Mirror of My Soul (Nature of Desire #4)
Page 20If that was what this was. At this moment, she knew it was. She might doubt it tomorrow when the shadows returned, but if she could believe it tonight, then maybe with the doubt would also be hope. She hungered to feel that, to feel the butterflies when she wasn’t with him, when she was thinking about him, the way Chloe and Gen did when they had lovers. Secret smiles, weak knees, chuckling at their own besottedness.
No doubt on that at least. She was most definitely besotted with Tyler Winterman.
And, oh God. That mouth still suckled her nipples, pulling fire into her lower belly, a fire that was spreading even lower so she was writhing sinuously. Rubbing her mound against his hard abdomen, feeling his erection against her inner thigh. She wanted it higher. Wanted it deep inside again.
Abruptly, he released her from the footboard but left her hands bound until he pushed her down on her stomach on the bed. He unstrapped the wrists only to stretch her arms out across the mattress until her hands were clutching the corner seam. He retied and anchored her to the side rail. On the large bed, her feet just went over the edge. When he put a knee on the mattress between her spread legs, there was a quiet, still moment where he simply stood over her, and she felt him looking at her. Her body vibrated, hips moving in alluring, wanton invitation. Then he destroyed her.
Bending over her, he placed his lips on the cigarette scar at the lowest part of her back, his jaw touching her buttocks. He traced the scar with his tongue, kissed and nibbled it, then moved up to the next one, on the opposite side of the valley formed by her spinal cord.
“There’s only me, angel,” he muttered. “Now and forever. Say it. Mine.”
“Mine.”
He paused, his lips on her back, and she strained against her bonds, moving against him. “Mine,” she repeated.
He bit down not so gently, making her moan. “Yes, angel. I’m all yours. Yours.” He understood. She was grateful because she was beyond the irritating complexity of words. She knew she was already his, had known it deep inside the moment he first came into Tea Leaves and she felt undone by the flash of those amber eyes. But to believe he was something she could keep, not a fleeting fantasy or a dream…
“All yours,” he breathed as he went up her back, his fingers following, tracing her buttocks, his knee moving forward, pressing against her pussy. She arched up, rubbing against him, making tiny mewls of pleasure and need.
He put his arm under her waist, bringing her up higher, her hips into the air, increasing the strain on the restraints on her arms. When his cock slid in deep, his testicles soft against her inner thighs, a secret, intimate caress of contact, he did not even pause in his thorough attention to her scars. Her breath left her on a moan as he worked his way up her spine. The power of the sensation created by his slow swirling of tongue and the brief presence of teeth was matched by each stroke and withdrawal that dragged fire along her slick channel. Her belly clenched for a climax held just out of reach.
“Oh…” She said it softly, trembling on each stroke, each kiss as if her body were frozen, held in the near state of rapture, her skin cognizant of everywhere it was being touched by his. The muscles of his stomach along her buttocks. His hand braced on the bed so close his thumb brushed her side, the outer curve of her breast, increasing the friction of the spread against her nipples, her desire to have him touch her there. His arm around her waist, holding her secure.
Then he withdrew from her despite her cry of protest and turned her over, twisting the belt. She felt him lie down upon her, his chest pressing down on her aching breasts, his cock finding her again and sliding back in, his body pinning her, holding her so their movements became a dance, her undulation against the relentless, steady and slow rhythm of his penetration. He put his hands up on either side of her face, elbows on the bed, forearms pressed against the underside of her arms where she had them stretched above her head.
“My angel,” he said in a soft, almost reverent voice. She could imagine his tiger’s eyes glowing in the dim light just above her.
She knew he’d chosen this position to seal the intimacy between them. There would be no excuse or rationalizations as escape hatches later. She wished the scarf was gone so that she could meet his gaze, give him that.
“Say it,” he said. She felt his body gathering, the power ready to be unleashed with his release. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Yours.” The words tumbled from her lips. “I’m yours.”
“Sweet angel. Sweet Mistress.” He nuzzled her ear. Her body was on fire, aching as he drew her higher and higher, both sweating, trembling, him holding back, keeping the pace to deny her release until she made it to a height she’d never known she could reach.
