Read Online Fuel the Fire by Krista Ritchie, Becca Ritchie - Free Book Online
Authors: Krista Ritchie, Becca Ritchie
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him. I annoy myself three times out of six during the day.
“You want me to sell your tongue to another man?” he asks. “So they can have this conversation before me?”
No. I don’t want that. I highly doubt another man would entertain these bizarre, would you fall on a sword and bathe in cow’s milk , types of questions that I always throw at Connor. And he always grins, analyzes them, and slings them right back at me.
I feel a glop of cold at my neck, and I stiffen—
“You’re fine,” he assures me quickly. “It’s not on your skin.”
I swallow hard and inhale sharply. More confidence seeps into me, as he holds me tighter around the waist.
“Would you rather make love on goat’s blood or cut off my tongue?” I say the words like I’m one second from wielding a knife and enacting these hypotheticals.
I sense him hardening even more. “I’d fuck you on goat’s blood. I’d never cut off your tongue.”
“Would you share me?” It coils my muscles and stomach, my fingers curling even more around the counter, the idea of me being passed between hands. I only want to be in his clutch, but the concept of being so completely his , in the face of other men, stirs forbidden parts of me.
“I’ve never been good at sharing,” he tells me deeply. “Not accomplishments or titles, and I’d certainly never want to share you.” I can feel him twisting my hair and clipping the strands on top of my head.
I open my eyes now, the cream evenly applied over every lock, nothing reaching beyond my hairline. The twisted mass of developer and hair weighs heavy on my head, but I keep my neck straight, able to support it fine.
“Thirty minutes,” he tells me. “And then I’ll wash your hair.” He removes his grip from my waist and snaps off the sodden glove in the empty plastic bowl. His arms weave around my body to reach the sink, and he cages me here while he washes his hands. I take note of the time on his watch.
He’s still staring at me, like he’s not finished playing with me yet.
I’m not done talking. “What about ménage à trois?” I test him, unblinking and hardly wavering from this question.
I wonder if he’s imagining this twisted picture of another man together with us. After he shuts off the faucet and dries his hands with a towel, he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling my back against his chest so hard that I ache between my legs and barely maintain grasp of the counter’s edge.
I keep my head away from him, avoiding a mess of bleach. Even so, his voice sounds close to my ear. “This man wouldn’t stand a chance in bed with us. I’d never let him near you, not to touch you and never to fuck you.” His fingers make their way up the soft flesh of my thighs, cupping me, his thumb teasing me in circular motions against the lace of my panties.
My chest rises and falls heavily. “What if he takes me from the front?” My voice is layered with ice.
Connor swiftly spins me around now, my back digging into the lip of the counter, his hand lifting one of my legs around his waist, his erection in line with my panties. He pushes against me, the force at break-neck speed in my mind, the force so hard that I could beg aloud to be naked with him.
I don’t though. My mind orients itself quickly enough. I hang onto his muscular biceps, and his lips near my ear as he whispers, “I’d rotate you.” He pushes my ass up, like he wants to fuck me this way, right now, repeatedly. Over and over. “Comme ça.” Like this.
I’m so unbelievably wet.
I grab his wrist to stop his movement. “Now he can snap off my bra,” I combat, able to meet his gaze. “You failed.”
Those two words cause his jaw to tic, so subtly that I almost miss it. Without moving, he says, “I’d possess you in bed, Rose, so much that any other man would leave in misery. ” I believe him. “No satisfaction, no release.” He grazes me with his eyes, my breasts nearly popping a few buttons with my deep breaths.
“You want me to sell your tongue to another man?” he asks. “So they can have this conversation before me?”
No. I don’t want that. I highly doubt another man would entertain these bizarre, would you fall on a sword and bathe in cow’s milk , types of questions that I always throw at Connor. And he always grins, analyzes them, and slings them right back at me.
I feel a glop of cold at my neck, and I stiffen—
“You’re fine,” he assures me quickly. “It’s not on your skin.”
I swallow hard and inhale sharply. More confidence seeps into me, as he holds me tighter around the waist.
“Would you rather make love on goat’s blood or cut off my tongue?” I say the words like I’m one second from wielding a knife and enacting these hypotheticals.
I sense him hardening even more. “I’d fuck you on goat’s blood. I’d never cut off your tongue.”
“Would you share me?” It coils my muscles and stomach, my fingers curling even more around the counter, the idea of me being passed between hands. I only want to be in his clutch, but the concept of being so completely his , in the face of other men, stirs forbidden parts of me.
“I’ve never been good at sharing,” he tells me deeply. “Not accomplishments or titles, and I’d certainly never want to share you.” I can feel him twisting my hair and clipping the strands on top of my head.
I open my eyes now, the cream evenly applied over every lock, nothing reaching beyond my hairline. The twisted mass of developer and hair weighs heavy on my head, but I keep my neck straight, able to support it fine.
“Thirty minutes,” he tells me. “And then I’ll wash your hair.” He removes his grip from my waist and snaps off the sodden glove in the empty plastic bowl. His arms weave around my body to reach the sink, and he cages me here while he washes his hands. I take note of the time on his watch.
He’s still staring at me, like he’s not finished playing with me yet.
I’m not done talking. “What about ménage à trois?” I test him, unblinking and hardly wavering from this question.
I wonder if he’s imagining this twisted picture of another man together with us. After he shuts off the faucet and dries his hands with a towel, he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling my back against his chest so hard that I ache between my legs and barely maintain grasp of the counter’s edge.
I keep my head away from him, avoiding a mess of bleach. Even so, his voice sounds close to my ear. “This man wouldn’t stand a chance in bed with us. I’d never let him near you, not to touch you and never to fuck you.” His fingers make their way up the soft flesh of my thighs, cupping me, his thumb teasing me in circular motions against the lace of my panties.
My chest rises and falls heavily. “What if he takes me from the front?” My voice is layered with ice.
Connor swiftly spins me around now, my back digging into the lip of the counter, his hand lifting one of my legs around his waist, his erection in line with my panties. He pushes against me, the force at break-neck speed in my mind, the force so hard that I could beg aloud to be naked with him.
I don’t though. My mind orients itself quickly enough. I hang onto his muscular biceps, and his lips near my ear as he whispers, “I’d rotate you.” He pushes my ass up, like he wants to fuck me this way, right now, repeatedly. Over and over. “Comme ça.” Like this.
I’m so unbelievably wet.
I grab his wrist to stop his movement. “Now he can snap off my bra,” I combat, able to meet his gaze. “You failed.”
Those two words cause his jaw to tic, so subtly that I almost miss it. Without moving, he says, “I’d possess you in bed, Rose, so much that any other man would leave in misery. ” I believe him. “No satisfaction, no release.” He grazes me with his eyes, my breasts nearly popping a few buttons with my deep breaths.
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