By Desire Bound Read online

  He buried himself in her, he couldn't get deep enough, tight enough, hard enough for her. And he stayed that way, embedded in her, until the spasms of her climax eddied away.

  She couldn't move. All she felt, all she knew was him— the pulsating throbbing hard part of him. She had never felt such a vibrant connection before, never felt such a lust to possess anyone. No other man had a penis like this. No one but he knew how to play.

  She was aroused by the sheer feeling of his focused force rammed into her like that. She wanted him all over again, and she didn't hesitate to let him know it. She wriggled against him enticingly. She shimmied her buttocks hard against his pulsating length and his churning hips. She arched herself up to him, inviting him like a cat to stroke her and stoke her.

  He couldn't refuse her blatantly voluptuous plea. She still hadn't had enough of him. He flexed inside her, girding himself, feeling as potent as a bull, as mighty as a tree.

  He took her remorselessly, giving her what she wanted—his long strong pummelling strokes pounding into her, and grinding into her as he finally came, swamping her, drenching her, rilling her to the hilt.

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  She wanted more.

  He didn't need words to tell him: her naked body moved voluptuously against his, restive and hot to the core.

  He could take her now, he thought, but it was better to wait. Let her need stoke her appetite; let her seethe and writhe and moan. He relished the longing in her that burned with lust for him.

  Anticipation was everything. And memory. And the body's hunger to replicate the exhausting, pounding pleasure of their coupling.

  And the sheer carnality of her nakedness pressed against his body excited him, and aroused him to a fever pitch, hard as a bone and ready to plow.

  But he wouldn't give in to her, not even if she were Eve. Not even if she used all of her erotic wiles.

  He loved this moment, in the dark, where he was master and the instrument, and she was the wanton slave of her own desire.

  Her body rippled against him, teasing him, torturing him.

  His erection elongated still more, thrusting stiffly into the air.

  She made a little sound as she felt his covert move-

  ment. He grabbed her hand before she could reach for him and immobilized it.

  And waited.

  She hated him. Why, when he was stone hard and hot to rut in her, was he making her wait?

  She wriggled her hips, hoping to entice him.

  He held himself tight as a drum as his body betrayed him with an aching, longing surge.

  He got it ruthlessly under control. And he waited.

  She wedged herself tightly against him, hip to hip, leg to leg, so he could feel the alluring brush of her pubic hair against his rock hard thigh.

  She couldn't tempt him.

  And he waited.

  Aching. Rigid. Towering. Burning to drive himself into her hot tight sheath.

  And he waited. He wanted the tension at a fever pitch and her voluptuous need for him stoking her as white hot as her greed.

  It was unbearable. She lay next to him squirming with lust for him, hot and wet for him, her nipples tight hard points for him.

  She didn't understand why she couldn't just climb onto him and ram his desire home.

  He was playing some strange game with her. Making her wait like this. Getting her crazy wild and feeding on her hunger for him.

  She forced his hand between her legs, and he jerked it away.

  "Oh no. No," he growled. "You'll wait until I'm ready."

  She went breathless. "I'm waiting."

  "Good."

  Her body went tight at the sensual implication of that word.

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  "How good?" she whispered.

  "As good as you'll ever get it."

  She writhed against his restraining hand. There had to be some way to break him. Some way to make him come. She inched her leg over his, straining closer to his heated body.

  Closer still, winding her foot around his ankle and rubbing his skin. And she felt the faintest flex of his body.

  Yes.

  He waited.

  She lifted her foot and stroked his leg. He reacted violently, his hips convulsing at the touch of her toes.

  Good. She loved the word. She loved his involuntary re­sponse.

  She waited, as he mercilessly clamped down on his rampant need.

  And she waited, because now she was in control, and she understood about the waiting and the heightening of desire.

  Now he was squirming with hunger for her.

  Good. That was how you turned the tables. And now—

  She lifted her leg and inserted her foot between his legs against the taut sacs of his scrotum. He stopped her there. He kept her there. Her toes flexed against him and his hips moved involuntarily.

  "Don't. Do. That." Her voice, ragged and raw. "I want you. Now."

  He moved her foot and stroked her toes against the underside of his erection, and then he rubbed the hard throbbing length against her foot.

  "There's a part of me that wants your foot, Sche­herazade."

  "You want me, " she groaned.

  "Let's see. Since you couldn't stand to wait, let's see what it will take to make me come."

  He moved her foot to the base of his penis where it jutted away from his body, and he rubbed her foot up up the length of it. "Ummm. That feels good."

  Good . . . as good as—

  She yanked her foot away, and he caught it back, and stroked himself again. "I like your toes caressing me," he murmured. "The pressure is just right."

  "Why are you doing this?" she moaned, frantic with wanting him, willing to take him any way she could get him now. Even with her toes.

  "Because you wouldn't wait. I told you it would be good. Better than before because of the waiting. You're hot. juicy, soaking wet; just ripe and ready for me."

  "Then take me," she begged.

