Read Online Saving Sara (Masters of the Castle) by Maren Smith - Free Book Online Page A

he thrust his cock into. Oh how devastatingly fast that fall back into the old familiar could be. She hadn’t had this, not in so very long. Not because Robert hadn’t wanted to take her here, to this visceral sexual level, but because she hadn’t let him. She wouldn’t now be letting Jackson either, she knew, but Jackson wasn’t asking permission. He was driving her, taking what he wanted her to give, thrusting into her mouth with the fury of a man intent on conquering it, and he tasted so good. So much like she remembered—salty but clean, masculine and demanding, beating against the back of her throat in short, rapid thrusts that gradually gave way to longer ones.
    “Open,” he told her , and she obediently relaxed her throat, letting her jaw go as wide as it could when he pushed to get deeper. He gradually fed her the full length of his cock, until he was right up against her lips and nose. His balls burned hot and tight against her chin; the dark spring of his public hair tickled at her lip, but he held himself deep and still, preventing her next breath while the strain in her jaw grew into painful discomfort and flashes of white light began to dance behind her eyelids.
    He pulled out, letting her gasp and choke and catch her breath, before saying again, “Open.”
    She opened wide, closing her eyes to fully savor both the pleasure and the discomfort of his full, deep-gliding slide into the very back of her throat again. He withdrew much faster than she expected him to, and she was just opening her eyes when he suddenly seized her jaw.
    “When I am touching you, you are what?” he demanded.
    “Looking at you, Sir,” she gasped.
    His stare bored into her. His head angled. Coldly, deliberately, he said, “I am going to fuck this ass.”
    His fist was still locked in her hair when he suddenly pushed back off her, rising off her even as he pulled her up off the headboard. He said nothing, but let his fist in her hair issue his orders for him. He dragged her off the pillows, bending her over and forcing her to crawl until she was facing the foot of the bed, and then he pushed her down.
    “I’m sorry, Master Jackson!” she gasped, but she wasn’t. That was a lie. Her body was singing, thrilling at the roughness of his hands.
    He straddled her thighs, grabbing both her bottom cheeks in his hands, squeezing hard and prying them wide apart before abruptly releasing her.
    “Oh my God!” she said first and then shouted it because no sooner had he touched his finger to the puckered rim of her anus, than did he shove up inside her. Just one. One was more than enough. He didn’t even thrust. He simply pressed as deep as he could reach and held himself there.
    His voice when he spoke was a low rumble just behind her ear. “Whose ass is this?”
    “Yours,” she whimpered. “It’s yours. All yours.”
    He shifted and she tensed, every muscle locking in the expectation of what she was sure had to be coming, but he didn’t fuck her. Not with his fingers, not with the jutting length of his swollen cock, twitching and bobbing just above her buttocks, still glistening with her saliva. Bending, he bit her—her shoulder first, then the small of her back, her hip. He shoved the bib of her tunic out of his way and bit first one side of her cringing bottom and then the other, hard enough now to leave the temporary impressions of his teeth, but nowhere near hard enough to bruise or even to hurt. Arousal pulsed through her, hotter and hotter, tighter and tighter, his hands and mouth winding it like the coil of a spring—biting, squeezing, caressing—until there was no such thing as holding still. She moaned, arching her bottom to chase his retreating mouth, aching to feel him sink his teeth into her soft flesh again.
    He slapped her ass, just once, the prelude to a dark chuckle, and the dress box clattered to the floor when he drew up just far enough to pull his fingers from her bottom and flip her sharply onto her back.