THE DEVIL IS A GENTLEMAN - H.S

9

"Are you going to drop it?"

Isla huffs.

The dominant tells her, pointedly, "Because I'm not keen on the idea of replacing it, if you do, and it breaks." 

"No," the submissive gripes — steadfast stubbornness breaking through the apprehension, and she eyes him through her mask with narrowed eyes. She watches the visible features of his face, otherwise hidden by latex, quirk with surprised amusement at her apparent irritation.

Isla knows his eyebrows are raised behind rubber, solely off his tone when he teases, "M'only asking for precaution. Should I tape it to your hands?"

"No," Isla tells him, eventually, with less bite to her words.

Because, wow. Yeah. They're doing this. And he's concerned that she'll drop the wand — concerned enough to offer to tape it to her hands. Patronizing joking aside, she's perfectly capable of controlling herself, Isla decides. Without his helping hand of sticky bondage tape.

She wants to be brave — she wants resolute valor to paint her demeanor, she wants to be indifferent, she wants to be cool and composed. She certainly doesn't want to crumble, but all of her prior agenda flies out the window the second that the man meets her eye, and then just ...slips to his knees ahead of her. Casually. So nonchalantly, it's grating, nearly. But she could never be vexed at the sight. Not really.

Instead, she wishes he didn't have that pesky, rubber hood shrouding him from the neck-up. She wishes that she had the ability to tuck her fingers into his hair. Alas...

Isla sighs. It's dreamy-sounding, kind of, because then Harry sets his warm touch onto the front of her thighs. Jade flickers back up to meet her face, melting in its apparent traces of composure. And then his chin dips, and his eyes brace ahead, and he presses the tip of his thumb in, between her parted — parting, actually, actively — thighs, just ...spreading her a tad, for his gaze, and that's— that's.

The young woman restrains the soft moan that aches to slip from her mouth when he takes his thumb back and brushes the pad of it over her clit. Again, his irises flit to her like he's eager to absorb her reaction. She doesn't give in, gnawing into her bottom lip like the motion is sustenance for her (wilting) composure. Harry leans forward and pastes his mouth to her thigh. Then, the crease in between, where her thigh and pelvis meet. Her knees nearly give out from below — useless, useless joints with little willpower — when the dominant presses his mouth against the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs. Her chest falls and her teeth unlatch with the sharp exhale he siphons. It's just a kiss. Chaste, present and flitting as soon as his lips land, but then his tongue slips out, lax for little firmness, and he swipes out over her, and—

Isla can't muzzle the desperation that's torn from her, then. It's impossible. She's only a woman, after all, and he's only fucking Eros with his wet tongue teasing up between her thighs. God, she wants him, she wants him everywhere, she wants him to prop her foot up against his shoulder to delve deeper, she wants him to paste kisses against her inner thigh and then leave a trail of bite marks, like he had the one day. She wants to grind her face against his mouth and feel the dig of the splayed zippers amidst the pure rapture of his warmth, amidst his suckling and prodding, the expanse of his tongue slipping against her, into her, as he swallows his moan around her.

Of course, he doesn't give her that. He draws his tongue back, and the gentle burst of air she feels against her, instead, is soft mirth slipping from him. He's amused. She sees in it the twinkling of his gaze, the smile in his eyes when he looks up at her through his lashes. Like proper sadism flourishing.