e, baby.” His thumb presses on my tongue, and my mouth closes round him, sucking wildly. I taste the saltiness on his thumb and the faint metallic tang of blood. Holy fuck. This is wrong, but holy hell is it erotic.
“I want to fuck your mouth, Anastasia, and I will soon,” his voice is hoarse, raw, his breathing more disjointed.
Fuck my mouth! I moan, and I bite down on him. He gasps, and he pulls my hair tighter, painfully, so I release him.
“Naughty, sweet girl,” he whispers, and then reaches over to the bedside table for a foil packet. “Stay still, don’t move,” he orders as he releases my hair.
He rips the foil while I’m breathing hard, my blood singing in my veins. The anticipation is exhilarating. He leans down, his weight on me again, and he grabs my hair holding my head immobile. I cannot move. I’m enticingly ensnared by him, and he’s poised and ready to take me once more.
“We’re going to go real, slow this time, Anastasia,” he breathes.
And slowly he eases into me, slowly, slowly, until he’s buried in me. Stretching, filling, relentless. I groan loudly. It feels deeper this time, delectable. I groan again, and he deliberately circles his hips and pulls back, pauses a beat, and then eases his way back in. He repeats this motion again and again. It’s driving me insane – his teasing, deliberately slow thrusts, and the intermittent feeling of fullness is overwhelming.
“You feel so good,” he groans, and my insides start to quiver. He pulls back and waits. “Oh no, baby, not yet,” he murmurs, and as the quivering ceases, he starts the whole delicious process again.
“Oh, please,” I beg. I’m not sure I can take much more. My body is wound so tight, cra一ving release.
“I want you sore, baby,” he murmurs, and he continues his sweet, leisurely torment, backward, forward.
“Every time you move tomorrow, I want you to be reminded that I’ve been here. Only me. You are mine.”
I groan.
“Please, Christian,” I whisper.
“What do you want, Anastasia? Tell me.”
I groan again. He pul
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