  "Tell me you want me more than your toes."

  "I want you."

  "Good." That word, that luscious meaningful, self-satisfied word.

  As good as . . .

  He rolled over so that he was poised above her. He grasped her hands and pinned them above her head. She hooked her legs around his thighs, and waited breathlessly for him to mount her.

  With erotic precision, he breached her, in one hard soul-shattering lunge, as hard, hot and deep as he could

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  "Yes," she whispered. "Yes." How unbelievably hard

  he was; how tightly he filled her. She wanted him to stay there forever.

  He rocked against her gently, to maintain his fierce control.

  "Never, ever . . ." she breathed.

  "I know."

  "Don't move."

  "I couldn't. Not yet."

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  "The waiting," she murmured.

  "I can't move."

  "I want you to come. For me. In me."

  "Not yet. Not . . . yet—"

  "Kiss me."

  "Not even that. I'm too close."

  "Then do it. I want you to do it." She undulated her hips against him, testing him, tormenting him, sensing he was on the edge of his iron control.

  Big mistake.

  "Tell me a story, Scheherazade."

  She made a littie sound at the back of her throat. "The story is," she gasped, as she shimmied desperately against him, "I'm . . . going ... to co-ome—" She broke as her body seized up, spasmed, and began the soft melting slide into oblivion down his long stiff pole.

  She toppled into a churning, foaming silence. And then she was complete.

  And he waited. Waited. Holding her. Surging incre-mentally against her hips. Waiting. Sensing. Needing. Needing . . . needing—

  H
e blew. He barely gyrated his hips, and his whole body gathered, he pushed, and he erupted violently into her with one sweet cradling move.

  This was a different man, in the dark, now that he had his eyes.

  And by daylight—Darcie knelt beside the bed and studied him in the dim dawn light. He was just as she remembered him that first night: long and strong and tempting to touch.

  He watched her through hooded eyes as she climbed up onto the bed and buried her face between his legs, rooting for him with her mouth.

  "Ah, Darcie . . ."

  "I need you again," she whispered, pulling at him, sucking on him until he stiffened in her mouth.

  "I have something else for you," he murmured, eas­ing himself away from her. The test was now. The test of his prowess and her need.

  "All I want is you," she said, rocking back on her heels.

  He leaned over the bed and swiped up his trousers. "But you don't want to go with me." Her expression changed. "Maybe I do." He dug into a pocket and handed something to her.

  She closed her hand tightly around it: one of the remaining Pengellis diamonds.

  "It's yours."

  "For services rendered?" she asked, bitterness lacing her tone.

  "You're free to make a choice now, Scheherazade." He tossed his trousers to the floor and leaned back with his hands behind his head.

  She looked at him, at his long lean body fully dis­played for her pleasure. At his thick towering manhood already hard and yearning for her.

  And she looked at the diamond.

  She got off the bed and took it to the window, holding it to catch the sun to reflect its rainbow light.

  "I don't understand."

  "Stay or go—that diamond is yours."

  "Do you want me to stay?" she asked carefully. It was such a soul-sapping conversation, with both of them na­ked and ready for other things.

  "Don't play games, Darcie. If you stay, there are rules."

  "In the dark, there weren't any rules," she said.

  "But in the dark, I didn't have any power."

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  "You had power," she countered.

  "I had you."

  "Now you don't need me."

  He chose not to answer that. "Make up your mind, Darcie. You were the one who wanted to go back home."

  She vaguely remembered that she had; could barely remember the reasons why: last night had blasted all of that right out of her head.

  Oh yes, she'd been rooting around for the diamonds. A stake to get her back home. And now she had it, with no repercussions, in the palm of her hand.

  But she wouldn't have him. She wouldn't have that body, those kisses, his penis, that lover. And after last night, she couldn't let that go.

  "Do you want me?"

  He gave her a crooked smile and gestured to his body. "Do I, Darcie? I've been in a perpetual state of arousal since you rescued me. And seeing you just makes me hotter and harder for you. Is that what you want to hear? That I'm constantly hard for you? I am. I want to jam myself into you every way I can think of. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. That's your power, Darcie. Your nakedness incites that kind of lust. I'm always rock hard and ready for you. Any time. Anywhere. So you tell me, Scheherazade, what are you going to do?"

  She loved that kind of power. She adored his admis­sion that he was always hard for her. She wanted him, and she wanted no one else to have him. And she didn't care how high the price.

  It probably started at one Pengellis diamond. She put it on the washstand and sat down on the bed. "I'll go with you."

  His eyes kindled. Beautiful, sensual Darcie. He hadn't been sure. He hadn't known if his sex was enough. If

  she'd said no, he had no idea what he would have done. He'd gambled—and this time he won.

  "Good," he said.

  Good . . . as good as—in the dark . . .

  "Tell me the rules," she murmured, sliding her hands up his hair-rough thighs. "I know one—if you want to wait, we wait."

