Hidden Desires Page 2

  "Nooooo."

  I was glad I couldn't see what had to be his annoying grin of triumph.

  His transition from punishment to possession was an admirably seamless one. One moment, I was receiving a spanking I wasn't at all sure I could take much more of—like I had a choice—and the next, I found myself speared by him in one smooth, gasp inspiring motion. He wasn't at all shy about making absolutely sure that I took every single tremendously imposing inch of him, either, to the point that he used his own knee to knock mine—where they were positioned at the edge of the bed—callously apart, then arched himself and stretched out over my back, so that I was completely surrounded and occupied by him, trapped helplessly beneath him, my wrists held above my head by a hand that was still warm from having laced into my behind.

  I was whimpering, with no way to stop it—or him—I knew. Large parts of me—parts I didn't often confront—adored every single bit of him making me feel so undeniably submissive and subjugated. There was another part of my brain, though, that had already sounded the alarm, noting that I was in danger, acknowledging the fact that this man was more than big and strong enough to make me do anything he wanted me to—and to do anything at all to me that struck his fancy. But that only added to my desire, instead of triggering any sense of self-preservation.

  Had I been in my right mind—which didn't seem to be possible around him for longer than it took for him to take me in his arms—I would have protested. I would have fought him. I would have done something—extricated myself somehow and fled to safety.

  But I didn't want to do that. My body sang and hummed and tingled in all the right places and I didn't think I could live if it stopped.

  Besides, any fantasies I had about getting free of him were just exactly that—fantasies. I had just about as much possibility of getting away from him as I had of being able to lift a house off of me.

  As he curled himself over me, which had the side effect of pushing that unyielding column of flesh up into me even further, he pressed sharply down on my neck, once, as if to remind me of his hold as he began to fuck me and talk to me at the same time—what was a truly combustible combination for me.

  "Oh yes, and you are going to get your bottom striped by my belt, too, when we're done here, young lady. How many times did I call you? How many texts? To say nothing of the fact that you hightailed it out of my place without so much as a peck on the cheek that morning."

  My first—automatic—impulse was to want to explain to him why I had done what I'd done—that I'd felt so overwhelmed by what had happened between us—that I still held firm to the idea that I couldn't do something like that, even though I obviously had—that I needed some time to sort things out and get my head around him and how almost eerily well he seemed to know what I wanted.

  But the rebellious side of my nature rose up at that idea, and even if I had been physically capable of saying all of that—which I most certainly was not, considering my position—I wouldn't have. I didn't owe him anything. He was a one-night stand. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Wasn't that supposed to be the essence of the whole encounter—no accountability on the part of either partner? Apparently, he hadn't read the fine print.

  The fact that I had been obsessing over him for the past twelve days did not enter into the equation. Neither did the fact that, when I masturbated—which I did about ten times more than usual lately—he was the impetus for each and every time. I had replayed everything I could remember about what we'd done, and the potent combination of shame at my actions and the remembered passion had gotten me off in record time, every damned time.

  He varied his rhythm—at times pumping into me so hard and fast, I felt my bones shake—sometimes accosting me slowly, making me feel every inch of me was thoroughly possessed by him. And he continued to talk to me, which was very nearly worse.

  "I want more. I will have more of you than I am even having right now. I will have your mind and your heart and your body and your very soul. I will own you completely, punish you strictly, cherish you tenderly and fuck you savagely."

  For what seemed like forever, he held me totally immobile and took me, in the barest sense of the word, his cock driving into me so hard that I had to practically scream at every thrust, which only seemed to spur him on.

  And when he could somehow tell that I was close, he loosened my hands—that he knew I would have no strength to lift against him anymore, anyway—and brought his between my well splayed legs to press and swirl the enormous pad of his thumb over my clit as I felt my arousal dripping down onto those fingers.

  "Come, baby. You know you want to. You know I'm not going to let you get away from it. There's nothing you can do to stop me from bringing you off."

  As much as his words excited me—and they did—I still did my best to try to shake my head, the only overt movement I made—I was able to make—in answer to his challenge. Somehow, he sounded so sure of himself, so arrogant, and it annoyed the crap out of me. And, surprisingly, because of that, I had another defense that kicked in automatically, even though I knew I was just delaying the inevitable. I wouldn't be able to put it off indefinitely, but I could defy him for a short while longer and, regardless of the way my body was clamoring for the release I knew only he could give me, my stubborn side won out and kind of turned all of those sensations off—or rather diverted them for a bit—so that things weren't anywhere near as acute as they had been.

  I could tell that he was surprised when my moans died down a bit in volume because he actually paused for a nanosecond, and then he immediately redoubled his efforts.

  I knew it was futile to try to resist him, and I lost the battle in a depressingly short amount of time as my passions came raging furiously back—as if pissed off for having been sublimated, even for that short amount of time—wresting control away from me and seizing my body—intellectually and physically.

  It was here. It was seconds away.

  "No!" I cried on an agonized moan that rose in volume as I hit the bliss full body on. "No, no, no—pleeeeaassee!"

