Текст книги "Tryst"
Автор книги: S. L. Jennings
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter Six
I’m not supposed to like this.
I’m not supposed to feel like I’m dying every second that passes without this stranger’s hands on me. I shouldn’t shiver as he towers over me, dissecting me with the darkest, sultriest eyes I’ve ever seen. And my breath shouldn’t be coming out in short, eager pants.
I’m not supposed to be here. But I am.
I’m not supposed to want this. But I do.
And even knowing my husband is merely a foot away, glaring at us so intensely that I can feel the burn of those bright blue eyes, I can’t force myself to be ashamed enough to stop. If anything, it just makes me want this more.
I gaze up at Ransom and wait, unable to do much else. The first stroke of his hand against my cheek is gentle, tender. His fingers lightly graze a path from the bottom of my jaw up to the shell of my ear. I exhale and let my eyes close, wrapped up in the feel of his skin. His hand is warm, his fingers strong and slightly callused, probably from years and years of playing guitar. They glide down to the nape of my neck before tangling in my hair. I open my eyes and gasp when he gently pulls at the strands at my scalp and I raise my chin in defiance. Or to give him better access.
My nipples strain against silk with every erratic breath. He seems bigger this close to me—taller. His tanned arms are roped with muscle and I can clearly see defined abs through the white cotton of his tee. Oh, how I want to reach out and rake my fingertips over that stomach. Desperate to be closer, I turn my head toward the bare skin of his forearm and inhale his intoxicating scent of spiced smoke and clean sweat with a heady¸ masculine undertone that makes my mouth water.
I’m inhaling once more when Ransom quickly pulls away, taking the haze of passion with him. His demeanor is cool and collected yet the fire in his dark eyes rages with uncontained chaos. I swallow down the disappointment at the loss of contact and try to steady my breathing. Now that I’m not completely wrapped up in his touch, my head swims with a tidal wave of emotions—guilt, excitement, shame, fear. But mostly need. The need to feel those hands on me again. The need to abandon all my inhibitions and be totally unchained in my desires. But I need my husband too. As much as I want to explore this . . . this thing . . . with Ransom, I need Tucker just as badly.
As rejection and confusion set in, I gaze over at Tucker, who continues to watch us with rapt attention. I expect him to be angry at my reaction to Ransom’s touch, but he isn’t. He looks just as aroused as I, and again, I question his motives. But his eyes aren’t on Ransom at all. He’s staring at me, studying the pink flush that contrasts with my pale skin. Watching the way my chest rises and falls rapidly. Yearning to touch my slightly parted lips with his own. Aching to run his tongue over my pebbled nipples that are clearly on display through my flimsy jumpsuit.
Tucker hasn’t looked at me this way since . . . since before I can remember. And it took another man touching me to bring him back to me. It took another man touching me to bring me back to him.
“Tucker,” Ransom rasps, cutting into the tense moment. “Your wife is exquisite.”
“She is, isn’t she,” my husband agrees.
“The things I would do to her . . . the pleasure I could bring her. Oh, how she’d sing.” He turns to me, a dark hunger in his eyes. “Do you sing, Heidi?”
Sing?
I’m not even sure what that means, or if I should want it. Who am I kidding? Of course, I want it. I want whatever he’s willing to give me.
“What?” I breathe, unable to ask him more than that. A sinister smile appears on his lips.
“When you come . . . do you sing? I want to know if you sing when you come.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Well, I’d like to find out.”
I don’t even know what to say to that. He wants to know if I sing when I come? For him?
I’m hot all over, my core burning up with need. Between the kiss with Tucker and Ransom’s touch, I know I am living dangerously close to the edge. It’s been so long since Tucker and I really made love, and my Battery Operated Boyfriend, aka BOB, has been no real replacement for the real thing. I need a man between my thighs, on top of me. Behind me. Under me. And at this point, with more champagne in my belly than food, I can’t decide which man I want more.
The room is silent aside from the pounding of three hearts, racing with anticipation. Maybe this was all I needed? To be desired by another man. Maybe this will be enough to get Tucker and me out of the rut of our marriage.
I tell myself it’s all in fun. That Ransom is just fucking with me and Tucker is somehow in on the big joke, when suddenly the young, hot rocker extends his hand to me. I look at his long fingers, the memory of them ghosting across my cheek still replaying in my mind, and try to determine what this means. I look to Tucker, who gives me just a simple, encouraging nod, and back to Ransom. He still wears that smug smile that he always plasters on, but there’s something else lurking in his impassive guise.
