time.”
“I have time.” He sets me on the stool and his hands settle on my waist. “Now, about the begging.”
I smile. “You’re going to miss your flight. You do know that, don’t you?”
He turns me to face the easel and tugs the shirt over my head. I brush hair from my eyes and suck in a breath at the painting I’m now staring at. It’s me, and I’m sitting in the middle of the floor of the “man-cave” on my knees with my hands bound in front me. “What’s that wrapped around my wrists?” I ask, my throat rasping with dryness when suddenly my hands are behind my back and I feel the tug of them being wrapped and bound.
Chris steps in front of me and holds up a roll of tape. “Very efficient.”
“Chris,” I whisper. “You’re going to miss your flight.”
His lips curve seductively. “You clearly underestimate my efficiency.” He goes down on a knee in front of me and spreads my legs. “Now. On to the begging.” His hands, those talented, artistic hands, travel up my thighs and his thumbs stroke my clit. “I’m on a timer, right? I’d better get busy?” His tongue drags slowly,sensually over me. “Like sugar, baby, and I’m going to melt you like honey.”
My body sways. “And I’m going to fall off this stool.”
“Not if you lean into me,” he says, and slides two fingers inside me. “Lean.”
I arch forward and slide. “I’m going to fall.”
“I have you, Sara.” His fingers splay on my thighs. “Trust me. I have you.” His eyes hold mine and the depth of power and heat I find there are as limitless as what he makes me feel. His voice softens into a caress. “Relax into me.”
Relax into him. Like I had in bed. I nod. “Yes.”
Slowly, he lowers his head and I feel the warm trickle of his hot breath a moment before his mouth closes down on my clit. I gasp as his hand leaves my leg and my body shifts forward, but then his fingers are inside me, and that arch of my body is like sweet, unbearably necessary pressure. I am on the edge in a flash of seconds and Chris is wrong, so very wrong. I won’t beg. There isn’t time. I’m going to come and there is no question, none whatsoever, that this man owns me and I can’t think of a single reason why that’s a bad thing.
• • •
Forty-five minutes later, I’m still wearing nothing but Chris’s shirt and standing in the kitchen, watching while he downs the cup of coffee I’ve poured him as if it’s not scalding hot. His hair is damp, finger tossed, and sexy, and he’s wearing a light blue T-shirt with Spider-Man on the front that one of the kids he’s seeing at the hospital gave to him, with black jeans. I’m eager to discover what has inspired such fierce dedication to this charity and wish I had more time to ask him about his involvement.
“Did you sleep at all?” I ask, and I try not to let my insecurity run wild. But if he wanted me in his bed, why wasn’t he in it with me?
“I don’t sleep much at night. That’s when I paint.” He reaches for the cup I’m holding and sips some of my coffee. “I had something I wanted to paint for one of the kids. He’s a bit of a movie fanatic like I am so we’ve bonded over a few favorites.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirteen.”
“Cancer?”
He nods, his expression tightening. “Leukemia. Late stages. It’s destroying his parents. They’re good people forced to watch their child die.”
My chest pinches painfully. “You’re sure he’s going to die?”
“Yeah. He’s going to die. And believe me, if there was an amount of money or medicine that would change that, I’d make it happen.” He runs his hand through his fast-drying hair and turns away, walking to the phone and calling for a cab. I can see the tension ripple along his shoulders. I can’t imagine what it must be like to know someone you love is dying and be powerless to stop it, but I think Chris does. I mean, didn’t he watch his father slowly drink himself to death?
“I have time.” He sets me on the stool and his hands settle on my waist. “Now, about the begging.”
I smile. “You’re going to miss your flight. You do know that, don’t you?”
He turns me to face the easel and tugs the shirt over my head. I brush hair from my eyes and suck in a breath at the painting I’m now staring at. It’s me, and I’m sitting in the middle of the floor of the “man-cave” on my knees with my hands bound in front me. “What’s that wrapped around my wrists?” I ask, my throat rasping with dryness when suddenly my hands are behind my back and I feel the tug of them being wrapped and bound.
Chris steps in front of me and holds up a roll of tape. “Very efficient.”
“Chris,” I whisper. “You’re going to miss your flight.”
His lips curve seductively. “You clearly underestimate my efficiency.” He goes down on a knee in front of me and spreads my legs. “Now. On to the begging.” His hands, those talented, artistic hands, travel up my thighs and his thumbs stroke my clit. “I’m on a timer, right? I’d better get busy?” His tongue drags slowly,sensually over me. “Like sugar, baby, and I’m going to melt you like honey.”
My body sways. “And I’m going to fall off this stool.”
“Not if you lean into me,” he says, and slides two fingers inside me. “Lean.”
I arch forward and slide. “I’m going to fall.”
“I have you, Sara.” His fingers splay on my thighs. “Trust me. I have you.” His eyes hold mine and the depth of power and heat I find there are as limitless as what he makes me feel. His voice softens into a caress. “Relax into me.”
Relax into him. Like I had in bed. I nod. “Yes.”
Slowly, he lowers his head and I feel the warm trickle of his hot breath a moment before his mouth closes down on my clit. I gasp as his hand leaves my leg and my body shifts forward, but then his fingers are inside me, and that arch of my body is like sweet, unbearably necessary pressure. I am on the edge in a flash of seconds and Chris is wrong, so very wrong. I won’t beg. There isn’t time. I’m going to come and there is no question, none whatsoever, that this man owns me and I can’t think of a single reason why that’s a bad thing.
• • •
Forty-five minutes later, I’m still wearing nothing but Chris’s shirt and standing in the kitchen, watching while he downs the cup of coffee I’ve poured him as if it’s not scalding hot. His hair is damp, finger tossed, and sexy, and he’s wearing a light blue T-shirt with Spider-Man on the front that one of the kids he’s seeing at the hospital gave to him, with black jeans. I’m eager to discover what has inspired such fierce dedication to this charity and wish I had more time to ask him about his involvement.
“Did you sleep at all?” I ask, and I try not to let my insecurity run wild. But if he wanted me in his bed, why wasn’t he in it with me?
“I don’t sleep much at night. That’s when I paint.” He reaches for the cup I’m holding and sips some of my coffee. “I had something I wanted to paint for one of the kids. He’s a bit of a movie fanatic like I am so we’ve bonded over a few favorites.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirteen.”
“Cancer?”
He nods, his expression tightening. “Leukemia. Late stages. It’s destroying his parents. They’re good people forced to watch their child die.”
My chest pinches painfully. “You’re sure he’s going to die?”
“Yeah. He’s going to die. And believe me, if there was an amount of money or medicine that would change that, I’d make it happen.” He runs his hand through his fast-drying hair and turns away, walking to the phone and calling for a cab. I can see the tension ripple along his shoulders. I can’t imagine what it must be like to know someone you love is dying and be powerless to stop it, but I think Chris does. I mean, didn’t he watch his father slowly drink himself to death?
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