Текст книги "Pretty When You Cry "

Автор книги: Skye Warren

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

“Don’t whine. It’s only going to get worse.”

And God, he was right. Because then he started to move, fucking my face in a relentless rhythm. I couldn’t time my breaths or make a sound. I couldn’t even think about stopping him. My world narrowed to his cock in my mouth. I became nothing more than something warm and wet for him to come inside. It didn’t even matter if I struggled or passed out as long as he could use me like this.

Everything blurred. I almost didn’t register when he pulled away. My eyes were flooded with tears. My throat felt raw. He didn’t have to put the gag back in and he knew it. The last thing I wanted was for someone to find me like this. If the French officials minded my dirty texts, they’d definitely mind me naked and shivering in the back of the plane.

“I was going to come in your mouth, but I can’t.” He sounded almost apologetic. “I have to get inside that pretty cunt. It was just too wet. I need to feel it around my dick.”

I blushed furiously. Too wet. As if I’d brought this on myself.

With a gentle shove, he pitched me forward until my face was pressed against the floor. What had seemed soft under my knees felt unyielding against my cheek. The smell of rubber suffused me. How many stewardesses had walked back and forth in their sensible pumps, never knowing what would happen here? How many would continue to do so, stepping on the salt of my tears?

A rough tug pulled my jeans all the way down to my knees. Then he was kneeling behind me. Not between my legs, but with his knees outside mine. I was hogtied, with my hands still tied and my legs locked together by the jeans, unable to even protect myself against what was coming.

“Wait,” I said.

He pressed his cock against my opening and slid home. I bucked against him, twisting away. Even on the inside, my muscles squeezed, trying to push him out. Useless, all of it. He may as well have been a part of the airplane itself, machinery that couldn’t be moved by human strength. Even his cock inside me felt more like metal than flesh, hard and invasive.

He groaned. “That’s right. Milk me. Make me come.”

Those words. I shut my eyes tight, unable to face him—unable to face the floor or the darkness as my body obeyed him. I couldn’t stop milking him. I couldn’t stop making him come, even though I kind of wanted to. That would only prolong this, but I tried anyway. To relax myself, to be passive. But my muscles clenched hard around him, obeying him instead of me, until he gasped and hot liquid bathed my inner walls.

He jerked over me, rocking himself through his orgasm. Even then, I couldn’t stop clenching and clenching. It wasn’t just for him, I realized. With horror, I acknowledged the feeling inside me. Pure, unstoppable arousal. My cunt wasn’t trying to push him out; I was trying to pull him in, deeper, harder, so I could get off too. I felt exposed and dirty, more than the forced blowjob could have done. My own forbidden excitement was the true embarrassment, shining a light on things better left in the dark.

“Shhh.” He was at my ear again, soothing me. Only then did I realize I was crying. Not loose, helpless tears, but quiet sobs that racked my body. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to be like this. The shame would never leave me alone, not ever.

He petted my back, stroking me. His other hand slipped underneath to my clit. He didn’t circle me this time. Two fingers slid on either side of it, holding still.

“Go ahead,” he muttered. “Ride me.”

And I did. Shamefully, I did, my hips rocking urgently, rubbing myself off on his hand. It felt almost painful, the sweet friction from his fingers, and I whimpered. He reached under me to where my breasts hung loose. He cupped one and then pinched my nipple. Hard. I came, spilling wetness onto his hand, my moans muffled by the rubber floor and unflinching drone of the plane.

He held me like that a little longer, his fingers warm and still on my clit. Comforting.

When he stood, I tilted to the side, falling against the wall. He found the cabinet marked Napkins and cleaned himself and put his clothes to right. Then he did the same for me, wiping my mouth, my sex, and tugging my bra and clothes back into place with a regretful sigh. I let him dress me like a doll, feeling as numb and hollow as one.

He picked up my phone from the shallow ledge. Even the faint light was a shock when I’d been in the dark so long, like squinting into the sun. The screen illuminated his face from below, an almost demonic perspective. He pressed some buttons and then slipped the phone into the pocket of my jeans.

He said nothing to me as he pushed the curtain aside and left. Perhaps there was nothing to say. Everything had been communicated through our bodies, murmurs in a soft caress and shouting in the rough invasion of his cock. A million words had been spoken with every stroke.

I remained in the room, leaning against the wall, as my breathing returned to even.

