would be easy to wriggle those baggy pants off her, pop off her shirt, ease her out of her panties and bra and finish what he’d started playfully now, and more seriously this morning. The morning had obviously simmered in the back of their minds and their libidos all day. He’d bet she was already slick and hot, and that she’d grip at his cock… A hard, quick, brutal, necessary fuck to tide them over.
The only thing that kept them both dressed was knowing the condoms were upstairs.
And the rope. He wouldn’t have time for any complicated shibari, especially not with them both as needy and greedy as they were at the moment. He couldn’t speak for Jen, but he might spontaneously combust if he took too much time, and he’d always prided himself on his patience. But bondage seemed to intrigue her, and Lord knew it intrigued him. What would be the best…
He looked at her loose shirt. Yeah, that.
He’d been smiling before, but the mental image made his grin broader, his cock harder. “Come on,” he said. “I have plans for you.”
Chapter Nine
Jen’s legs shook as she climbed the stairs, rubbery and uneasy as if she’d spent three days on a boat. Her pulse pounded a tattoo that echoed in her clit. Her pelvis was weighted with blood and need, and her head swam with vague erotic images in shades of red and purple. Drake’s hand burned against the small of her back, where he’d slipped it under her shirt. That bit of skin-on-skin contact was ramping up her arousal to almost unbearable levels, and the climb to the bedroom took decades. Slow, molten, throbbing decades.
By the time they reached Drake’s room—which couldn’t have been more than a minute after leaving the kitchen, because, roomy as the house was, it wasn’t Downton Abbey—Jen was sure she was going to die if she didn’t have Drake’s cock soon.
The bedroom was large, and like most of the house, white-walled and sparsely decorated, almost painfully neat. A blue-and-green-plaid comforter was pulled up to meet pillows in navy pillowcases. The bed was actually a futon on a low black platform with storage drawers underneath.
Or a couple of storage drawers and a few faux drawer pulls that might work as tie-down points, she surmised, her mind seizing on visual details to counter a sudden wave of nervousness. She had seen a riding crop over the mirror when she’d caught a glimpse into the room the day she’d viewed her apartment. But she hadn’t seen the skeins of rope, some colored, some plain hemp, on the back of the door. And she certainly hadn’t seen what she glimpsed when Drake opened one of those drawers: paddles and another crop and floggers and some shiny bits of metal she couldn’t identify at a glance.
What he pulled out of the drawer, though, she could identify easily. A blindfold made of black leather and padded with shearling.
My God, was she trembling? The blindfold made her crazy in several senses of the word. Made her wild with curiosity, because what did he not want her to see? Frightened her—she dreaded missing some random image that might spark art. Intrigued her, and aroused her, pushing her even closer to the edge of a precipice. She felt like she might come at any second. “But I want to see you!” she blurted.
“You will. Just not the whole time.”
Then he began to strip.
Jen had seen and felt enough of Drake’s body that she wasn’t surprised by what she saw. Delighted, yes but not surprised. Still, she couldn’t help staring, drinking in his beauty before he covered her eyes. Shirtless, his broad chest had well-defined muscles, which she’d expected from how good his legs and arms were, how strong he felt when he held her, but the furring of light brown hair was a pleasant bonus. She liked chest hair, liked how it looked and the texture of it against her skin, liked the masculine contrast with her relative hairlessness. She looked forward to feeling its crisp softness under her hands, or better yet,
The only thing that kept them both dressed was knowing the condoms were upstairs.
And the rope. He wouldn’t have time for any complicated shibari, especially not with them both as needy and greedy as they were at the moment. He couldn’t speak for Jen, but he might spontaneously combust if he took too much time, and he’d always prided himself on his patience. But bondage seemed to intrigue her, and Lord knew it intrigued him. What would be the best…
He looked at her loose shirt. Yeah, that.
He’d been smiling before, but the mental image made his grin broader, his cock harder. “Come on,” he said. “I have plans for you.”
Chapter Nine
Jen’s legs shook as she climbed the stairs, rubbery and uneasy as if she’d spent three days on a boat. Her pulse pounded a tattoo that echoed in her clit. Her pelvis was weighted with blood and need, and her head swam with vague erotic images in shades of red and purple. Drake’s hand burned against the small of her back, where he’d slipped it under her shirt. That bit of skin-on-skin contact was ramping up her arousal to almost unbearable levels, and the climb to the bedroom took decades. Slow, molten, throbbing decades.
By the time they reached Drake’s room—which couldn’t have been more than a minute after leaving the kitchen, because, roomy as the house was, it wasn’t Downton Abbey—Jen was sure she was going to die if she didn’t have Drake’s cock soon.
The bedroom was large, and like most of the house, white-walled and sparsely decorated, almost painfully neat. A blue-and-green-plaid comforter was pulled up to meet pillows in navy pillowcases. The bed was actually a futon on a low black platform with storage drawers underneath.
Or a couple of storage drawers and a few faux drawer pulls that might work as tie-down points, she surmised, her mind seizing on visual details to counter a sudden wave of nervousness. She had seen a riding crop over the mirror when she’d caught a glimpse into the room the day she’d viewed her apartment. But she hadn’t seen the skeins of rope, some colored, some plain hemp, on the back of the door. And she certainly hadn’t seen what she glimpsed when Drake opened one of those drawers: paddles and another crop and floggers and some shiny bits of metal she couldn’t identify at a glance.
What he pulled out of the drawer, though, she could identify easily. A blindfold made of black leather and padded with shearling.
My God, was she trembling? The blindfold made her crazy in several senses of the word. Made her wild with curiosity, because what did he not want her to see? Frightened her—she dreaded missing some random image that might spark art. Intrigued her, and aroused her, pushing her even closer to the edge of a precipice. She felt like she might come at any second. “But I want to see you!” she blurted.
“You will. Just not the whole time.”
Then he began to strip.
Jen had seen and felt enough of Drake’s body that she wasn’t surprised by what she saw. Delighted, yes but not surprised. Still, she couldn’t help staring, drinking in his beauty before he covered her eyes. Shirtless, his broad chest had well-defined muscles, which she’d expected from how good his legs and arms were, how strong he felt when he held her, but the furring of light brown hair was a pleasant bonus. She liked chest hair, liked how it looked and the texture of it against her skin, liked the masculine contrast with her relative hairlessness. She looked forward to feeling its crisp softness under her hands, or better yet,
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