Deep in the Heart of Me Ch. 03

"Why did you let me bite you?"

She seemed to search for words, her hands pressing into the wall for support. "I don't know..." she said, helplessly.

"That's it? You don't know? You could have reported me..." Should...have reported me, he added silently.

She pressed her lips together in her determined way. "I didn't want to," she said with a new firmness.

Didn't want to what? Report me? Or let me bite her? He stared at her, confused.

"I liked it..." she said, her voice low.

She liked it. She liked it? So that made it all okay? Oh hell no. He ran his hands over his face, trying desperately to collect his racing thoughts. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt like something was doing its best to strangle him.

"I've let this go too far," he said to himself as much as to her. This wasn't about her letting him do anything. He'd done it. He'd brought them to this. "I should take you home," he said, his mind made up. He'd get her dressed and take her back home. He was looking around for her things when she spoke.

"Is that what you really want?"

What? What was that supposed to mean? He launched himself towards her, his hand hitting the wall next to her with a slap of frustration.

"What the fuck do you know about what I want?"

"I don't-" she said, shaking her head.

"That's right, you don't."

He stared into her blind face, daring her to speak again. Sure enough, that chin of hers raised a notch.

"I want to...I want to know," she said.

"You do, do you? You really want to know?" Why did she push him like this? Didn't she know what might happen if she pushed him? It was bad enough that her naked closeness was doing things to his senses he could barely control.

But she nodded in assent, nodded that she wanted to know, signing away her fate. With that he let the madness take him.

Through the red haze in his brain he was vaguely aware that he was probably holding her wrist a little too tightly as he dragged her behind him down the hallway to the bedroom. He propelled her towards the bed and watched as she sprawled across it in front of him.

"Sit up," he said, hardly recognising his own voice. If he wanted detachment, he'd found it. How could he sound so cold when his whole body was on fire with his need to be on top of her, in her, fucking her.

He began to shed his trousers as he watched her pull her knees up, curling inwards protectively, attempting to sit up in her world of blackness. He stripped off, grabbing for the top dresser drawer and his condom stash, wondering if she had any idea what was coming. For that matter, did he?

Rolling the condom into place he stepped up to the bed, watching her flinch back as she sensed his approach. Was she seriously frightened of him? Hadn't she blatantly asked for it? He knelt onto the bed and crawled to where she huddled, trapping her wrists and pushing her onto her back, angling her knees apart with his own until he knelt over top of her.

"Now's the time to say no..." he said into her ear, "Last chance."

There was a moment of stillness as he waited for her answer, the only sound their ragged breathing. He was begging, praying for her to answer because that edge was right here...right now, and he was about to go over.

She whispered barely loud enough for him to hear. "Don't stop..."

They were too far down the bed, so he gripped her under the arms and scooted her up, following after her, his knees pressing her legs further open, his erection brushing against her belly, twitching at the touch of her satiny skin. She made a sound, of pleasure or protest, he didn't know. She wanted this...she asked for it, she was going to get it. With that thought he pressed a hand over her mouth, shifted his hips lower, and finding the slick, hot centre of her, thrust into her with one hard push.

It was a strange sort of free-fall. He felt her scream against his hand, but didn't hear it. Everything just stood still as he registered the fact that his cock was buried deep inside her. She was tight...god, she was so tight, and wet and beautiful. Transfixed, he could feel her writhing up against him, her soft curves meeting and melding against his stomach and chest. Blinded by the feel of her body surrounding him, it took him some time to realise that her movements were steadily changing from arching pleasure to panic.

The thought hit him like a tank of ice water. Had he heard her right? Had he been mistaken? Had she told him not to stop, or had she said, "Don't, stop."? Oh fuck. Shitshitshit. No...no, she'd definitely said yes...hadn't she?

He snatched the hand from her mouth, gripping her wrists instead in an attempt to calm her frantic movements. She finally stilled, her bottom lip held tensely between her teeth, her chest heaving with every breath.

He didn't move, just stayed there, braced above her, watching the emotions as they flickered over her face, sincerely wishing for the first time that he could see what was going on in those eyes behind the blindfold. She was calming herself, though, matching her breaths to his, the panic gradually receding, her body relaxing beneath his, melting against him.