“Shall we?”
This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for. And I can’t think of one good reason why I should deny it anymore.
I place my hand in Ransom’s, giving over to the current of lust. He wraps his long, agile fingers around my hand and pulls me to my feet. My legs should be shaking, yet oddly, I feel completely calm. I’m filled with nervous energy, but it’s out of elation, not terror. There is no more doubt in my mind.
I look back at Tucker, who still sits on the couch, watching, waiting. With my other hand, I reach out for him, urging him with steel-colored eyes to take it.
“I need you with me. I can’t do this without you.”
Varied shades of shock, surprise, and admiration play on his features as he pauses to digest what I’ve said. He looks . . . touched. But that expression quickly morphs into hunger as he laces his fingers with mine and climbs to his feet.
I’m not sure what we’re doing, and how this will work, but I’m intrigued enough to find out.
The three of us make our way to the bedroom just a few yards away, yet every step feels like I’m walking the green mile to a beautiful death. Tonight will be my sexual suicide.
Ransom leads the way, ushering us into a room that is decked out like much of the hotel—chic, modern, and dark, with just a touch of rich color from jewel-toned tapestries. When we cross the threshold, Ransom goes to a little side table and picks up a tiny remote. With a push of a button, soft, sensual music flows throughout the room. He’s setting the mood. The mood for what? I’m not exactly sure.
He comes to stand before us, his gaze trained on me then Tucker. Something passes between them, and before I know what’s happening, we’re in motion. Tucker goes to sit in an armchair a few feet away against the wall. Ransom takes both my hands and leads me to the bed. The back of his legs hit the foot of the bed, and he pauses, looking down at me to await my reaction. When I don’t protest, he slowly sits down, aligning his face with my belly. I feel his hands burning through the thin fabric on the backs of my thighs, gently coasting up and then down to my calves. He keeps his eyes on me, his stare so intense that I can barely breathe, let alone blink. I force myself to look away, and seek Tucker’s comforting smile. His hands clutch the arms of the chair, yet he’s not angry. It almost seems like it’s an act of restraint.
“I want to see you,” Ransom murmurs, bringing my attention back to him. When I frown in confusion, he answers the unspoken question on my lips by letting his hands slide up my back to the clasped zipper. He waits for me to tell him to stop, but I don’t. I don’t even know if it’s possible at this point.
The soft rustle of fabric, a gentle pull and my jumpsuit is undone. Oh, the irony. To begin the night in pristine white, only for it to end up pooled at my feet at the hands of another man. My morals aren’t the only thing being tarnished.
With the straps loosened, the bodice barely contains my breasts. Just a small shrug and I’ll be fully on display. Using the lightest of touches, Ransom grazes the silken skin right above my nipples. Then he’s easing it down, over the swells, down my ribs, my belly, my thighs. When my clothing hits my feet, he takes a moment from undressing me and takes me in, standing only in a nude, lace thong. His intake of breath and smoldering stare give me a little jolt of satisfaction.
I’ve always been slender and long, which left me a bit deprived in the curves area. My breasts are small handfuls, granting me the ability to go braless when necessary, and my hips are delicately subtle. I’d consider my ass to be the most substantial part of my body. Plus I have legs for days.
Truth be told, I’ve always been insecure about my slight frame. I never felt womanly enough. The word voluptuous has never been used to describe me. But the way Ransom is looking at me—like I am the juiciest piece of filet he has ever seen, and he is dying to sink his teeth into me—makes me feel utterly sensuous.
His hands—those magnificently large callused hands—slide from my ankles to my calves to the backs of my knees. His eyes are still trained on me, looking like midnight against the dim lighting. It’s unsettling, almost scary, but I don’t look away. I just keep watching him watch me as his scorching touch languidly dances over my thighs to my hips. When I feel his fingers dig into the softness of my ass, he leans in and presses his lips to my navel. I begin to pant, dizzy with the need for more.
He sits upright and continues to explore my body with his hands, giving me so little yet successfully driving me wild with craving. A tiny smirk appears on his lips as if he knows just how much he affects me. As if he can literally smell the arousal pooling between my thighs, staining my lacey strip of underwear. Maybe he can. Considering how turned on I am right now, maybe my husband can too.
When his fingers meet my breasts, I can’t hold back the moan that rumbles from my chest. He touches me like I’m delicate. Like I’m merely made of silken butterfly wings. And while I love it—while his control is maddening and alluring—I want him to break me. I need him to tear me in two, rip me apart until I’m raw and ruined. I don’t want delicate and sweet. I’ve had enough of that. It’s all I’ve had for years, leaving that shameful, carnal part of me neglected.