How long had he been in here with me? A few minutes? An hour? Either way, there was plenty of flight left. Time I would most definitely spend in my seat—just as soon as I could make myself move.

Finally, I pushed off the wall. My legs felt unsteady, as if we were on a ship instead of a plane, rocking to the motion of the waves. I found the restroom and washed my face. A pale face stared out from the small mirror. What was she thinking? Even I didn’t know, dazed by exhaustion and recent events.

My hand trailed along the textured plane walls for support. In the open aisle, between the seats, I straightened and forced myself to walk normally. But when I glanced back, a pair of eyes gazed steadily at me. The back row. The Air Marshal.

A shiver ran through me. Fear.

Ducking my head, I continued walking. At least almost everyone else was still sleeping. Even the little boy had fallen asleep, curled up in his seat and mine. I gently nudged him over and let sleep claim me.

*     *     *

“Welcome to Charles De Gaulle Airport. We hope you have a pleasant flight and enjoy your stay in Paris.”

I came awake in chunks, registering the seatbelt light dinged off, the rustle as people stood and reached for the overhead compartments. The little boy had stretched out, his head in his mother’s lap and his feet in mine.

His mother smiled at me, looking about as bleary as I felt. “Thank you so much for letting us switch seats,” she said with a French accent.

“No problem.”

“I hope he wasn’t any trouble. I think I dozed off early.”

“He slept like an angel.”

That had been true by the end. And I didn’t really mind trading seats. Obviously a child needed to sit with his mother. It was the airline who had assigned them seats on opposite ends of a very large jet.

Straightening, I tried to peek through the curtains at the front of the aisle, trying to catch a glimpse of Hunter. But there were two full sections between us, each with their own galley and restrooms. Passengers were restricted to the facilities in their own section. No mingling across the plane was allowed.

Hunter tended to break rules.

Rules like no sex in the storage closet of an airplane, for example.

I glanced at the back seat. The Air Marshal stretched in the aisle and swung his arms to loosen them. He rifled through a small piece of leather luggage—more of a briefcase. He leaned against the wall, the one I had touched on the way back to my seat, and looked at his phone. I flushed hot and then cold, remembering how my phone had gotten me into trouble last night. Embarrassment wouldn’t let me turn it on now, even though it was legal and allowed with the plane at the gate.

The line took forever, as expected since I was almost at the very back, behind the two hundred passengers on the plane. Only a few rows were behind me—and the air marshal waiting patiently in the rear hallway.

His gaze pricked the back of my neck. I stared ahead—which wasn’t hard considering how tired the trip had made me. Still, I couldn’t rest easy with him just ten feet away. Watching. Knowing.

Did he know what had happened in that storage closet?

I managed a weak smile for the cheery stewardess bidding us goodbye. How did she manage to get any sleep? Maybe there was a special cot somewhere we couldn’t see, a miniature dorm room for flight crew only.

They certainly hadn’t been in the storage closet.

The temperature dropped twenty degrees in the gangway. My blue hoodie, which had felt perfectly cozy at Chicago’s O’Hare terminal, now felt paper thin. Hunter and I would have to pull warmer jackets out of our suitcases before leaving the airport.

But first, I had to find him.

He stood a little bit away from the crowd of disembarking passengers. His expression was inscrutable as I walked up. How did he feel about last night? As for me, I felt sore—and satisfied. They commonly went together where he was concerned. He knew exactly how to get me hot, and it was just our perverse luck that the same things worked for him.

Still, there was a big difference between fumbling in the dark and facing him the morning after. My cheeks heated, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite meet his gaze.

He chuckled. “Miss me?”

Evil man. “You know I did.”

“Bet you were thinking of me.”

God, if I let him keep going, he’d tease me until my face burst into flames. “I bet you were thinking of me too.”

“Always, sunshine.”

Pleasure filled me. Unlike the pleasure from last night, this one wasn’t tainted with fear or arousal. This was as wholesome and bright as the nickname he gave me, complete with summertime scents and floating dust motes. Our feelings for each other were pure in a way our base carnality would never be. The sky and the earth, one casting light, the other catching it. Each more complete in the whole.

“Let’s grab breakfast,” he said, turning to scan the wide terminal corridor. “Do you need a restroom first?”

“No, but I would like breakfast. Something very French. A croissant, maybe, or a baguette.”

