Avenge Me. Maisey Yates

placed the belt on the edge of the mattress, his movements just as controlled and methodical now as they’d been when he undid his cuffs and tie.

      He moved to unbutton his shirt, working silently as he released the buttons, exposing a wedge of tan skin. He shrugged the shirt from his broad shoulders, muscles shifting with the motion.

      She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Off of each sharply defined line. How each movement sent off a ripple effect through his torso. He straightened and her eyes locked on to the dark hair that covered his chest and ran in a line down the center of his perfectly defined abs. Just enough to remind her that he was a man, not enough to conceal up all those gorgeous muscles.

      She wanted to touch him. But she was still tied.

      “I said on your knees,” he repeated.

      She repositioned herself, her hands in front of her, her heels beneath her butt, her knees denting the mattress.

      He put his hand behind her head and started releasing her hair from its pins. It fell around her in a dark, silken wave, moving over her shoulders, covering her breasts.

      “I’ve been having fantasies about your hair,” he said, his expression tense. Hard. Like a man carved from stone. Like a man trying, so very hard, to hold everything—his emotions, his desires—at bay.

      She watched as his hands went to the closure on his slacks. Her throat went dry and she swallowed hard, finding breathing difficult.

      She’d never seen a naked man in person before. And here she was, about to be confronted with her first, her hands tied.

      You could tell him to stop....

      No. She didn’t want that.

      He shrugged his underwear and pants down, exposing himself to her for the first time. She’d had a fair idea, judging from the bulge, that he was not a small man. But that was a bit of an understatement.

      He wrapped his hand around his shaft and she watched, mesmerized, as he stroked himself once. Twice. Closing his eyes as he did, muttering something. A curse, a prayer. She wasn’t sure.

      He kept one hand on his erection, and cupped her cheek with the other, before moving it to her hair, sifting the strands through his fingers.

      He pushed her hair back, gathering it in his fist and twisting it around his hand, his hold firm. He didn’t pull; he simply held her. Captive. At his mercy.

      Pleasure and excitement shivered along her spine as she waited to see what he would do next. What he would demand next.

      She bit her lip, her eyes on his arousal.

      “You want that?” he asked.

      She nodded slowly, waiting for his order.

      He moved closer to her and she tried to lean in but he held her fast, pain tingling around her scalp as he held her hair tight, keeping her in place.

      “I didn’t say you could do that yet,” he said.

      He tugged her hair again, forcing her head back. She looked up at him, their eyes locking. “Please,” she said, breaking his rule.

      She was hungry. For him. For every experience he could give. Everything she’d missed.

      She parted her lips and waited for him to come to her. He moved closer and she touched the tip of his shaft with her tongue, her eyes on his face. She could see the tension there, could see how much he wanted it. That he was denying them both for some reason.

      She opened wider and took more of him in. He held her tight, guiding her, setting the pace. She watched him, watched to see if he was getting the same pleasure from this that she’d gotten when he’d done it for her.

      And it was her turn to deny him. To push him to the edge. To feel him shake, even while he held her in his iron grip.

      He pushed his hips toward her and guided her head down and she took him in deep, her tongue moving along the hard ridge of him.

      He swore and pulled her back. “Not yet. Not like that,” he said.

      He released his hold on her hair and stepped back, sweat making his chest and shoulders glisten. She just wanted to stare at him for a moment. At that hard flat stomach, the lines that framed the part of his body she was enjoying so much.

      “I’m not waiting anymore,” he said, opening the drawer by the bed and pulling out a condom. The amenities he’d requested in his phone call earlier, no doubt. “Turn around,” he said. “Face the headboard.”

      She turned away from him reluctantly. She wanted to keep staring at him. She wanted to memorize this moment. This night. No, it wasn’t sweet lovemaking. But it was what she needed.

      And she had no idea when she would have the chance to do something like this ever again. Hell, it would never be like this again.

      Because she’d never had a connection like this with anyone else. This raw, visceral understanding that went beneath their social veneers and touched on something real.

      She hadn’t made the choice to be honest with him. She’d had no other option. She suspected it was the same for him.

      This man who was clearly from a life so obviously different from hers. A guest at the party, not the help. And yet he knew her. And she knew him.

      She felt the mattress depress behind her, his hand on her hip, the other on her arm.

      He swept her hair to the side and kissed her neck, the action surprisingly gentle. He slid his fingertips along her elbows, then gripped her wrists, lifting them slightly and looping them over the thick, black bedpost.

      He let his hand drift from there, over her breasts, down to her stomach, between her legs. He repositioned her, bringing her ass up against him. He was hot and hard behind her, his fingers teasing her now, ramping up her arousal, keeping her nerves at bay.

      She gasped as he pushed two fingers inside of her again, testing her slickness, testing her readiness.

      She wasn’t sure how much it would hurt. But tonight, there had already been some pain, and he’d made it okay. More than okay—he made it good. He would make this good, too.

      He knew her body. Knew how to keep her walking that fine line between pleasure and pain. Knew when to pull back, when to push for more.

      So she trusted him to do this, too.

      He withdrew his fingers and repositioned them both. Then he was pressed against the entrance to her body, sliding in slowly, his grip tight on her hip.

      She bit her lip, trying to keep from whimpering. It was the burning pain she hadn’t expected. Pain, yes, but not quite this kind. It made her eyes water, made her shake.

      “Stop?” he asked, his voice hard.

      “No,” she said, pulling down hard on her restraints, the bedpost biting into her wrists.

      He tugged back on her hip and thrust hard, driving himself in to the hilt. He cursed again and started moving inside of her, the pain gradually decreasing, pleasure slowly blooming in her stomach and spreading outward.

      All of the fire, the need, from every touch, every tease, every glance since she’d first seen him came roaring through her, the heat threatening to consume her completely.

      He moved his hand between her legs, his fingers teasing her in time with his thrusts. “Come for me,” he said. “Come for me now.”

      His words hit just as his fingertip brushed against her clit, just as he filled her with another hard thrust, and pushed her over the edge.

      Her release was hard. Bursting inside of her, leaving shock waves of heat behind. Leaving her shaking, her shoulders aching.

      He let out a harsh growl, both of his hands tight on her hips, fingertips digging into her skin, his hold so hard she thought it might leave a bruise. And in the wake of her orgasm, she prayed