He leaned down, his lips near her ear, his heart in his mouth. "Wrap your legs around me," he said, relieved when she slid her knees up willingly and wound her legs more snugly around his hips. The shifting angle of her body drove him deeper and he just about stopped breathing for a minute. Never had just being inside a woman felt this good. She fit him perfectly, in every way.

He pulled out of her slightly, then pushed his hips forward again, sliding deep into her welcoming warmth. Slow, go slow, damn it! he told himself, fighting the red haze. But she was arching up, drawing him in, moaning in that soft sexy way, and his careful thrusts were soon lost in that dark, animal need to take her, hard.

The free-fall started again, and while some small part of his mind knew that he was being too rough, he also knew he was giving her pleasure. She clung to him, taking every pounding thrust, absorbing his aggression, turning it into some other thing. When he felt her inner muscles begin spasm around him he kept going, conscious of her orgasm, but unable to stop himself, deaf to her cries of pleasure.

He carried on, in a desperate fever. Now, surely now he could have some release. Surely, with this wanton creature beneath him, the object of his obsession, he could find some relief. But the further and harder he chased it, the more elusive it became. He was aroused beyond words, his dick as hard as it had ever been, but he just couldn't come. Fuck. FUCK.

He slow, then stopped, defeated, the rasping of his breathing the only sound in the room. The darkness sat like a weight on his chest, and it was all he could do to muster the energy to carefully pull out of her and roll onto his side, burying his face in his hands.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

"I'm sorry..." Her voice came to him as if across some great distance. She sounded like she was about to cry.

She's sorry. She's sorry? "Sorry for what?" he snapped.

"You didn't...I mean-"

So she'd noticed. Of course she did. The welcome heat of anger momentarily displaced the despair and he didn't hold back. "Didn't come? That's right. Congratulations. Have a medal for your keen observational skills."

"Did I do something wrong?" she ask, hurt and uncertainty showing in her vice.

The mental floorboards were sinking fast in a rising flood of his bottled pain and hurt. He unleashed it on the closest living thing, knowing full well as he did it he was wrong. He exploded, his fists pounding into the mattress.

"You? Who said this has anything to do with you? And what would you care? How do I know you're not just another game-playing little who-"

Her hand came out of nowhere, searching through her darkness for a target and slapped him hard on the chest. The suddenness, the sting of it, snapped something in him.

"I am playing no game, and I sure as hell am not a whore..." she spat at him, her voice quivering with indignance.

He was on top of her in a flash, his hands stretching her arms high above her head, her body trapped between his knees. His breath hissing in her ear, "Don't you fucking dare raise your voice to me..."

He stopped himself, wrestling with the rawness of the wound. What he'd thought was healed and gone was gaping open and bleeding all over the fucking place.

"What is it with you women...you always want, want, want. You love the chase and as long as you get what you want it's all fine. But what about what I want? When does that get considered?"

He knelt there, panting, the words hanging in the air between them. She didn't say anything, lying beneath him without resistance, unmoving, silent. He wanted to shake her, anything, to get a response.

Fuck it, he thought, shifting his weight to one knee to climb away from her. But she wrestled against him, suddenly a wildcat of movement, pleading, "Jarod don't!"

He froze, stunned. Jarod. She'd said his name. Had she-...? No, that was definitely the first time she'd said his name. The room tilted a little as the surreal thought settled in.

"Wasn't this...what you wanted?" she whispered insistently, snapping him out of his thoughts, moving her head as if trying to search him out.

Why, why did she keep asking about what he wanted? Wasn't it enough that he'd fulfilled her fantasy? Wasn't that what she wanted? To be seduced and forced to do things she couldn't bring herself to do on her own? He'd made her come, hadn't he? More than once. He'd done his bit. This...this was no different than any other time he'd been used. Used for his dick. Except this time...this time it hurt like hell.

"What the fuck do you care?" he growled, ready beyond anything to be done with this. There was a tense wait for her answer.

"I care."

