LoveLines (19 page)

“Reece . . .”

He knew she was almost there—that peak of pure delight when the stars burst and blind
ed anyone who looked at them. He doubled his efforts, felt her legs seize, then listened as she cried out, releasing his hair, pounding the bed on either side of her as her orgasm gripped and pulled, pushed and broke in a storm surge of desire. He drank her orgasm—every drop—and reveled in the feel of her sweetness inside of him. And now it was his turn to be inside of her.

He stripped and crawled on top of her, listening to her panting.

“May I?” he asked.

She nodded, and he entered
her slowly. She cried out again, this time at the exquisitely painful stretching of her sensitive flesh. He silenced her with a kiss. He knew she was trapped somewhere between ecstasy and hell, and he felt mildly sorry for her. But he wouldn’t pull out. He couldn’t. And he didn’t think she wanted him to.

“Bailey,” he breathed, pumping her slowly.

She whimpered and wrapped her legs around him. He swelled in response to the sound of her cries. What the hell was wrong with him that he liked hearing them? He thought it must be the control he wielded—that this pretty little creature underneath him could go nowhere unless he said so. She was his; she belonged to him. Finally! Something of his own. No more foster kid hang-ups that he wasn’t loved—that no one wanted him.
She
wanted him. She wanted to belong to him. She submitted fully. She entrusted herself to him completely, and he wanted to use her for it. He wanted to fuck her hard and make her cry for him again. And again and again.

He drove into her harder, and she screamed. He eased up.

“No good?”

“Do it again!”

He thrust harder, pumping her urgently, finding a sadistic satisfaction in her desperate mewling, her body bucking and fighting against his. Like she wanted to escape. But he knew she was only teasing him.

“More?” he asked. He wanted to hear her say it.

“Yes!” She thrust her hips, begging for another release.

He knew his orgasm was near. It had been a while for him, too, and he tried his best to hold out for as long as possible. He promised her another orgasm, but he wasn’t sure he could deliver. And he couldn’t worry about that right now. He kept pumping, consumed in his pleasure, thinking of nothing else in the world but his impending release. He climbed higher, hi
gher, and then the wave crested, and he was a goner.

He knew she didn’t come again, and while he was spent, he still wanted to give her the release he promised. He rolled to his side and slid his hand between her legs, his middle finger finding her clit.

“No,” she said softly.

“I told you I’d make you come again,” he replied, rubbing her gently.

She squirmed against him. “You . . . mmm . . . don’t have to.”

“I do,” he insisted. “I want to. I
wanna watch your face this time when you come.”

He rubbed her rhythmically, finding a pressure she liked, feeling impossibly drowsy and excited at the same time. She moaned and arched her back, and he knew she was close. She shook her head, even begged him to stop, but he continued touch
ing her, shooting the first sparks up her legs. And then she burst with pleasure all over again. He watched the contortions of her face, that sweet intensity as her body rocked and spasmed around his finger—his one finger on one tiny part of her body. Amazing, he thought, muffling her screams with his mouth.

“You never answered my question,” he cooed in my ear.

It was early morning, and I lay blindfolded in bed, hands tied to the headboard with scarves Reece found in my closet. He hovered over me—his breath warm and moist against my skin—waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t know.

I shook my head.

“How do I be a better boyfriend to you with your OCD?” he asked.

“Well, you can go down on me again like you did last night,” I giggled.

“So cute,” he replied, and slipped his finger inside me.

I gasped and squirmed.

“Lie still,” he ordered. “And answer me for real.”

“We’ll kill the mood if we talk about it,” I whined.

“Answer me,” he demanded, stroking me slowly.

I moaned. “Umm, don’t take my pens at work.”

“I got that one. Tell me why.” He continued stroking me, then dipped his head between my legs and teased my clit with his tongue.

“
Ohhh!”

“Tell me why. I
wanna understand,” he said against my tender flesh.

“It makes it worse!” I cried. “If . . . if someone k-keeps you from performing a . . . a tic or giving into an urge, it j-just makes it w-worse! Oh my
God
!”

“
Mmhmm,” Reece replied. “And then what happens?” He swirled his tongue over me, and I screamed.

“I don’t know!”

He popped his head up. I couldn’t see him looking at me, but I could feel it.

“Yes
, you do, and I need to understand, so tell me,” he said.

“Get your face back down there!”