Without warning, Ransom turns our bodies and flips me over so I am on my back on the bed and he is looming over me. The look on his face is a mix of desire and corruption, his smile just as vicious. He grasps my hips with rough hands and pulls me to the edge of the bed until my aching, lace-covered flesh hits the coarseness of his denim-clad legs.
“Tell me, Heidi,” he rasps, standing between my open legs. I struggle with the need to squirm against him in a quest to create friction. “Do you want me?”
“Yes.”
“And if I want to fuck you right now, would you let me?”
“Yes.”
“And would you let me do it right here in front of your husband? Do you want him to watch me fuck you?”
“Yes.” I can’t even tell if the word is audible through the moan in my throat.
He looks over at Tucker and raises a brow. “What do you say, Tuck? Do you want to watch me fuck your wife?”
I swallow, letting the guilt and shame slide down my throat like warm butter, and look to my husband with timid eyes. His gaze is already fixed on me, his jaw clenched with tension. Every second that he stares at me, I feel dirtier and dirtier. I want to run and hide from him, but not as much as I want to stay.
Finally, he releases a hissed answer between his teeth. “Yes.”
Yes.
He said yes.
He wants this. Maybe just as much as I do.
Ransom nods once before turning his attention back to the heated space between my thighs. “What do you want me to do to her first?” he asks my husband, hiking up my arousal by ten more notches.
Tucker clears his throat, yet his voice still comes out husky. “Kiss the inside of her thighs. She’s ticklish there but she loves it.”
Without further preamble, Ransom sinks to his knees. It starts as a soft brush up my left thigh. Then my right. Sweet, sucking kisses run along the sensitive skin until I’m squirming at the sensation. Tucker was right—I am ticklish. But knowing that Ransom’s head is between my legs—just centimeters from my swollen clit—creates a different type of tingle.
Just as I am adjusting to the foreign feeling of a stranger’s lips on me, he bites me. Hard enough to make me yelp, yet gentle enough not to break the skin. I jerk reflexively but Ransom roughly holds my legs open. He bites me again, this time on the opposite thigh, then again, and again. I’m reeling, completely befuddled in my haze of violent passion, when he begins to kiss me again. His soft lips and tongue are such a vast contrast from the sting of his teeth that the change makes me cry out.
He’s tonguing the edge of my thong when he asks, “What’s next?” I’m not even sure what he means until I hear Tucker answer, “Her breasts. She loves to have her nipples sucked and played with.”
Slowly, like a vicious jungle cat crawling over its scared prey, Ransom climbs onto the bed to hover over me. He’s still fully dressed, but with him at this angle, I can see hard planes of ripped muscle down his shirt. He dips his head to take a pink-tipped nipple into his mouth and I moan loudly, arching my back to offer him more. He answers my proposition by sucking harder, so hard that it nearly hurts. His fingers find my other nipple and he pinches it with the same ferocity, eliciting downright disgraceful sounds from my mouth. Then he switches, laving its twin with teeth and tongue.
“Next,” he groans, my nipple still in his mouth. He then pushes the two petite mounds together to suckle them simultaneously. He’s so hungry; I can feel his growls rumbling from his chest.
“Taste her,” Tucker pants. I can’t even look at him. I’m too lost to Ransom. Too lost to the pleasure he’s giving me. “Taste how fucking good her pussy is.”
Without wasting a second, Ransom drops to his knees and rips my thong from my body. Then he’s slipping his tongue between my folds with a frenzied hunger, claiming my orgasm within the first few minutes. I’m clawing at the comforter, calling for God, Jesus, and all the disciples, yet he doesn’t relent. He doesn’t give me a second to breathe before he sinks a long finger inside me.
Ransom’s teeth pinch my clit ever so gently as he slowly fingers me. He pauses to insert another finger and the soft nibbling turns into a hard suck. When he adds a third, speeding up the tempo, he licks me to the rhythm of each thrust.
I reach between my legs, searching for my captor, the man who binds me with such pleasure. My fingers run over the rugged knit of his slouchy beanie just as he thrusts his tongue inside me to join his fingers, causing me to crush the hat in my tight grip. Silken, dark brown hair tickles the inside of my thighs, only heightening the intense sensation.
Just as I am on the cusp of another orgasm, he asks Tucker what he should do next.
