His fingers slide across her skin, tracing patterns along her goosebumps. Her breath hitched when his pale hand brushed across her stomach, her core taught with tension waiting to be released. He checked his watch, the second hand audibly stretching out each moment. It had only been forty-five minutes—she could wait.
She was hot underneath his touch. Despite the cool air and the lack of movement, she was warm; wonderfully, beautifully,
warm
. He preferred to keep the room under-temperature, because she would always overheat. Her skin, like wet earth, would glow from the heat of her body.
A smile tugged at his lips at the way her body quivered, his fingertips dusting across her thighs. Not that she saw any of that, covered by the dark leather blindfold that almost melded into her skin. A part of him regretted covering up her twinkling eyes. They burned like two hot embers when they were focused on him, and the way she bit her lip in anticipation...
fuck
. He tightened his grip on her thigh and she whimpered, which didn't help matters. At all.
He brought his second hand to her hip, and slowly ran his hands up. The calluses on his fingers and palms made small lines, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn't looking for them. He was
always
looking for them. Looking for the marks he had left the last time, for the telltale signs across her neck and jaw, on her thighs and hips. Everywhere he could get his hands on her.
His hands shook with restraint as he lifted them away, just letting the fingertips glide across her stomach and full breasts, brushing across her nipples, crinkled and hard in the cool air. A sadistic grin slowly creased the smile lines near the corners of his eyes, and he felt the weight of the nipple clamps in his pocket.
Later,
he thought to himself.
The way her breath came out in a stuttering gasp as he drew small circles around her nipples made him weak in the knees. He hoped she never knew how weak she made him; it brought him no end of satisfaction when he wrapped his hands around her throat and saw her beg with her eyes. With her beautiful, dark, smoldering eyes. Fuck, why wasn't he kissing her right now?
Without an audible warning, he corrected that mistake immediately. Her breath sputtered for a second before her hot tongue slipped across his, tentatively, and then with force. His deft fingers tweaked one of her nipples and she whimpered into the kiss.
"Don't forget your place," he muttered, nipping at her earlobe. His rough palms slid up to her neck and caressed her jawline, one of his thumbs making slow sweeping motions across her strong features. His watch ticked away the seconds of their next kiss, and he only pulled back at the thirty-seventh
tick
because she was stealing away his air. Perhaps his soul.
He growled low in his throat, but she responded with a small laugh. One that made his nerves tingle down his spine in pleasure; he loved that sound. Almost as much as the one she was about to make next.
She didn't have any warning when his hand connected with her face. A love tap, really. But it was still enough to cut off her laugh with a sharp gasp, and set her head rocking to the side. The angle was perfect, and he couldn't help himself.
He leaned down, his nails leaving light marks across her thighs as he bit down on her neck. She whimpered, and he let his hand snake lower, fingers flicking across her clit for the barest second.
That
increase in pitch—he flicked his fingers back across, lingering to make small circles as he left marks on her neck—
that
was what he lived for.
He tore his hungry gaze away from her lithe, soft body underneath him, helpless and wriggling in need, and looked around the room.
There were so many instruments. So many strings to play, so many chords to pluck, and so much music to make. The low, warm lighting fell across the polished wood of the various stringed instruments, and his own,
personal,
implements. Then his eyes fell back upon her.
For a moment, he let himself soak her in. He always did; it was one of his small indulgences. He let his fingers slip up the leather bench she was strapped down to, and had his fingers play across her hair. It was spread out around her face like a raging dark ocean, all curls and tangles. That was partially his fault.
He pulled her hair back, and her restraints snapped taught as her body moved to comply with his impossible demand. And yet, she managed it, as she always did. Pride welled up within him, even as he bit her again, on the opposite side (symmetry, after all) and his fingers found her clit again.
This time they slid lower, and came back slick. He pushed one inside, and then two. He knew she could fit more, but he would save that for later, when he intended to take her. First, he had to break her down a little.
He curled his long fingers up inside her and the noise she made, the way she
mewled
, reminded him why he never gagged her. Music should be enjoyed, not quieted. He pushed in deeper, feeling her give in and tense up at the same time. Her body wanted to resist, but when he lowered his head down to her soft breasts and took one of her sensitive nipples in his mouth, it gave in. All that was left was her stubbornness.
Despite all he did to her, she was right back to being stubborn and willful again the next time. He liked their dance, and it made tuning her to perfection a full sensory experience. He kissed his way back up along her chest and her shoulders, slowly inhaling even as he moved his fingers inside her faster. Her body shuddered even as his remained statue-still, save for the few places he touched her.
She smelled of vanilla. His lips quirked at the irony. She smelled of sweet things, and a vague spice (cinnamon?). She smelled like a fire trapped inside, just waiting to be released. He brought his thumb to her clit and brushed it side-to-side in several quick motions, even as he curled his fingers again inside of her. He'd make her beg for that release.
She shuddered again as his pace quickened, her breathing coming in ragged gasps. Despite the cool of the room, she was developing a sheen to her dark skin, and he could taste the salt when he flicked his tongue across her jaw and nipped her there.
"Daddy..." she whimpered. It was a soft, tremulous, needy sound that brought out the worst in him. Because when she begged, he longed to make it worse. "Daddy please." It came out as a breath, one that was stopped prematurely by his hand around her throat. He squeezed, and felt her swallow.
His cock stiffened in his pants at the memory of her doing that before. He squeezed tighter, remembering what it was like to almost be in her throat, she was
so
close to finally being able to fit him, and then she would swallow. It would be wet, and warm, and the way she looked up at him when she did it, with those big eyes—it ruined him every time. He could never resist, and she knew that. She knew that he would grab her by her hair and push against the back of her throat, still unable to fit the last inch or two of his throbbing cock down her eager throat.
She knew that even as she begged for it with every moan and gag around his dick, that he wouldn't stop. That he would need to show her, make her feel how much he
owned
her. That she was
his