He grinned. “I’m sure they—”

“Pardon me! Wait, please,” a male voice called out, and I froze. Every cell in my body screamed for me to run, but in a crowded airport there was nowhere to go.

The Air Marshal strode up to us. I managed to stop myself from taking a step backward. That would only make me look guilty. But I was guilty. So guilty that being forced was the only way I knew how to have sex. So full of shame every time I enjoyed it anyway.

He knows what we did. I tried to project the thought to Hunter, but he looked completely unfazed.

“Is this your first time in Paris?” the marshal inquired with the faintest accent.

“For her. Not for me, though it has been a while,” Hunter answered casually, as if the question had been asked in passing conversation with another tourist instead of an interrogation by a security official.

What if we were detained? Arrested? Hunter didn’t look concerned, but then he never did.

The air marshal glanced at my hand. My left hand, with its gold band. “Are you just married then?”

This time the question was clearly directed at me. I opened my mouth but only a mortified squeak came out. My life had plenty of embarrassing moments to choose from. But getting busted for sex on a plane would put the rest of them to shame.

Hunter raised his eyebrows at me. “A month ago.”

“Congratulations,” the marshal said. “I imagine you’ll be visiting the usual places. The Eiffel Tower. Notre Dame.”

“Of course. Do you have any recommendations?”

“I do, actually. La Dame de Canton. A restaurant on an old gypsy boat. Mediocre food, relatively speaking, but the ambiance is something to appreciate.”

“We’ll have to visit then.”

“Be sure to request the boudoir. It’s a small alcove in the back. Very private. I think you would appreciate it.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow. A warning? “On your recommendation, then.”

The air marshal nodded with surprising deference. “I always enjoy the company of newlyweds. It reminds me of happier times, when I was younger and less divorced.”

Hunter barked a laugh before bidding him au revoir.

The marshal saluted us and disappeared into the crowd.

“The bastard,” Hunter said, but there was no heat behind it.

My chest still felt tight, bands of nerves making it hard to breathe. “He… he knows.”

“Of course, he knows. That’s a voyeur if I ever met one. Hard to blame him, though, considering.”

That was awfully level-headed. I narrowed my eyes at him. “I thought you’d be upset.”

“That a jaded security guard let us fool around in the storage closet? Nah, not upset. I’d have slipped him something in thanks if it wouldn’t have offended him.”

Okay then.

*     *     *

After breakfast, it took us another hour to get into Paris and to our hotel. I was used to a lot of travel by now, but after the expansive, cushy seats of Hunter’s truck, the stiff-back chair of the train and the ripped cushions of the cab left something to be desired. The man at the front desk was courteous and faintly judging, so on point I wondered if he was planted to entertain American tourists.

Or then again, maybe he really did feel that way.

Either way, the room itself was beautiful, larger than I’d been given to expect from the travel guidebooks. A small wall divided the sitting area from the bedroom, which left a spacious area across where the sunlight streamed through filmy curtains. I took a hot shower, admiring the marble floor and overlarge tub in the bathroom.

Now I knew why Hunter had picked this room.

I had a new set of lacy bra and panties to go on under my fresh clothes. For that bit of planning, I deserved a round of applause. A lot of my lingerie would get torn to shreds during our two-week stay here.

At least, I sure hoped so.

When I emerged from the bedroom, Hunter was reclined on the bed. He tossed his phone aside. “Come closer.”

I planned to jump him, just jump directly on top of him and tussle for control. I loved it when he won, so I gave him every opportunity. But before I could make it to the bed, he said, “Now stop. That’s perfect.”

“Perfect for what?”

“For you to show me those lacy panties you had on.” When I blushed he added, “You’re lucky I didn’t rip them off you right there on the plane. Shove them in your mouth and make you taste our own come.”

God. I clenched my thighs together, trying to ease the ache that started every time he talked like that. His grin was pure devilry, smug and tempting.

Two could play at this game.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, feigning innocence. “I’ve already changed.”

“Then show me what you’re wearing now,” he growled.

I pulled my jeans and top off as slowly as I could without being silly. There was only so seductive rumpled travel clothes could get. But my silk bra with its little pink flowers—oh, those would do nicely. He sucked in a breath when he saw it. And my panties. Not only did they match, but the panel was still damp from his come. It leaked out of me for hours after he came inside me, a musky reminder of what we’d done. He came a lot, copiously.

And often too.

“Do you mean these panties?” I asked.