“Fuck her. Fuck her now.”
We’re in motion again, as Ransom rises and flips me over onto my stomach in one swift movement. My head is spinning, and I’m dizzy with the remnants of my first orgasm. I hear the clink of a belt buckle, the rustle of clothing and then the undeniable crinkling of a small, foil wrapper. Oh my God. Am I really doing this? Can I truly live with knowing that another man other than my husband has been inside me? And Tucker . . . will he be able to accept this—accept me? How will he ever look at me the same? I mean . . . why wouldn’t he? He told Ransom to touch me. He told Ransom to taste me. And, shit, he told Ransom to fuck me. He damn near demanded it.
I don’t get a second more to ruminate the dozen what-ifs and regrets jumbling my head before I feel his hands on my hips, pulling me up to rest on my knees so that my ass is fully on display for him. He pivots my body and places a hand on the back of my neck to position me just how he wants me. And how he wants me is cheek pressed into the mattress, my head turned to the side so I have a full view of Tucker. So I can watch my husband watch me being fucked by another man.
I whimper, feeling completely helpless and weak. The look on his face tells me that he feels the same. He’s helpless to stop this—we both are. Because as uncomfortable as this should make us, as downright disgraceful as this is, we’re both too invested to turn back now.
I feel Ransom’s hands palming my ass as he spreads me wider, revealing my wet, swollen sex. He runs his fingers down the seam, stopping at my entrance to dip into my slickness. My eyes widen with horror as I realize what he’s doing. He’s prepping me. He’s feeling how ready I am for him . . . how badly I want him. How desperately I need him to fill me and make me whole. I don’t want to moan, but I can’t help it. I don’t want my body to ache for him, but it does.
I find that I’m not the only one who is aching for relief. To my surprise, Tucker is fully erect inside his slacks as his palm runs along the strain, seeking release from its wool captivity. His blue eyes sparkle like angry fireworks, and his mouth is fixed in a hard line. But the way he’s touching himself—grasping the thick base and sliding his fingers along the swollen tip, growing more and more frantic with every stroke—is 100 percent, unadulterated desire.
Sin-slickened hardness presses at my entrance, opening me, stretching me like a rubber band that clasps around him greedily. We both groan as he pushes inside, and I let my eyes close in ecstasy, just relishing the feel of complete fullness. When he’s completely submerged within my walls, Ransom grasps my chin roughly, leaning over to press his chest to my back.
“Open your eyes, love. Look at him. Let him see what I can do to you.”
And then he really performs for me—for us. Long fingers dig into my hips, holding me to meet every single hard thrust. He isn’t gentle or tender. He’s not loving or romantic. Ransom is proving to be exactly what I’ve learned of him thus far—severe, harsh, and undeniably sexual. And I am loving every second of it.
My hazy eyes find Tucker and I see that he has unsheathed his rock-hard erection from his slacks and fists it in time to the rhythm of Ransom’s strokes. It’s as if the three of us are one—one panting, moaning, fucking entity.
With one hand on my hip and the other gripping the back of my neck, Ransom plows into me, grunting with every forceful surge of lust. The room is filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin and our indecent groans of pleasure, creating a personalized soundtrack of sex that completely drowns out Jay-Z’s “American Gangster.” Even the noises hissing between Tucker’s lips are explicitly erotic, as he coaches Ransom in the art of claiming me.
That’s right. Fuck her hard. Harder.
Pull her hair. He does, causing my scalp to prickle with the pain of a thousand tiny daggers.
Slap her ass. He does that too, stealing my breath. Again . . . slap it again. This time make it hurt.
It’s all so much. All so overwhelming. And all so different from what I’m used to feeling. Tucker has never expressed himself this way during sex with me. No, everything is so sweet and romantic, as he murmurs words of endearment, telling me he loves me, adores me. Telling me I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And I love that too. But this . . . this is taking me higher than I’ve ever been, awakening a beast inside me that I never even knew existed.
I’ve never been this wet before. Never been this vocal.
I’ve never felt anything this . . . good. Because Ransom is so fucking good.
The little monster in me thrashes, coaxing me to buck against him and meet him punishing thrust for punishing thrust. I feel an intrusion in my belly, sparking a sharp stab of pain, but I keep going, needing more. The ache just spurns me on and I spread my thighs wider, welcoming him to crawl in deeper and never leave.