Maybe it was her tone of voice, or how she said it. He didn't know. But the certainty, the depth of feeling in her words hit him in the gut like a sucker-punch. Still, he couldn't stop the harsh half-laugh that bubbled up as he asked her, "Why?"

She pulled against the restrain of his hands, her chin set stubbornly. "Do I have to have a reason? I just do okay?"

He closed his eyes, breathing deep. Okay. "Prove it."

"How?"

How? His mind went blank for a few moments, then kicked back into gear. "Get off the bed," he said, before releasing her hands and her body and rolling to the side of the bed.

At first she just lay where he'd left her, but she slowly came to life, moving stiffly, reaching her hand out blindly for the edge of the bed. He saw her sway as she sat up, her feet finding their tentative place on the floor. When she stood he actually thought she might fall, but she straightened herself, pulled her shoulders back, her hair falling in tousled waves around her shoulders. God, she was beautiful. It took everything in him not to reach up and stroke the back of his hand down the curve of her hip.

"Walk to the wall," he said, sounding a little steadier, but not feeling it. He wasn't going to tell her which wall, or where it was. The resentment, the distrust, still sat heavy in his chest. But she reached out with her arms, and, shuffling at first, took a few steps and soon found herself against the wall facing the bed. She clung to it as if rescued, her head bowed.

"Stay there until I say otherwise," he said, the command curt, his real emotions held in reserve. He watched her stand there, still and motionless, until he was certain she would do as he asked. He looked down at himself in disgust, and tugged off the useless condom. As if he'd even needed it in the end.

He walked heavily to the bathroom, not even bothering to look at himself in the mirror, in truth a little scared of what he'd see there. After all this, all the anticipation and waiting. After the endless mind-game and it all ended like this. It was the bitter edge of deep disappointment that gnawed at him, relentless in its appetite.

He grabbed a washcloth and bathed himself in warm soapy water. Was there any point in going on? He stood, braced against the sink, letting his thoughts take him.

She was standing in there, facing the wall, blindfolded. Because he'd asked her to, told her to. Okay, so maybe she got some sick thrill out of it. He'd heard of people like that. But there was that persistent litany of hers. The one that drove him crazy more than anything else. She kept asking him what he wanted. Why did she keep asking him that? Could she somehow know the truth? The truth being that he honestly didn't know?

He closed his eyes and just pictured her, letting his thoughts drift. He'd had her, been inside her, fucked her, for god's sake. He thought back to the moment he'd marked her, the euphoria of her pleasure-ripe sounds, the damp, salt-sweet taste of her. In that moment she'd been his. He wanted that again. More than anything he wanted that.

He strode with purpose back to the bedroom, his intent and focus clear. He stopped in the doorway, and sure enough, she was still standing where he'd left her, head held high, hands braced against the wall for support. He could see her shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another. He stepped up quietly behind her.

"Turn around."

She flinched at his voice, but with slow steps began to pivot towards his voice, her face solemn with concentration.

Satisfied, he retreated to the bed, settling back against the pillows where he had a clear view of her. It was an echo of the scene in the hallway earlier, but it was all changed now. He let the impulses flow, stopped censoring, ceased fighting them.

"Show me your bruise," he instructed, his gaze drifting over the planes of her body, the curves and lines of her, her secret places.

Bracing herself more firmly on the wall, she turned her leg and bent her knee, baring her inner thigh to him. There was the bruise, faded from the phone picture, but it stood out in stark contrast against her skin. But there was no phone camera between them now. It was just her and him.

"Do you know what I did with your little photos?"

She visibly stiffened, and he could only imagine what she was thinking, except that it couldn't be anything good. Did she really think that of him? Well, he was a bastard after all, so why not?

When she didn't answer, he carried on. "I looked at them. Every day in fact. Looked at them...asking myself what the fuck I was thinking. What the fuck was I doing, dragging you into my fucked up world."

He moved off the bed, restless with his confession. "I bet you thought I was wanking off to them, didn't you." He let out a cynical half-laugh at his own ridiculous predicament. "Nope, I just sat there, staring at them night after night, paralysed to do anything at all."