  "Yes, little girl," he hissed. "I will always make it yes for you."

  That first spasm nearly knocked me completely out. I had to fight to retain consciousness as the rest of them piled onto and over me, my body shuddering and shaking in his arms so badly that if I hadn't heard him shout, I wouldn't have known whether or not he'd come—I was too overtaken by the way ecstasy was raging violently through me. My eyes were wide open and I was having to drag great gulps of air into my lungs and it wasn't enough.

  Nothing would ever be enough again after this but this.

  CHAPTER 2

  Damned if he wasn't great at cuddling, too. The man was a triple threat—physically, he was my walking wet dream. He could fuck me into next week, and he actually insisted that I cuddle with him.

  I was sitting on the edge of my bed, one foot on the floor, as if I was going to bolt at any second, my very stillness a warning in and of itself. A big hand wrapped around my upper arm and tugged, gently but firmly.

  I don't know what kind of reaction he expected, but I doubt it was the one he got.

  I fought him—actively, and with everything in me, mindlessly twisting and rolling my body, trying to get away from him. There wasn't a thought in my head except that I had to escape him.

  It was too much.

  He was too much.

  Too fucking good.

  Too willing and able—devastatingly, naturally, instinctively so—to play into every fantasy I owned.

  I was overmatched from the start, of course, even if he was still panting and visibly tired, himself, from what we'd just done. He had me held fast in his arms in a humiliatingly short amount of time, both arms around me, one leg between mine, keeping me a bit twisted over his hip, helpless and open to him.

  I had a feeling that this was going to become a familiar position.

  I could, I thought, use my last line of defense and bring my bottom knee up and into his j
ewels, but when I tried to move my leg experimentally, just to see if I could, I got nothing. Exhaustion. Yeah, that was it. I couldn't do it because I was wrung out.

  Certainly, not because he outweighed me by about a hundred pounds of pure muscle.

  I glared up at him, considering my options—I could spit on him. I could bite him.

  As if he could read my mind, he rumbled from deep in his chest, "Before you do something you're going to seriously regret, Tawna, I suggest you remember that you already have one spanking coming. Do you really want to add on another?"

  My teeth were bared as I growled at him, and I could see that he was trying not to chuckle at my attempt at fierceness and that only made me madder, but my renewed attempts at escape just exhausted me further, if that was even possible.

  Leaving one hand at my mid back to hold me in place—the show off—the other burying itself in my hair, using it to pull my head back to an awkward, uncomfortable angle, he asked seriously, as if my answer was truly important to him, "Why are you so angry? I let you come, didn't I?"

  He sounded sincere, but that last bit made me want to head butt him so bad.

  To my horror, since I had no other outlet for my anger—or any other of the huge emotions and sensations that had been flooding into me since I'd met him—my eyes filled with tears. I could not have been more mortified.

  The arms around me loosened some, but not a lot as he looked into my eyes with sudden understanding that I wished he'd impart to me, since I had no idea what the hell I was doing. As he stroked my hair tenderly, he whispered, "Oh, honey, you don't have to be afraid. I'll keep you safe."

  "I don't want you to keep me safe, God dammit! I want you to let me go!"

  He sounded almost regretful. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I just can't do that." Then he added with great candor, "If I could have done that, I'd've never landed on your doorstep this morning." And he looked surprisingly abashed, as if he was sincerely sorry to have to thwart my desire, which wasn't an emotion I would have associated with him in any way. Instead, he commenced to rubbing my back with the absolute perfect amount of pressure, massaging aches of out muscles I didn't know I had, the hand that had control of my head pressing my cheek to his chest and stroking my hair.

  "Try to relax. I meant it when I said you're safe with me."

  I snorted, still unable to shake my head, but retorting derisively, "I most certainly am not! You are about the most dangerous man I've ever met in my life."

  "Me? Dangerous to you?" There was genuine amazement in his tone. "How so?"

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  Suddenly, I was on my back as he hovered over me, his face very nearly touching mine. "But I do."

  For once, I didn't try to fight him in any way. Instead, I simply raised my eyebrow at him. "And you wonder why I think you're dangerous?"

  "I would never hurt you."

  "Says the man who spanked me as he was fucking me and has already promised me another."

  Was that a blush? I couldn't believe my eyes! "Well, there's hurt and then there's hurt."

  I glared up at him. "It's all the same to me."

  "No, it's not." As if to prove his point, one hand wedged itself between us to cup me—there, where it counted the most, my feminine vulnerability covered by that big, surprisingly dexterous—paw.

  It didn't help my cause in the least that I contracted—with a soft sigh—as soon as it settled there.

  "I thought I'd taught you that the last time we were together. Do I need to repeat the lesson?"

  I honestly didn't remember that lesson—some parts of that night were still a sensual blur—but I was smart enough both not to admit that to him and to know that I did not want a replay of it. "No."

  "How else do you see me as a threat to you?" he asked.

  Couldn't he just let it go? I clamped my mouth shut with a painful click.

  And those fingers attacked me at my weakest—neediest—most sensitive spot and with such delicacy that I began to roll my head back and forth in protest, my breathing rapidly becoming at least as ragged as it had been minutes before.

