His words sent shivers through me. “Would I? And would you be the one doing the binding?”
Those dark cherry wood eyes glinted at me. “Would you like me to?”
I didn't know what to say. He was a man who could make me speechless. I always know what to say, how to send people off balance, and yet I seemed to have met my match in Malcolm Ward. I opened my mouth, my whole body vibrating with something dark and sweet, as though I were a string on an instrument and he had plucked me, made me sing.
He snapped a picture of my parted lips and wide eyes, my hesitation and desire, a woman standing on a cliff side on the fifth floor of a Manhattan mansion.
“Perhaps,” I said at last. “If you wanted.” Another rush of heat bloomed between my legs at my frank admission, as I thought of all the ways I wanted him to tie me up.
For the first time, I saw a crack in his serenely nutso exterior. His Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped. “I might,” he said. “Will you turn around?”
Mouth dry, I did so. The soft sound of our breathing and the click and whirr of the camera were the only sounds in the room. The noise of the city outside barely registered with me. I felt his presence, hot and hovering, just behind me, like a caress on my skin. The muscles of my back tightened and wound up, and my spine arched, thrusting my breasts out. The clicking of the camera came faster, and I began to move, tossing my hair, letting my head fall back on a limp neck, my arms growing heavy as I lost control of them beneath a wave of drunken desire. I posed artlessly for him, my thoughts running wild with the fantasy of skin on skin, breath to breath, his fingers on me, in me, his tongue tasting my body as I devoured him, bit him, dug in my nails and pulled him inside.
My need must have shown on my face, and though there was a camera between us, I knew he saw it. From the corner of my eye, I watched his shoulders grow tense and tight as I threw everything I had into seducing him.
His breath was coming hard and fast by the time he knelt beside me, aiming the lens of his camera upward, and I lifted an arm and turned my face from his, letting the fabric slip from my grip to reveal one pert breast with a nipple as hard as a pebble.
He hissed between his teeth as he snapped the picture. The sound made my knees go weak, and I sank to the floor, letting my limbs go limp as I lay down, swathed carelessly in white satin against black, my hair fanning out around me, my breasts freed at last.
“Yes,” he said, and his voice was harsh with want. “Yes, like that.”
I tossed my head, writhing in the throes of some imagined ecstasy, and through it the camera clicked on, capturing me with complete honesty. Malcolm stood again and straddled my hips so he could get a good view of me from above, and I thrashed beneath him, like a pinned butterfly.
I wished I'd taken my panties off, but now that he was above me I really had no way of removing them discreetly, so I threw caution, and my satiny shroud, to the wind. His sharp inhalation as I bared myself almost completely to him was all I needed. Reaching down, I worked my panties over my hips, grateful that the black cotton would stand out against the white. Malcolm took a thousand and one pictures as I slid them down my legs, twisting and turning so he could get the maximum number of angles. Sliding one foot out, I cocked my hip and slowly stretched the cotton out, pulling at it as though it were inextricably hooked on my other foot. When at last the elastic snapped over my toes and rebounded into my hand I was almost moaning. One of my fingers had found its way into my mouth and I bit down on it as I tossed the panties away.
Malcolm sank to his knees, still straddling my legs. The camera clicked, a rapid staccato beat as I arched my back, completely bared to him. “My god,” he whispered, rough and low, and then my hands found his thighs, burning hot through the thin flannel pajama bottoms.
The barrier of the camera broke, and his hand found my stomach, rough and wide, skating down the skin of my belly to the soft mound of my pussy, still trapped between my thighs. Without parting my legs, he slipped a rough fingertip between the lips of my pussy and found my creamy slit and aching clitoris.
His touch was electrifying, sending sparks dancing across my skin, and I thought at any moment they might catch, fan into flames and consume me, but as his hand picked up a slow, rough rhythm, fucking me with the pad of his finger, I failed to combust. Instead I gasped as he dragged his fingertip against my clit, drawing a moan from my mouth as my legs tensed and my toes curled. My hands ran over my skin, up into my hair where they curled and pulled, then down over my breasts, pinching and pulling them into taut peaks. Above the sound of my gasps, I heard the camera clicking madly, but I didn't even care.