I felt secure when Price was controlling me. I felt emptied out, carried away. I felt surrendered to a power greater than myself.

  He wasn’t gentle. His cock choked me, shoving deep in my throat. His hands twisted in my hair to keep me from doing anything so self-protective as pulling away. I was his mouth, his hole, his wet, shameless thing who was willing to hold her pussy open and be tortured only because he demanded it. I had his cock now, at least, which was what I’d wanted.

  The only thing I wasn’t getting was an orgasm. When he finished shooting his cum down my throat, I swallowed and contemplated the consequences I’d receive if I dared hump my aching pussy against his muscled calf. In the end, I wasn’t brave enough to do it.

  He released my hair and patted my head, and let out a long, contented sigh. He dressed for dinner while I knelt with my head bowed and my arms still clasped behind my back, then he told me to dress. I pulled my panties on over my wetness, and my tight jeans. It made it feel so much worse. My sore, tender nipples were once again protected by my bra, but they were sensitive now to every movement.

  He went with me downstairs to change, to be sure I wouldn’t be “naughty.” I would have been. At this point, I would have masturbated if he’d given me even three seconds of privacy. He made me put on a dress with no panties underneath. It would be cold, but maybe that was a good thing.

  To keep up the facade of a professional relationship, he made me walk down to the lobby first to meet the others. They couldn’t know I’d just come from his embrace. They couldn’t see the nakedness he insisted upon beneath my sweater dress and my coat. They’d never understand the nakedness I felt, even if they could see it. It was like he was still grasping me between my legs, even though he wasn’t there. When he stepped off the elevators and walked toward our waiting group, he barely glanced at me, and greeted me like the fifth-wheel intern I was.

  But I felt so owned, so completely owned by him in that moment, that I had to press my thighs tighter together, or die from my vulnerability. I was so owned by him, it was a miracle none of the others knew.

  Price

  Chere squirmed through the ritzy fixed-price menu dinner, looking beautifully distracted. She understood now what happened to naughty interns who drove their bosses out of their minds with denial and teasing. I hoped she was learning her lesson, now that the shoe was on the other foot.

  Oh, the glances she sent me. The injured looks. She delighted me so much with her secret, frantic agony that I took pity on her after the second course. I got out my phone while Raneesh and Hannah were jabbering about what to order for dessert, and sent her a text.

  Go to a stall in the ladies room. Spread your legs, pull your dress up to your waist, and masturbate to orgasm. In all caps, I emphasized: ONLY ONCE.

  I didn’t have to add the “or else.” She knew the “or else,” had gotten a good taste of it about an hour ago, when I’d made her a miserable little slut for her crimes against me. I must have been going soft, to let her orgasm now, but when she came back, she at least seemed a bit more composed. She met my eyes, smiled faintly, and put the tip of a finger to her lips. I knew it was the one she’d rubbed herself off with. I would have licked it myself, but the others would have questioned. I contented myself with a glance that said, “Later.”

  And there would be a later. She’d need more orgasms, and I’d need more orgasms, and we’d have orgasm after orgasm from this point forward, because I wouldn’t let her retreat from me again. We’d tried that experiment and it had failed.

  When Jennifer, Hannah, and Raneesh decided to go bar hopping, I developed a sudden headache and Chere pretended to be exhausted. We said goodbye to the others and got our own cab to return to the hotel. I held Chere’s hand during the ride back, not feeling any particular need to talk. We were still in the giddy stage, the reuniting stage, and I didn’t want words to ruin things. I didn’t want to ask her Is this okay? or Want some more sex?

  It was okay. We were going to have more sex.

  Once I got her inside my hotel room, I pushed her against the door and gave her all the groping, sloppy kisses I couldn’t give her at dinner. I yanked off her coat while she pulled off mine. We dropped them to the floor. She tasted like wine and her hair still held the currant-floral scent of the restaurant. When we returned to New York, I was going to buy her flowers. I was going to send dozens of them to her apartment to recreate that smell.

  By the time I broke the kiss, she was gasping, gazing up at me with eager appeal.

  Yes, I know you want to fuck. Yes, I’m going to torture you for a while first, because that’s what I do.

  I brushed back a lock of her dark, curly hair. It was so much lovelier than her bleach-dyed, straightened, Miss Kitty hair. She was so much lovelier in every way, now that I wasn’t paying for her, now that she was herself: complicated, conflicted, rueful, charming. Smiling. She was smiling at me with a sex-drunk look on her face. She was opening up to me. I cupped her cheek and brushed a thumb across her lips.

  “You
little slut,” I said. “Were you grateful I allowed you to orgasm at the restaurant?”

  “Yes, Sir. Very grateful.”

  “I’m sorry I missed it. I bet you put on quite a show. Did you stand or sit?”

  “I stood. Germs, you know, on public toilet seats.”

  I found that hilarious, that she worried about germs and not the fact that I’d sent her to masturbate in a restroom stall. I pulled up her dress and slapped her naked ass, and gave her another rough kiss. “I’m going to put my fucking germs all over you tonight. But I like this vision of you standing up. It seems so desperate.”

  “Oh, I was desperate. You should have seen me.” Her smile broke into a grin. “It’s really hard for me to orgasm while I’m standing up, but I managed.”

  “And you only did it once?” I watched her face closely. I’d know if she lied to me, but she shook her head with a perfect lack of guile.

  “I only did it once.”

  “Was anyone else in the restroom?”

  “Yes.”

  She blushed. Naughty slut. I decided she was going to get another orgasm right now, because the image of her standing in a bathroom in a ritzy Oslo eatery, jilling herself to oblivion, was too enticing to resist. I grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it up and over her head.

  “I want you to do it again,” I said.

  “What?”

  She watched as I folded down her bra, exposing her nipples. I loved her sexy, structured bras, and the way the doubled-over cups made a perfect shelf for her flawless tits.

  “I want you to do it again,” I repeated. “I want you to sit on the edge of my bed and spread your legs and make yourself come. I’d like to see it.”

  She hesitated. I waited, my expression darkening. “Or perhaps I should make you stand up, if it’s more difficult for you.”