  "I know you're capable of having more than one orgasm, Tawna," he whispered as if he was revealing a state secret. "You're probably going to discover that that's both a blessing and a curse around me."

  As much as I wanted to melt into the sensations he was creating within me, I pounced as firmly as I could. "There. That."

  "What?"

  "What you just said!"

  "But it's the truth!"

  "But you don't have to say it! You're always saying—and doing—things that seem so calculated to drive me—" I'd already said way, way too much, so I stopped abruptly, wishing I could clamp a hand over my tattletale mouth.

  Damn.

  He was looking entirely too happy with himself for my comfort, and his finger began to crook between my lips, trailing oh so delicately over the very tip of my not so little, still violently throbbing bud. I had no control at all over the way my hips arched, seeking more contact with that bold finger.

  "I'm always saying—and doing—things that drive you crazy, hmm?" he rasped, his lips against my nipple, sounding much too happy to hear that for my comfort.

  I don't know how I was even pretending to carry on this conversation, but I felt I had to point out to him on a barely-there whisper, which was all the air I could divert from having to gulp in air at what he was doing to me, "'Calculated. You missed the calculated."

  He frowned and the stimulation stopped.

  I wasn't sure whether to feel victorious, to start to cry again or to rage against the cessation, even though it was what I supposedly wanted.

  Quint lifted himself further up on his arms, further up on me. "You think I'm—what? Staging all of this? That I'm some sort of actor and this is just a script or something?"

  He didn't look angry, really, more perplexed and—was that hurt?

  "No, not really…I just…" I just didn't want to tell him the truth. I couldn't possibly tell him. Could I?

  "'Not really'?" he quoted back to me pointedly, and when my eyes flitted to his, I could see that he was quite tense, as if my response really mattered to him.

  I sighed in exasperation, still desperate to tiptoe around the whole truth, but it didn't look like he was going to let me. "You're just…you're too damned perfect, is all." My eyes skittered away from his.

  That perked the pain in the ass up. "I am?"

  "Yes. And it all feels really…really unreal, because of it—also because of the drinking, which kind of clouds some of it up."

  "Is that why you've been ignoring me?"

  Not really wanting to admit it, I skirted around it instead. "I need time. I don't—I don't know what to do with you."

  That finger was back, as was a broad grin that revealed a slash of gorgeous white teeth amidst all of that beautifully tanned skin. What I wouldn't have given to be able to wipe it off his face. "I think this is a very good start."

  "No—please. I know I say 'no' a lot, but I mean it this time. Stop, please."

  He did, although he did not remove his hand, and thus, the threat was always there.

  "Let me up."

  Quint looked skeptical. "I don't think so. I like having you at a disadvantage like this."

  Another snort. "You always have me at a disadvantage. You're three times my size; you're solid muscle—I don't even think there are any bones in your body—it's just muscle."

  He laughed but also looked confused "You told me that night that you loved muscular men. You said I was just your type."

  I closed my eyes on a sigh, afraid of asking this question, but needing to know the answer. "What else did I tell you, dare I ask?"

  "That you liked it rough, that you wanted to be made to submit. That you wanted a D/s relationship, but you didn't think most men understood them very well, so you didn't trust them. And you had never told that to any man before, and, in the same sentence, that you love blintzes and Cadbury cream eggs."r />
  "Fuck. Me." I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. "No! That was not a command. Just an expression of intense mortification." On another resigned sigh, I asked, "What else?" trying not to physically cringe away from whatever it was he said.

  "Not much more than that. You were very eager and also very biddable. You got spanked, but you were overall very well behaved—"

  She interrupted with, "I don't want a fucking report card; I want to know what I said to you!"

  "That's enough."

  He didn't raise his voice so much as a decibel, but it was obvious from his tone that Mr. Nice Guy had been replaced by Mr. I'm Not Going to Tolerate That Attitude from You.

  "I don't know how much you remember, but I was pretty drunk, myself. I don't usually take women home from bars."

  What I said in reply was quite deliberately mumbled, but I was smart enough that I should have realized he wasn't going to let me get away with that.

  "What did you say?"

  Oh, dear God. That voice. It reverberated in my head and made me want to obey him—that created within me a physical need to do as he asked.

  A need I ignored, at least until he moved—so quickly for so big a man—down my body, his mouth finding the spot his hand had claimed seconds earlier, those already damp fingers being fucked up into me to immediately locate and begin to rasp insistently over my G-spot while he stroked his tongue from one end of my clit to the other then back again very quickly, missing no spot in between.

  I was already embarrassingly close and I reached down to bury my hand in his hair, wanting to feel those long locks between my fingers. But before I reached him, I found my hands caught and held over my tummy.

  Too. Damned. Perfect.

  "Oh my God. Oh my God!" I began to chant, skating at the edge of oblivion.

  So, of course, he stopped.

  "Tell me what you said, or I'll keep you here until you do." He said it so matter of factly, as if he was just saying that it was sunny out, not threatening to tease me until I conformed to his will.