Jill Marie Denton
Strangelove - Part 24
Jessica’s entire world crashed down around her as Peter stalked closer to her seat. She tugged at her chains, winced at his blistering gaze.
“Oh Jesus, Peter,” she cried. “Oh God, please, please listen, I’m so, so sorry. I…”
“Shut up. Don’t you dare say another fucking word.”
She gaped. Then she looked deeper. There was no anger in his gaze, though there was clearly demand, warning. It scared and intrigued her, curling her toes in her shoes, but guilt and shame crept back in. “I’m so sorry. I…”
His palm reached out, covering her mouth. “I said. Shut. Up.”
She fell silent, eyeing Peter suspiciously. Her heart was racing, apprehension turning her body to stone. She’d never seen him this edgy, this fierce before.
“That’s better,” Peter murmured, pulling his hand back. “But you’re still a bad girl. Do you know why?”
Her mind raced. Bad girl? Wait, was he seriously going to…?
She parted her lips to reply, but his expression turned stern, threatening in an instant. She took the bait, bit her lip and shook her head instead, dampness blooming between her legs.
“I was perfectly clear. What did I tell you about endless apologies?”
She exhaled a shaky breath, remembering his warning and Garrett’s. Her thoughts were racing to connect the dots, to explain how all this was happening, but his movement was faster. In a flash, he reached into her mane, gripping a tight fist and tugging her head back. “I asked you a question. What did I tell you about apologizing?”
Her mind and libido battled to the death while her pulse raced. She fought to reconcile these two Peters, the polo shirt-wearing, martini-drinking uptown yuppie and this fiery, intimidating and forceful alpha in a white tee and jeans. Both were taut, handsome and beguiling, but this new side was unabashedly sexy. She fought the urge to speak, instead shaking her head slowly with her stare fixed on his.
“That’s right.” His grip relaxed a bit, his face dangerously close. “No more apologies. No more of that meek little angel routine, begging for forgiveness. You fooled me long enough. Now I know better.”
She tucked her bottom lip in her teeth, watching his focus shift to them for a split second before resolve swept through, turning his eyes to stone again. It was no use. He wasn’t falling for her charms. He kept his hand curled in her hair, stepping around behind her so her head rolled over her shoulders. Staring at the ceiling, she allowed her eyes to close gently.
“You are wicked, aren’t you?” He whispered, bringing his lips close to her ear. “I had no idea. All this time, you’ve been fantasizing about this, obsessing over this, and never once did you tell me. Such a bad girl. Were you scared to tell me?”
She nodded once, feeling his fingers tug the hair at the scalp when she moved. When her eyes opened, her head tipped way back, he was towering over her, his gaze fierce as he leaned down and his breath warm on her cheeks.
“So you hid it from me. You denied me the pleasure of seeing you squirm, of hearing you beg, of watching you cum. You ran away from me, all the way up here and to another man. How dare you.”
She winced instinctively as he walked slow circles around her chair. She tugged at her restraints again but didn’t dare say a word. He was more intimidating than she’d ever seen him, more intense and demanding than she’d been prepared for. He was a panther, teasing and stalking his prey before snatching it by the jugular.
Stepping up behind, he reached around and rucked her skirt up her thighs. “And I bet you dressed up for him too, under this prissy workwear you’re always in. Let’s see.”
He forcefully hoisted her up from the seat, dragging the skirt up to her waist and revealing sheer lace panties in crimson red. She blushed fiercely as his palms moved to her blouse’s buttons, unfastening them from navel to neck. Underneath, her chest was bound in a strapless bra, the same shade of exotic red.
“Holy shit,” he practically wept into her ear, his lips tucking behind. “You are in so much trouble.”
Before she could react, he stepped around and lifted her off the chair, tossing her over his shoulder. She gasped, bound and thrilled, as he walked over to the Sybian. He dropped her onto the unit, still bound at wrist and ankle. Removing a pair of scissors from his pocket, he approached as she gaped up at him. With a surgeon’s precision, he cut down both sleeves and up her left thigh, destroying her silk blouse and favorite skirt without apology. He tossed the fabric away before snatching the Sybian controller from the armoire.
Circling back to his prey, he knelt beside her, extending her legs so she straddled the six-inch vertical peg. He teased his tongue along the valley of her collarbone and up her neck, feeling her pulse race beneath skin. Taking her cheek in one hand, he pulled her face close and gazed into her dreamy eyes. Just as his lips touched hers, his finger tugged the panty fabric aside and snuck inside her, making her cry out so he could swallow the sound. Their tongues twirled, his hands buried in her hair, until they were breathless.
“You are so wet,” he panted, nibbling her lips and jawline. “Now it’s time to ride.”
He tugged her forward with both palms. The vertical peg replaced his finger inside her in one swift sweep, making her squeal. He settled her onto the machine, leaning her forward a bit to ensure her clit lined up with the textured pad before stepping back to eye his prize from the wooden chair.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he commanded, turning the controller’s dial.
The machine whirred to life below her, vibrating at a low frequency between her legs. She squirmed as the peg buried inside her, unable to separate her wrists or ankles as the speed and intensity crept up slowly. She panted, leaning back as the nubby surface relentlessly teased sensitive skin. But her gaze never wavered, locked on his as he hunched forward, his forearms on his knees.
When her body shuddered, he turned the dial a bit more. The intensity kicked up suddenly, sending prickles of pleasure up her spine. Every hair stood on end as the stimulation, the never-ending tickling and rubbing, drove her mad. And deep within, the peg began to gyrate, rimming her insides in slow, torturous circles.
He released a shaky breath, watching the machine destroy her. He could smell the salt on her skin, could practically feel himself buried inside her in place of the silicon replica. He knew she could go further, that she could handle more, but he wasn’t sure if he could.
Pinching his palm for stability again, he rose, stepping to her back. He eased the key into the cuffs and released her wrists. Both palms immediately moved to the top of the machine, tense fingers grasping at the metal casing between her thighs as a long wailing moan escaped her.
He released her ankles next, bending her knees and moving them to her sides as he sidled closer. She panted, rocking forward and backward like she was racing a thoroughbred. Her eyes never left his. And he watched intently, waiting for the indication that she was past the point of no return. Garrett had been more than clear when he’d described her spasms.
When her body went taut, her breathing rapid and raspy, he snagged the controller and turned off the unit. She whimpered, leaning back with the most pathetic expression he’d ever seen on her. Grinning, he stood and lifted her in his arms again.
“Oh, someone’s not a fan of edging,” he murmured, petting her as he carried her quivering body to the sawhorse stand. “On all fours. Now.”
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