  "Good." He watched her hands and he let her . . . let her. . . grasp his throbbing length. "So good." And he let himself—let himself— discharge a drop of his es­sence onto her hand.

  She held his eyes as she rubbed it on her breasts. It was so erotic, he almost came; he didn't know which was more powerful: imagining it or watching her do it, and he almost didn't care.

  "I want to coat myself like this every morning," she whispered. "That's my rule."

  "If you play with me much longer, you'll be able to swim in it," he growled, pulling back from her greedy hands.

  She smiled faintly, as mysterious as Eve, reaching for him again. "Tell me your rules."

  He envisioned her drowning in his essence, and he spurted again.

  "You will never deny me. You will always be naked and willing for me just as I am always hard and ready for you. I could spend my seed on any woman but I'm hard for you. Will you accept those rules, Scheherazade; do you want it that much too?"

  Her hands on him had been quiescent as he spoke. But now she stroked him purposefully as she considered his rules.

  He wanted her always wet and hot and ready for him. He wanted to give it only to her when he was hard and

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  he wanted it. And that was her power—his lust for her, his need to spend himself only on her.

  And she wanted that. She would deny him nothing. She wanted it every bit as much as he did—more. She wanted it now and she would want it ten minutes from now. And this afternoon. And tonight and tomorrow.

  Whatever they had done before was nothing com­pared to the luscious games and the sumptuous cou­plings of the previous night What woman would deny herself that? Or the reverberating pleasure of holding him, possessing him, and knowing he was hers?

  "I accept the terms," she whispered.

  "You want it." It wasn't a question.

  She rubbed the thick ridged tip of him. "I want it."

  "Take it."

  She climbed up on the bed and straddled him, her eyes shrouded in mystery. "Now?"

  "Now."

  She rose to her knees, and poised herself over him, and then slowly, agonizingly ground her way down to seat herself on him.

  And now he was at her mercy. He must wait. She held herself still, her excitement escalating to an impossible pitch, as she watched his face.

  But she couldn't help the slight rocking motion. How could anyone keep still when his gorgeous male root was centered in her? She wanted to feel it as completely and fully as possible. She was thrilled that for the first time he could see whose body brought him to this pleasure.

  That he could see her.

  She arched her back against the all-consuming orgas­mic sensation of his penetration. It wouldn't take much to send her over the edge. And she could see that he was playing a game: he wanted to wait as much as she. Just sitting astride him made her hot. The sheer na-

  kedness of her body straddling him like that. Her breasts bare, firm and taut. Her hair, wild and free. She lifted it slowly from her shoulders as he flexed himself inside her.

  "No, no, no," she said coyly, wagging her finger at him. "We're going to wait. I'm just going to sit here and feel you so hard and hot inside me and know you're just yearning to explode, and we'll wait. You do love to wait, don't you?"

  "You'll have to wait too, Scheherazade."

  "I'm learning to like it. I get more of you for a longer time between my legs, and I do love that. So—be still. Let me enjoy how hard you are, how stiff you feel."

  "What if I can't wait?"

  "But I have you rather at a disadvantage. What can you do?"

  "Let me show you."

  He pressed down on the bed to give himself some leverage to thrust. Immediately, she ground down on him, and smacked him lightly on the thigh.

  "That was bad of you—
and good for me. Now I've got you even deeper inside me."

  "I can't wait, Scheherazade."

  "Oh, I see. You wait if it's excruciating for me. And you can't if it's hard for you."

  "I can't wait because it's hard for you."

  She wriggled tauntingly against him. "You're so right."

  "Darcie—" This time there was no playfulness in his tone.

  "Yes, Con—?" Her voice was light as air.

  "If you push down one more time, I'm going to come."

  She smiled, that elusive smile. "Really? You can't wait—? I can't believe it. A man with your rules, your appetites—" She knew it wouldn't take much; she could

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  see in his face that he was struggling to maintain disci­pline.

  It was the last thing she wanted him to do. She began rocking on his erection, slowly, imperceptibly at first, and then with a sensual gyration of her hips that sent him spinning out of control.

  He grabbed her hips and pushed her; she bent over him, her hair a curtain around them, as she deliberately plunged back and forth on his shaft.

  She looked into his eyes, and it was that knowing, mysterious look of hers that sent him over the edge. He clutched her hips tightly and in one violent convulsive movement, he jammed himself into her and pitched headfirst over the brink.

  She was swimming in it. Loving it. Didn't want to move away from it. Loved watching him slide down the tower of his ecstasy to pure soul-sapping completion. It was all she wanted: to be the only one who could bring him to this.

  She relinquished him only when his energy and de­sire were finally manageable and at his command. But until then, she had him, nestled between her legs, fully extended, ridden to exhaustion, and deliciously there.

  And she refused to let him console her with his hand.

  "I'll wait," she said placidly. "I can wait. I'm not the one who couldn't abide by the rules. I'll be waiting for you. And you'll know, all day, that I'm wet and ripe and just on the crest of all that pleasure. So we'll see who really knows how to wait."