Pretend Love Romance by Penny Wylder
Rachel
That was the hottest thing that I’ve ever done. I’ve never been tied up before, and that added element of not being able to move my hands turned my arousal up to eleven.
I honestly barely noticed Clayton’s bed frame in the midst of our passion, but now I’m very aware of the fact that there are four tall posts. They don’t go to the ceiling or anything, but they’re prominent, and given that rope is wrapped around my wrists, I’m betting those are coming into play.
“You like the rope,” Clayton says. It’s not a question.
“Yes.”
He smirks. “Ready for more?”
“Hell yes,” I breathe.
Clayton unwinds the rope from my wrists, but he doesn’t free me. He keeps the rope attached, drawing me over to the bed, and laying me out. One by one he ties my wrists to the bedposts. And when he strokes his fingers down my legs to wrap his hand around my ankle, I’m shaking with anticipation.
He locks eyes with me as he wraps the rope, deliberately making me think about the fact that I’m being bound to the bed. Open. Vulnerable. Exactly where he wants me.
Terrifying and exhilarating. I trust Clayton. On a level deeper than conscious thought, I know that I am safe with him. Even as I test the strength of the ropes and my fight or flight instinct kicks in, I know I am safe. But that doesn’t stop me from yanking on the ropes and trying to break free.
Clayton easily grabs my other ankle and finishes securing it to the bed. And then I can’t move at all. My breath is short. He drops his pants all the way to the floor and steps out of them. He strips off his shirt so he is completely naked in front of me, hard again. Lazily, he rolls the condom down his cock, drawing my eyes to his length. Fucking hell.
When he climbs up my body, it’s like a beast coming to consume his prey. Sexy as hell. “I like you like this,” he murmurs against my lips. “I can do whatever I like with you.”
I am nothing but heat, and if I had my eyes closed, I would swear that I was on fire.
He laughs softly. “I need to buy a vibrator.”
Searching his face, I don’t think that he’s joking. “Why would you need one?”
A slow, feral grin. “Once I buy one, I’ll tie you down just like this. Maybe tighter. Blindfold you. And then I’ll strap the vibrator to your clit and let it run.”
“That sounds fun,” I manage, breathlessly.
“But here’s the catch,” he says. “I could leave you here, just like that. Go downstairs and have a snack. Watch TV. Read a book. While you were just here, with nothing to do but feel while I had the remote.”
I swear to God that there’s no more air in this room. He’s taken it all with his fantasy. I have to close my eyes, and I can’t breathe. My pussy is so wet I can feel it. Clayton’s lips move at my ear. “And under no circumstances would you be allowed to come until I told you that you could.”
“Fucking hell,” I said.
“Can you imagine that, Rachel? Tied to my bed, writhing in pleasure just because I want to you to?”
Part of me knows that he’s saying it just to turn me on, but fuck me, it’s working. Lips graze along my neck, and the vibrations of his voice ripples goosebumps across my skin. “And if you don’t make it, we start all over again the next day until you learn how to be a good girl with some self-control.”
All I can do is moan.
Clayton fits himself between my legs and drives in to the hilt in one motion. I can’t move an inch, and the sudden invasion nearly sends me over. His words take me so close that I think if he had kept talking he could have told me to come and I would have. Now, euphoria drips down my body as he fucks me hard.
I reach for him and can’t, reminded that I’m bound in his ropes so he can do what he likes, and that’s the end. I come. One blinding tsunami of pleasure, and I scream his name, begging for more.
He doesn’t hold back, working me with long, smooth strokes. Hard. Fast. This is beyond fucking. This is being taken. My mind goes blissfully blank as I fall into the rhythm of it, falling into pleasure again. I’m not sure that I can separate one orgasm from the next.
Clayton’s hand is at my throat, and through the haze of pleasure I hear his words. “Look at me, Rachel.”
With his gaze locked on mine, there’s nowhere to hide. Everything I am. Every vulnerability and weakness is on display for him, every need and strength. Something weaves itself together in my gut, a connection that I’ve been fighting but can’t anymore. Deep and permanent and true.
He drives home faster, never looking away as he finds his own release. Lips fall on mine, nearly bruising in pressure. Clayton’s tongue invades my mouth, taking what’s left of my breath and my doubts, still pushing through his orgasm until he’s spent and we’re both panting like we’ve run a marathon.
“You’re damn perfect,” he breathes.
I laugh. “No one’s perfect.”
Still inside me, Clayton thrusts once, hard, and I gasp. “What did I tell you about compliments?”
“That’s not a compliment, that’s a statement,” I say, smirking and still gasping for breath. “And a false one. I can’t be perfect.”
“I’ll rephrase then. You are perfect for me?”
The words catch me off-guard, lodging in my chest. They hit me in a way I don’t expect, bringing sudden emotion to my eyes.
I try to reach for him, but I’m still bound. Slowly, Clayton eases out of me and releases me from the ropes, rotating and massaging the stiffness and pain from them. And when he’s finished, he gathers me into his arms and sits on the bed, cradling me. “How do you feel?”
Languid. Boneless. Totally at peace. “Good.”
He chuckles softly. “Hopefully more than good.”
“Words are hard.”
Glancing at the clock. “You still have time for a shower before you head to the lodge.”
I lean my head on his shoulder. “Shower with me?”
“We both know that if we showered together, you would be late.”
“Worth it.”
He laughs, setting me on my feet. “As much as we’d both like that, I think you need to rest. I need you to still be able to walk.”
I go, stopping myself before I try to argue that walking is overrated. When I come out of the bathroom he is dressed, looking like he is about to go back out and work. Even dressed, he is sexy as hell. “Come to the dining room at the end of the service,” I tell him. “I’ll have something to show you.”
“Okay, wife,” Clayton says, kissing me on the forehead.
“See you later, husband.” What’s weird about calling him that is that it doesn’t feel weird at all.
