The second strike was far harder than the first, and she buried her mouth against the bed to silence her cries of pain. They were in the middle of a bustling neighborhood in a hotel with dozens of guests in the rooms around and under them. Screaming was discouraged…but not forbidden. This was the French Quarter. These things happened.
The blows built and built upon her ass and thighs. She breathed harder, moaned softer. She’d lost count at twenty. The impact barely registered anymore, only the fire, only the burning. Leather on flesh creates friction. Friction creates heat. The room was cold when she’d arrived. Now it felt like a hundred degrees.
Nora flinched as something landed next to her on the bed. She waited, but nothing happened. It was over. The beating done and the belt discarded. With her eyes hidden behind the sash, her sense of hearing heightened. She heard the sounds she wanted to hear—the rustle of fabric as Søren took off his clothes. When he came back to her, she felt his bare thighs against hers. He touched the welts he’d left on her body, probing them lightly with his fingers, tracing the raised edges, feeling the heat of them against his palm. Admiring his work, of course.
Nora let herself go limp as Søren pulled and turned her this way and that, until she lay on the bed on her back, hips at the edge of the mattress. He spread her thighs wide as he moved between them and pushed his fingers into her. He stroked upward, rubbing the front wall where she was so wet and tender and aching. He wetted his fingers inside her and massaged the wetness over her throbbing clitoris. Nora’s shoulders nearly came off the bed as he touched every part of her that needed touching.
She heard his low mocking laugh and fought off the urge to “accidentally” kick him. It was his fault she was this desperate. A whole month? Was the man trying to kill her? He pressed the tip of his cock at the entrance of her body, and pushed in slow, deep, and hard and she groaned in relief.
She arched as he filled her, stretching her out and open. A month without him inside her and he was big enough to hurt, but it didn’t hurt because she wanted him so much. She’d been wet and ready for him from the second he shoved his cock into her throat, and she was even wetter now as he moved on top of her. He took her wrists in his hands and held them hard into the bed. It hurt, and she groaned in her pleasure at the pain.
Søren still hadn’t kissed her on the mouth. She would have begged for it if she’d been allowed to speak. He hadn’t given her permission, so she suffered in silence as he pounded into her. Absolute torture that she couldn’t tell him how good his big thick cock felt in her pussy, how much she’d missed him, how she’d fantasized about this moment when they were together again.
Since she couldn’t speak with words, she let her body tell him everything he needed to know. Nora lifted her hips, pushing them into him, taking every inch of him until she couldn’t take anymore. It was all she could do, lying helpless on the bed, held down by his impossibly strong hands on her wrists. But she wasn’t completely helpless…
She contracted her vagina around his cock as hard as she could. He gasped, and she grinned, triumphant. A short-lived triumph. He released her wrists, dug his hands into her hair and held her immobile underneath. His thrusts were vicious, stabbing, and split her wide open. She felt his hot breath on her shoulder.
“I missed your cunt,” he breathed into her ear. Nora gasped again. A month without a word from him, and that was the first thing he said to her?
Terrible man. She adored every inch of his wicked body.
He held her down and fucked her. Maybe they’d make love later. Maybe it would be tender and sweet—as tender and sweet as any sadist could make love—but she needed fucked first, and he needed to fuck her. Nora lifted her hips faster, pumping them with her heels dug into the bed until she was almost out of her mind with need. Søren reached between their bodies, found her clitoris, and stroked it with wet fingers. She stiffened, back arched, breasts pressed to his chest, and came with a near-silent grunt in the back of her throat.
She came around him in a thousand sharp contractions. Lost in her own pleasure, she barely noticed when he dug his fingers into the back of her neck, held her head to his chest, and came inside her. Only when he lowered her gently back down and pulled out of her did she feel the rush of hot semen on her thighs pouring onto the bed.
Søren lay with her, leg over her hip, every inch of his long body pressed close to her.
“I’ll take your blindfold off now,” he said, “but you have to promise not to laugh.”
“Laugh at what?” she asked, and he answered by taking off her blindfold.
She raised a hand to Søren’s face and stroked his brand-new blond and gray beard. She didn’t laugh, but she did smile.
“I like it.”
Chapter Ten
For the second time that day, Nora found herself giving a beautiful man a neck massage. She straddled Søren’s lower back and dug her hands deep into the muscles of his neck and shoulders. He released a small groan of pleasure.
“You missed more than my cunt, I guess,” she said.
He grinned, laughed softly. “I did,” he said. “But especially that.”
“Do I want to know what you’ve been doing for the past month?” She ran her fingers through his hair. It needed cutting, but wasn’t quite out of control yet. She decided he looked like a well-groomed Viking with the beard and the longer hair.
“Riding. Thinking. Trying not to think.”
“Did you play with anyone?”
“That is between me and Vegas.”
He laughed and rolled over. She let him. Instead of straddling his back, she straddled his stomach. The bright streetlights of the French Quarter shone into the room. She could see his face, his eyes, his smile. She bent and kissed him, then rubbed her cheek against his cheek.
“Mmm…abrasion play,” she said. “I could get used to this.”
He wrapped his arms around her and dragged her down to his chest. She was content to just lay there a good long while…until she remembered how mad she was at him.
Nora sat up again on his stomach and pointed her finger down at her face.
“Why did you leave us?” she demanded. “Kingsley’s been a wreck. I’ve been a wreck. Even Juliette’s been worried.”
“I sent postcards.”
“Yes. Blank ones.”
“I didn’t know what to write.” He sounded almost sorry. Almost. “Just know every card meant ‘I love you, I miss you, this is where you can find me.’”
“Find you? From a postcard? You didn’t even take your phone with you. What if you’d gotten in an accident? What if the Hells Angels decided to beat you up and forced you to get tattoos and hepatitis?”
His brow furrowed. “Eleanor, what are you talking about?”
“Kingsley was worried the Hells Angels would force you to join their motorcycle club and commit crimes with them. And then he said something about tattoos and hepatitis. He’s having a minor mental breakdown. Again.”
“I didn’t join the Hells Angels. But might have gotten a tattoo.”
“You did not.”
“I did.” He smiled at her.