My knees begin to quiver under me with the first signs of climax. Ransom places a hand on my bare belly, and—surprisingly gentle—eases me down flat onto the mattress. He keeps moving inside me, but he slows his pace, focusing on the depth this angle allows. In this position, where his body is wholly pressed against mine, I can feel every solid, sweat-slickened inch of him. The hard planes of muscle straining with every languid stroke. His soft hair tickling my cheek and shoulder. His warm, ragged breath fanning over my face. It’s so much more intimate than I expected from him, and although I can do intimate, I just don’t know if I should do intimate with him.
I think I hear him whisper something in my ear, yet I don’t hear him. Before I have a chance to ponder it further, he does it again, and I realize . . . he’s not whispering.
He’s singing.
His voice is breathy and light, yet I’d know that sultry rasp anywhere. And I’ve heard those lyrics before. Hell, I heard them just hours ago.
Shatter me with lies
You beautiful monster
Feel like I could die
Let you pull me under
Holy shit.
Ransom Reed, founder and lead singer of the Grammy-nominated band Ransom, is singing to me while fucking me.
Even with him nine inches deep inside me, I feel like a line has been crossed with those hypnotic words of surrender. He said he wanted to make me sing when I came for him. Maybe I misunderstood the meaning behind those words. Maybe it was he who wanted to sing for me.
I look to Tucker, wondering if he feels it too, yet his eyes are half closed as he strokes himself eagerly. With a pained groan, milky white droplets spurt from the head of his cock. Yet, he doesn’t stop, rubbing his hot release into his still hardened, jerking flesh.
God, that’s fucking hot. Hotter than anything I’ve ever seen. The sight brings me back into the moment, and I give in to the pressure between my thighs that now pulses out of control as those lyrics replay in my head on repeat.
Shatter me with lies
You beautiful monster
Feel like I could die
Let you pull me under
I’m breathing erratically, feeling like I may pass out from the Category 5 orgasm that’s creeping up my thighs. I begin to shiver despite Ransom’s hot body pressed into mine, and he somehow wraps me in his arms even tighter. His hand snakes under me and cradles my face, tilting my head up toward him, gazing at me lovingly through hooded eyes, caressing the edge of my mouth with the pad of his thumb . . .
He kisses me.
It’s soft, almost timid at first, but even more intimate than his whispered song in my ear. At first I don’t know what to do, but then hunger and craving set in, and I realize I am kissing him back just as eagerly, savoring his taste of sin and salvation. I reach back to thread my fingers through his sweat-dampened locks and open my mouth wider to give him full access to my tongue.
I’m drowning in him, eyes closed, breath stolen, utterly dying as this man fills me up and drains my very soul. I tremble around him, growing wetter, hotter. He feels it too, and responds with swift, jerky thrusts that nearly break me in half. Ransom releases my lips and sinks his teeth into my shoulder as his orgasm pours out of him. Hearing that erotic grunt of surrender and feeling him pulse wildly inside me as his seed spills into the thin barrier of latex is my undoing, and I cry out with my own climax, sobbing as my body quakes in beautiful agony.
We lay there together, utterly spent and broken. We breathe the same breath, our chests moving in tandem. He releases my shoulder from his teeth and tenderly kisses the stinging skin with swollen lips. I turn my face as far as it will go in hopes of basking in one of those kisses. That’s when I see him.
My husband. Staring at us.
His lips are merely a thin, white slash across his hard face, and his shrewd eyes are made of sapphire. Although his erection is long gone, he still hasn’t bothered to redress. I open my mouth to explain, but quickly snap it shut when I realize I have nothing to explain. He wanted this. He asked for this, just as much as I did. And now he’s looking at me like he just caught me cheating on him.
Ransom eases off and out of me, causing me to wince. My whole body hurts—the back of my neck where he held me down, my hips where his fingers dug into the soft flesh, my ass that he slapped without remorse, my shoulder where he bit down as he rode out his orgasm. My joints are pure mush, and I struggle to roll over, taking the comforter with me to cover myself. Suddenly, I feel too exposed, too vulnerable. Even the room seems too quiet.
Without a word, Ransom dresses hastily. He doesn’t even look at me or Tucker. His expression is blank, and it drives me positively mad not to know what he’s thinking.
After he’s secured his gray beanie over messy locks, he finally looks down at me and says, “Caleb knows how to find me.” Then he walks out of the room and out of the suite. I wouldn’t be surprised if he left the hotel altogether.
Reluctantly, I look over at my husband. He stares at me with such unrelenting coldness that I physically shiver, even though my skin is burning up.
I swallow.
Shit.
What have we done?
