On My Knees

Page 88

Sweet, however, isn’t what Jackson wants or what I need, and I am breathing hard when he puts his hand on my shoulder and urges me down until I am on my knees in front of him.
I know what he wants—hell, I know what I want. My wrists are still bound, but my fingers are free, and I manage to unbutton the top, then tug down the zipper on his jeans. I free his cock, hard and thick like velvet-encased steel, then use my tongue to tease up the length of him, all the way to the tip and the salty drop of pre-cum. My cunt clenches as I taste him, and my nipples—already tight with need—are almost begging for attention.
“Go on, baby.” His voice is raw, and I know that he needs this as much as I do. He needs it hot. Wild. But most of all, he needs us. “Suck my cock.”
The command, spoken with such precision and force, seems to ricochet through me, all the more powerful because those were the same words that Jackson said to me on his lot in the Palisades the day he told me that I couldn’t fight my nightmares unless I gave up control and submitted.
And that is exactly what I’m doing now.
I take him in, just a little at first. Teasing and tasting. Sliding my tongue along its length. Teasing the tip, then drawing him in. Playing and sucking and finding a rhythm that has his hands fisting in my hair and rough noises of pleasure escaping his throat. And though this started with the illusion that I have some control over this moment, that is all that it is—an illusion. Because soon enough, he has me at his mercy, and instead of me teasing him, he is fucking my mouth. Going deeper and harder until I have to concentrate to breathe. To take him in. Because I cannot move back or adjust, I can only submit to him and to this supremely intimate moment.
I’ve never really loved giving head, but this is different. Hotter. Wilder. I’m subjugating myself for his pleasure, and that is strangely powerful, and supremely arousing. I’m so desperate for him. But not to fuck—not yet. Instead, I want him to take this all the way. I want to feel him explode. To have him lose his grip completely.
I want that bite of pain when the fingers he has twined in my hair tighten. When he loses all reason and simply lets go.
Most of all, I want to know that I am the one who caused that.
I can tell that he is close—his body is tight and stiff, his cock throbbing with the need for release. And though I have very little use of my hands, I manage to squeeze his balls, and am rewarded when that added touch sends him tumbling over. He explodes in my mouth, clutching my hair tight. And as he does, hot threads of pleasure shoot through me to pool between my legs, bringing me that much closer to my own release.
I manage to swallow, and when he pulls out, both of us breathing hard and satisfied, I cannot deny that despite my submission—despite being held in place and fucked hard—I am absolutely light-headed from the power of this moment.
“Christ, sweetheart. I think you just about destroyed me.”
My body tingles with the praise. “In a good way, I hope.”
“In the absolute best way.” He scoops me up and holds me close to his chest as he bends to kiss me. When he straightens, I hold my still-bound hands up, then lift my brows in question.
“Oh, no,” he says. “Not even close.”
And the words, said with such potent ardor, send a fresh shiver of anticipation coursing through me.
He carries me to the bedroom and puts me gently on my feet in front of the mattress. “On your knees.” He gives the order as he peels me the rest of the way out of my destroyed dress. “Facedown. Elbows on the bed. And, baby,” he adds as he tosses my bra toward a nearby chair, “I want to see your ass up high.”
I am now clothed only in my thong, the vibrator necklace that I have worn daily as ordered, and my shoes—black slides with three-inch heels. I do as he says, and as I climb onto the mattress, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the dresser. My skin glows, and my eyes sparkle. I look radiant with pleasure, and when I meet Jackson’s eyes in the reflection, his stern, commanding countenance breaks for just a moment to reveal a small smile of approval.
“You were made for this,” he says. “For me.”
He nods toward the bed as he steps toward me, and I look away, positioning myself as he asked. He steps behind me, then strokes his palm lightly down the line of my spine before cupping the globe of my ass.
“You are mine, Sylvia. From the first moment I saw you in Atlanta, I knew that there was no other woman for me. Not before, and not ever again. You are the light that fills my days and illuminates my nights.” I close my eyes, lost in both the meaning of his words and the passion with which he speaks them. “You are the rhythm of my heart.”