“After you tell me,” he replied, tickling me with his fingers. He slid his finger inside the slightest bit, then pulled it out.

“You’re mean!”

“Tell me,” he said, ignoring my insult.

I huffed. “It’s like regressing. People with OCD make progress when they ignore or distract themselves from their compulsions. But when someone forces them to refrain from indulging an urge, it just makes them want to do it more. And then they regress. And start up that ritual all over again, like no progress was ever made.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Indulge you?”

“Exactly. Get down there and eat my pussy.”

Reece chuckled. “You know what I mean.”

“No. You aren’t supposed to indulge me or include yourself in my rituals. You’re supposed to encourage me and celebrate when I’ve made improvements. It sounds so stupid.
Can we talk about this another time?”

Reece buried his face between my legs, and I sighed.

“So I should reward you for throwing your shirt on the floor last night?”

I’d forgotten all about my shirt. And yeah, I threw it on the
kitchen floor! Very un-Bailey-like. What was this man doing to me? He made me forget that I was tic-bound, schedule-bound, urge-bound. He made me feel like I was breaking free, even as my hands were securely fastened to the headboard.

“So you deserve a reward for throwing your shirt.” This time he didn’t state it as a question.

He slid his tongue in me, then replaced it with his fingers. He sucked and licked my clit just the way I liked, then pulled back abruptly.

“Why?!” I yelled.

“Because you deserve a punishment for folding your bra,” he replied.

Oh, shit. I’d forgotten about the bra folding. I tried to think up an excuse, then squealed as I was promptly flipped over onto my stomach. I adjusted my bound hands as best I could.

“Reece!” I screamed.

“I’m
gonna make your ass red,” he replied.

“REECE!”

“Okay fine. I won’t spank it. I’ll just fuck it.”

I had no words. My body tensed as I felt his hands go to my cheeks, spreading them apart.

“NO!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

“I just want
to look,” he said, removing his hands.

“I . . . no one’s ever . . . I can’t . . .”

“Relax, Bailey. I would never do something you didn’t want me to,” Reece said. “You want me to untie you?”

How was
I supposed to answer that question? Obviously I liked the mild kink, and I kind of wanted to see where else he planned to take it, but if I said, “No, don’t untie me,” it would give him way too much satisfaction. He’d goad me relentlessly about how much I loved being his little sex toy.

I remained quiet. I could feel him swelling back there like a damn peacock. My plan
failed, although I suspect he would have gained the satisfaction either way—whether I said yes or no.

He was on top of me in a flash, leaning into my ear.

“Okay, baby love. You have a choice. You’re not leaving this room until you’re punished for folding your bra, so it can go one of two ways: Either you let me spank that sweet little ass, or you let me fuck it.”

“Reece!” I twisted against him.

“Your choice,” he said.

“Neither!”

“That’s not a choice.”

“You ass!”

“That’s fitting,” he said, and I screamed all over again. “Pick one, Bailey.”

Obviously I was going to choose
the spanking. It would hurt, but at least it wouldn’t be a total violation of my body.

“Go on,” he urged.

That bastard wanted to hear me say it. It was humiliating, and every Nazi feminist on the planet would let me have it for playing his game, but here’s the thing: I
wanted
to play his game. I wanted him to keep controlling me. When he controlled me, I was liberated from my OCD. Liberated from my compulsions. Liberated from
me
.

“Spanking,” I mumbled.

“Come again?”

“Spanking,” I said louder.

“Oh, I didn’t mention I was using your wooden spoon,” he said nonchalantly.

“What the fuck, Reece?! That can leave welts!”

“Oh, I know it,” he replied.

“What
the fuck is wrong with you?”

He laughed. “I didn’t tell you I lived a BDSM lifestyle back in Baltimore?”

My heart plummeted. My breathing came faster. I pulled against my binds.

“Bailey?”

I couldn’t speak.

“Honey?”

I gulped.

“Baby love?”

A squeak escaped my lips.

“I’m just kidding.”

I dropped my face forward and buried it in the pillow. It popped right back up on the first blow.

“FUCK ME!” I roared.

“This is what happens when you fold your bra,” Reece said pleasantly. He spanked me again. Harder.

I screeched.

“Bailey, stop being so dramatic.” Another swat.
Smack! Slap! Clap!

I wailed, the involuntary tears hovering in the corners of my eyes.
If they spilled over, I’d never forgive myself.

