The fantastic feeling increased but demand rose hard too and soon the urge to drive deep into her gripped him. He had to master, to conquer, to take her body and make it shake and shudder in surrender. Instinct told him to have her as bound by lust as he now was. Every muscle burned with the need to move more— harder, faster, deeper. And yet she held still, in charge above him.
He thought of phone numbers, stock prices, hotel listings…anything to stop him, to slow himself down. He even resorted to chanting the alphabet song—but he only got as far as F and he knew he was in trouble. He tried to start again.
Finally, with profound relief, he saw her control begin to waver. Her breathing was raw and he could see the torture in her eyes as she neared climax. The want in her expression increased and he shifted his hips just that little bit, wanting her to know the power was there.
Liss rose up and almost off him, watching the frustration in his face sharpen. She could just about see him reciting sums in his head. She knew he wanted faster, harder—so did she. But she loved the look on his face as she teased him. Loved leaning forward and teasing his lips with the tips of her nipples. He was groaning in a way she’d never heard him groan, only barely hanging on. His eyes were glazed, his skin damp, and she felt all his muscles bunch even tighter. His face was a twisted picture of pleasure and pain as his control was pushed to the absolute limit. She wanted him broken.
‘I need to…’ He couldn’t seem to get the rest out. ‘I need to…’
‘What, James?’ she murmured into his ear as she slid down on him again, taking him in to the hilt. She saw his lips moving but couldn’t make out the words.
She whispered once more. ‘What are you saying?’
‘The alphabet… I’m singing the alphabet.’
‘Are you crazy?’ She tried to laugh but it came out more of a sob. She took his face in her hands, determined to set him free. ‘Look at me. Feel me.’ She rode him that bit harder. ‘Come in me.’
‘What about you?’ Teeth gritted, the effort of holding back biting even sharper into his features.
She smoothed the strain from his damp forehead. ‘I’m already one step ahead of you.’
He stopped the light caresses over her back. Came to grip her hips. And with incredible strength he took her weight with his hands, the muscles in his arms bunching. Holding her a fraction above him so he could lean back in the chair and pump upwards. Hard. Fast. Frantic.
The base of his pelvis ground against hers, closer and closer. And suddenly she was the one groaning and he was the one with the diabolical grin. His fingers hurt but she didn’t care, barely noticed in fact—too close to experiencing ecstasy.
It was only another stroke and then it hit. Another freedom-destroying orgasm in which she cried out, caught between tears and laughter, and then she revelled in his loud shout and the violent spasms of his strong body as he finally lost all control.
‘You’re a witch,’ he muttered, chest heaving as he still struggled for breath five minutes later.
She smiled, spread all over him as soft as melting creamy butter and totally pleased with herself. ‘I really like being on top.’
Without doubt he understood her enjoyment of the situation—her success. His eyes narrowed. He lifted her up, set her on her feet again, and then stood up. He took her hand and started walking—fast. Legs wobbly, she struggled to keep up with him as in only a few paces he crossed the room and went into the bedroom.
She almost stumbled, such was his speed. He turned, scooped her up and with a devilish smirk literally tossed her onto the bed.
Hungry excitement, which she had thought just filled, stirred again in her belly.
‘What are you doing?’ She knelt up as he shrugged off his shirt and stepped out of the remnants of his trousers and undies.
He pushed her back onto the bed again and leant over her, teeth showing in a wide, wicked grin. ‘Showing you exactly who’s boss.’
Later that night she sat at the computer, Googled the ancient Greek rituals surrounding the ‘orgiastic festivities’ of Dionysus, and giggled. She was definitely going to go stylised, just a hint or two, not full on and out there. But from where was she going to get the hint, the flavour of naughty fun? The computer search threw up a lot of images—artists’ impressions of those decadent scenes. They’d be perfect—but as if the Louvre or the British National Gallery were going to loan priceless paintings for a party? Maybe she could project some of the more famous images onto the walls of the ballroom? She frowned—it was a possibility but not perfect. And she wanted perfect.