There. He'd said it. Now she knew how much this whole thing had gotten under his skin. How much she had gotten under his skin.

She still didn't answer, and he stepped nearer, right up to her, close. She seemed to sense his presence and he watched, fascinated, as her lips parted. His hand lifted of its own volition, his thumb finding the softness of her lower lip, brushing across it, gently a first, then with a possessive roughness. The memory filled his thoughts...his thumb in her mouth as she came, arching under him.

"Remember this?" he asked her, speaking low and steady into her ear. "You want to know what I want? You really want to know?" He pressed his thumb steadily against her lips until they relented, taking him into her mouth.

He took a deep, shaky breath as the sensation whirled through him, but he pressed on. "I want that cute little mouth of yours...on my cock."

There, he'd said it. And it was the truth. He was aching for her, the slick heat of her mouth on his thumb was driving him wild. He thought he felt her tongue flick against him, and he had to swallow the groan that rumbled up, his hips flexing towards her instinctively. He pulled his thumb away from the sweet torture and gripped her arm, pulling her with him towards the bed.

He let go of her, rolling into the centre of the bed, his head propped on the cushions, waiting for her to find him. Some sadistic part of his mind drew great pleasure from watching her, still blind, feeling her way falteringly along the edge of the bed, her hands reaching out to find his legs. She worked her way up his body, on her knees in front of him, her touch tentative and unsure.

She paused when her hands reached the tops of his thighs, her uncertainty clear in her face. He watched her internal debate rage for a few moments. Impatient, he simply grabbed the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair, and pulled her forward against him. The feel of her soft cheek against his cock was heaven. God. He gritted his teeth. But still, she hesitated.

"Go on," he said, his voice choked with the rising tide of need.

He watched her as she raised a tentative hand and grasped the base of his erection, noting with some amusement the twitch of surprise in her eyebrows when it jumped in her hand.

She seemed to draw in a deep breath, her grip tightening, causing him to gasp. He watched, mesmerised, as she wrapped her hands around him...those small hands. Oh god. Those small fucking hands. He let his head fall back, eyes screwed shut at the sudden pleasure.

And then she put her mouth on him, right at the base, underneath, and started licking and sucking her way up his cock, and he saw sparkling spots behind his eyes. Fuck...fuck it felt good. Hot, slick heat engulfing him. He could hear himself groaning, but couldn't stop, lost in the sensations her mouth found its gentle way up to the tip and swirled her tongue...oh god, that tongue. He gripped the sheets in his fists as she took him into her mouth.

White heat played across the insides of his eyelids, every nerve and breath in his body focussed on the insistent caress of her tongue on his cock. It was as if the air had been drawn right out of his lungs. But he wanted to see...wanted to watch her, and with some effort he opened his eyes.

She knelt between his legs, her hair swinging down to brush against his thighs as she blindly grasped him and made insistent love to him with her mouth. Everything about her movements was earnest and honest, and when she took him deeper, causing him to fill the room with words even he thought were beneath him, it was with such obvious pleasure that she did it, he began to feel himself coming undone. He searched and felt, but there was no duty in her movements, no reluctance in her touch. The pleasure just spun higher and tighter, and where he thought he'd taken from her, he could only feel her giving. All his tightly bound reinforcements were dissolving at the seams, and with it came the fear...

Her hands roamed over his thighs, slid up to his belly, pressing against him as if to read every thought, every flex of his body. She was with him, totally, completely with him, and he felt himself slipping towards the cliff edge. She took him as deep as she could, her tongue repeating that delicious friction until he was arching off the bed, hips flexing into her, desperate to climb to the top of that peak and go over.

But he didn't have to chase it this time. She just drew him to it, higher and deeper, with a knowing and possessiveness he didn't quite understand. He could sense her own, building pleasure as he became more and more frantic. Swearing and panting he teetered on the edge before toppling over into bright golden light, without sound and without breath. Everything in him exploded into her, emptying him, draining away, the pain and dark and waiting. He just let her have it all, allowed her to take it from him, and she held him tight as he fell, senseless with relief and release. And he was not alone.