“I’m
gonna spank you raw, sweetheart,” Reece said, and assaulted me again.

I cried and hissed and
screamed until I finally learned my lesson: Don’t fold your bra, and don’t ever let this man go.

***

It’s amazing how you can ride a heavenly high one minute, and plunge into the depths of hell the very next.

I had t
o meet my sister after Reece left that afternoon to finalize the bridesmaids dresses and start brainstorming ideas for wedding favors. What I really wanted to do was stay in bed all day with my hot lover and have him ask me questions about my OCD while he went down on me.

“Pay attention, Bailey!” Nicki snapped.

“I’m sorry. Look, we already went over this dress business weeks ago. Why are we rehashing it? I circled the dresses I liked.”

“Yeah, well, the other girls weren’t into them,” Nicki said.

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m the maid of honor. What does it matter what they want? Shouldn’t it be what looks best on me?”

“No,”
Nicki replied. “That’s not how it works.” She swiped my glass of Coke and called our waitress over to pick it up, asking for a water instead.

“Oh my God! What the hell is wrong wi
th you?” I barked. “I’m a grown ass woman.”

“Bailey, stop drinking sodas and alcohol, and I mea
n it! We’re heading into November, and that means the end of the year is almost here. And you know what that means? It means next year is right around the corner, and I’ll be walking down the aisle before all this shit gets done!” Nicki buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

That was unexpected.
I wasn’t quite sure what to do. My sister and I didn’t comfort each other. Hell, I couldn’t remember the last time we hugged. And this wasn’t the Nicki I knew. She didn’t cry about anything. I reached out my hand and patted awkwardly at her back.

“It’s okay,” I said softly. I looked around the restaurant, but no one paid any attention to u
s.

“I’m drowning!” she wailed.

“Aww, look at you. Making clever jokes,” I replied sweetly.

She raised her head off the table and scowled at me. “What are you talking about?”

“Beach wedding,” I said. “You’re . . . you’re having a beach wedding. Get it? You’re drowning in wedding details . . .” My voice trailed off as she glared at me.

“You think this is a joke?”

I shook my head violently.

“You think
I’m crying over here for the fun of it?”

I kept shaking my head. It seemed like the safest thing to do.

“Do you have any idea the pressure I’m under right now? I already have family members bitching about their roles in my wedding, trying to boss me—”

“Nicki, nobody can boss you,” I interjected.

“—bullying me into making them important. Fuck Brad’s sisters. I’m sick of their whining and their opinions, and oh my God! Do you know one of them had the audacity to suggest a different color scheme?”

“Bitch,” I said, and Nicki’s face brightened.

“I know, right? She can do whatever she wants when she gets married, but for this wedding, she’s a lowly bridesmaid who’s gonna keep her fucking mouth shut. And if she can’t, then I’ll snatch her ass out of the wedding party faster than a virgin jizzes in a tight pussy.”

There
was the Nicki I knew. Vulgar. So so vulgar. And in control of her destiny. No one was messing up this chick’s wedding, and I decided it wasn’t worth arguing about the dresses. I’d wear a paper bag if she wanted.

She wiped her face and took a deep breath.
“I’m good. I’m good.”

I nodded and waited. Our waitress appeared with my water and took our orders. I was all set to get the cheeseburger and fries but changed to a Cobb salad at the last minute. I didn’t want anything else upsetting my sister, and I h
onestly thought my ordering a salad would make her feel better.

“Bacon, Bailey,” she scoffed when the waitress walked off.

I tried. I really did. But what’s the point of even telling her I made a better food choice—that I really wanted to sink my teeth into some ground beef instead? It would have just upset her more because I’m not taking her wedding seriously, and I don’t care about looking like a beached whale next to her.

“Vinaigrette. You need to be eating salads with vinaigrette dressing. Avocado-ranch? For real, Bailey? You might as well have just ordered a burger and fries!”

Fuck me
.

“So, those wedding favors?” I asked.

Nicki grinned. “Little boxes filled with truffles.”

“Cute.”

“Wrapped in ribbon with fresh flowers on top.”

“Fresh flowers, huh? I don’t know, Nicki. That’s pricey.”

“Dad’s paying for it,” she replied.

Just like that: “Dad’s paying for it
,” like, “Oh, chicken’s on sale at Kroger.”

“Nicki, Dad’s retired. Keep that in mind,” I said.