I’d found that dirty talk didn’t need to be particularly clever to turn Hunter on. In fact, simple worked best. Please. Do it like that. And my coup de grace had been a quiet No, no, I can’t take any more during a particularly rough scene that had made him come for what felt like hours.

Hunter grunted something like assent. “Get over here.”

His hand absently rubbed himself through his jeans, a sign of dwindling patience. Soon enough he’d grab me, fling me to the floor, and have his dirty way with me. An excellent recipe for orgasms if I ever heard one. But this time around, I had a different idea.

My panties slipped over my hips and down to the floor. I unclasped my bra and held it against my chest for a moment before letting it fall. But instead of leaving the lacy fabric on the Aubusson rug, I hooked it with my forefinger.

When he reached for me, I stayed his hand. His eyebrows shot up. I could see the questions behind his brown eyes. Was it a game? Did I want him to overpower me?

I shook my head slightly. Not this time.

With a quick movement, I ripped the panties down their seam, lace tearing with a quiet snip. He and I both stared at the scrap of fabric in shock. Well, I’d imagined him tearing through my panties, not me, but this would be better. Just this once.

“Shall I?” I asked softly.

His eyes blazed. He looked…furious. But his breath quickened and his cock bulged as thick as ever through the jeans. Oh, he would like this. Just this once, and maybe a few more times, just to be sure.

I straddled his thighs and tied the panties over his mouth. Reaching around, I fastened the bra into a kind of makeshift handcuffs. The same way he’d tied me up last night. The whole time, I was acutely aware of the raw power between my legs and within my embrace. I only tied him up because he let me.

But then again, that was why he tied me up too.

“Good?” I asked.

His eyes were flames of frustration, of desire. He wanted to attack me but the pink-flower bonds and my wish to do this held him bound. “Poor man,” I whispered, trailing a finger down his temple. It must be hard for him to give in, even for a little while.

I would have to give him a reward.

The ridge in his jeans tempted me. I wanted to suck on the spongy head, to flutter my tongue at the tip, to drive him crazy when he couldn’t take control, couldn’t thrust.

Although maybe he still would. His hips were already moving, without any stimulation to his cock. He was fucking the air, overexcited from just seeing me naked and getting tied up.

He was so damned responsive.

Sucking him off would hardly return the favor from last night. I’d already done that. A good time for all, but I knew what he wanted. What he needed. Gently, carefully, I helped him lie flat on the bed. It didn’t look easy. He had to lie on his hands, which were still bound behind him. However, the discomfort was part of the allure. I wanted everything for him. Even pain.

And besides, he looked so good spread out, broad chest pressed up into the air, flat abs trailing into his jeans. He looked like one of the Greek statues in the guidebook for the Louvre. We’d get to see the artwork soon, but this was even better—marble turned man.

I shoved the panty-gag aside and pressed my fingers into his mouth. “Suck.”

He bit me. Of course he did. I had to pinch his side until he let go. We both knew he could have overpowered me at any moment. With his body, with his teeth. But he didn’t, and that was a greater gift than a shuddering forbidden orgasm. Greater even than a honeymoon in France.

I straddled his face and knelt over him. “Get to work. And no biting or you won’t like what happens next.”

He licked me eagerly, belying the fierce defiance in his eyes. But no, I read that wrong. It was the game we played that made it look like reluctance. As his eyes fell shut, I saw only triumph and bliss. He’d asked to do this so many times. And each one, I had refused. He could make me, but it wasn’t the same. Wasn’t the same at all as me tying him down and fucking him with my face.

Reaching down, I tugged on his hair, hard enough that he’d feel the sting. “There’s a good boy.” His eyes snapped open at that, twinkling with warning.

I laughed. “You’re going to make me pay for this, aren’t you? I can’t wait.”

We stayed in our hotel room the next two days, ordering ridiculous quantities of room service while he showed me all the ways he could make me suffer. I expected a complaint to make us keep quiet, especially after a few choice times. But I guess everyone knows what to expect from newlyweds, even stuffy bellhops. Even jaded air marshals.

Even rough and tumble truckers from Texas knew what happened on a honeymoon, and Hunter made it hurt so good.

The End

Thank You Again

Thank you again for reading Pretty When You Cry and Wanderlust. I hope you loved both dark romance novels. Be sure you sign up for my newsletter so you can find out when I have new books release.

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