“Beg me, angel. I want to hear you.”
She sank her teeth into his shoulder, a growl his answer. Catching her hair in his hand, he wrapped his fingers in it, tightening his hold on her. His strokes became more powerful, demanding. “Making love, fucking you, holding you, it makes no difference.
“Soon…” He changed his angle again. Gripping him with her inner muscles, she tried to stroke him past the point of control. She strained to lock her legs around him, take him deeper, but he was stronger and kept the pace he wanted.
“Please…Master. Please…” She arched up and he captured one of her nipples, biting down hard on it, even as he surged forward, pounding now, holding her tight.
“Go over, Marguerite. Scream.”
The music of it broke from her lips before he finished the thought. She arched beneath him, her cunt sucking on him wildly, her body convulsing from the strength of the orgasm. His own roared through him and he used it, thrusting into her again and again, letting the hot streams bring her own climax to new heights, watching her face as much as he could, every nuance of expression, those beautiful lips that had called him Master, the only woman he wanted to do so again.
Her body was damp and strong beneath him yet he felt her fragility, a woman afraid to call herself his. Even more afraid to claim him as her own, because she’d never had anything she’d loved endure, anything she could keep.
In that brief moment of understanding, he grasped why she’d needed to see his vulnerability, a woman’s odd way of knowing a man truly needed her.
If she only knew. He couldn’t imagine breathing without her.
He let her hear him as well, giving his release hard and deep in her, wanting to leave no question in her mind, no part of her untouched by himself.
He loved Marguerite Perruquet. All he needed to do was convince her she could love him back and not lose him.
She strained up in the dim light. “Please. Let me see you. Touch you.” He removed the scarf, freed her hands. She touched every feature of his face, light, wondrous touches. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” she asked. “Mistress or Master…slave.”
And remembering Komal, he thanked God for miracles.
Marguerite made her way out to the Aphrodite garden, her cup of tea in hand. The statue gleamed in the morning sun, the bronze tresses of hair wound around the manacles on her wrists, face turned up in ecstasy. Freedom found inside the binding of love and pleasure. Trust, commitment. Friendship. They’d always been words belonging to other people, something she watched like television programs about experiences she could never have.
But the way Tyler had left her this morning… With a soft kiss and regret in his eyes that he had to conduct some business in his home office. He’d promised to join her within an hour. Consideration. The desire to spend time with her.
The grass around the statue was soft. Taking off the slippers he’d provided, she sank her toes in the springy mattress and at the same time set her mug of steaming Earl Grey like an offering at the feet of the Goddess. Next to her sandals from last night, she noted with amusement. After a moment of contemplation, she slipped the belt of the robe and began to slide it off her shoulders.
A discreet cough arrested the motion. She looked over and found the statue was not the only aesthetically pleasing thing in the garden. Josh leaned back on the bench, wearing his jeans of the prior night and an open shirt, carelessly thrown on. His hair was still tousled, the wire rims of his glasses unable to disguise the beauty of his gray eyes.
“I don’t wish to stop you in any way, because I’m poised to sketch.” He waved the blank pad. “But I find my models usually prefer to have a choice in the matter.” She nodded, her fingers on the lapels of the robe, fingering the silky fabric. The skin beneath still felt sensitized from Tyler’s frequent touches throughout the night. “Your wife doesn’t mind you sketching a naked woman?”
“It’s sort of like the foot on the floor rule.” He smiled. “As long as I keep ten feet between us, it’s fine.”
She noted there was about twelve feet, the bench hugged by the hedge of fragrant honeysuckle behind him. He nodded. “I’m an erotic artist, so of course she knows what my work requires. I’d love to sketch you.” A shadow crossed his eyes. “With her gone, it’s hard to find inspiration.” He lifted a shoulder. “Elements of you remind me of her, so I’m asking you for the honor. Mistress.” He gave a little half bow from the waist.
It warmed her like the sun soaking into her shoulders, which was making her drowsy, reminding her of her long night and how little sleep she’d had. Or wanted, at the time. “If I can see the rest of the tattoo work. Fair is fair. And we’ll maintain that ten feet.”