Read Online Training Her Curves - Geneva (A BBW Billionaire Domination and Submission Romance) by Christa Wick - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christa Wick
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the room. Now I studied its size, estimating it to be approximately as wide and long as a pool table.
Slowly, he pulled the silk drape away to reveal a padded, tufted, leather surface about four inches thick supported by a curving rosewood base a few inches less on each side in its dimensions than the top. Drawers on all sides teased me with their potential contents.
Tilting his chin upward, Dylan looked at the ceiling and I noticed something else I had completely overlooked -- some kind of suspension bar with leather cuffs at each end and an automatic pulley. I inhaled roughly, my muscles starting to burn with how every new revelation had me holding my breath in anticipation.
Wait...there were two bars...
My legs started shaking and I didn't know if I could remain standing, especially with the way his eyes glittered darkly at me.
"Come forward," he rasped. "Without lowering your arm."
Flesh quivering, I managed to move to within a foot of him without tripping or shuffling numbly.
When I reached Dylan, he ran his hands along the belt then the button panel of my dress pants. There were hooks and a hidden zipper beneath the diagonal slash of buttons. I loved the way the pants looked and supported me, but I would go hours with barely a sip of water when I wore them because they took at least five minutes to fasten and almost as long to unfasten.
"Intricate," he observed and then a steely grin slashed a line across his handsome features. "I think I'll cut them off."
My panties, already noticeably moist against my skin, experienced a fresh flood of arousal, my body jerking once at the though of what he was about to do.
Dylan tapped the padded surface of the table. "On your back."
The hip-level height was Dylan's hip, not mine, and I had to brace myself with my free hand and give a little backward hop. With my ass settled, he bent down and captured my ankles. Lifting them, he helped me slide to the middle of the table and then he reached under its lip, his forearm flexing as he manipulated some control I couldn't see.
I heard the well-oiled whisper of the bar above being automatically lowered. My heart beat a little faster and a hell of a lot harder inside my chest. The bar stopped and he secured both of my ankles.
And then he showed me another of the device's tricks -- a small button in the middle of the bar could be pushed down, allowing him to slide the ends of the bar, and my fastened ankles, further apart. He opened me wide, wider than he had ever spread me before, removed my sandals, and then he pushed another button beneath the table and my feet were suspended two feet off the surface.
Moving to the center side of my body, Dylan studied my face as he trailed one hand from my ankle to the top bend of my thigh and then halfway across so that he could palm my mound. He squeezed the flesh once, twice and then I whimpered on the third squeeze from the rough grip and the look in his eyes.
A good whimper, a "holy hotness, I want you to fuck me now" kind of whimper.
"Not yet, love," he said in that same, unfamiliar voice that made my pussy contort around itself and my clit jump.
Moving to the head of the table, he brought the second bar down. My fingers danced in anticipation of him uncovering my breast, but he wouldn't be rushed. Stopping the bar a foot above the surface, Dylan gestured first for the hand at my side and secured it. Then his fingers wrapped around my other wrist and I heard a tortured groan, one I knew well from that night in Geneva and several nights since.
As alien as parts of Dylan might seem to me in that room, it was still Dylan, the man who loved me, who had allowed me to deflect his attempts to formally propose at least half a dozen times but who had not retreated.
Crap, I was going to cry again!
His hand released my wrist then moved to thumb away my tears.
"I've been remiss," he said, the tenderness in his tone twisting like a knife through my chest. "I feared I would be, and I have. You
Slowly, he pulled the silk drape away to reveal a padded, tufted, leather surface about four inches thick supported by a curving rosewood base a few inches less on each side in its dimensions than the top. Drawers on all sides teased me with their potential contents.
Tilting his chin upward, Dylan looked at the ceiling and I noticed something else I had completely overlooked -- some kind of suspension bar with leather cuffs at each end and an automatic pulley. I inhaled roughly, my muscles starting to burn with how every new revelation had me holding my breath in anticipation.
Wait...there were two bars...
My legs started shaking and I didn't know if I could remain standing, especially with the way his eyes glittered darkly at me.
"Come forward," he rasped. "Without lowering your arm."
Flesh quivering, I managed to move to within a foot of him without tripping or shuffling numbly.
When I reached Dylan, he ran his hands along the belt then the button panel of my dress pants. There were hooks and a hidden zipper beneath the diagonal slash of buttons. I loved the way the pants looked and supported me, but I would go hours with barely a sip of water when I wore them because they took at least five minutes to fasten and almost as long to unfasten.
"Intricate," he observed and then a steely grin slashed a line across his handsome features. "I think I'll cut them off."
My panties, already noticeably moist against my skin, experienced a fresh flood of arousal, my body jerking once at the though of what he was about to do.
Dylan tapped the padded surface of the table. "On your back."
The hip-level height was Dylan's hip, not mine, and I had to brace myself with my free hand and give a little backward hop. With my ass settled, he bent down and captured my ankles. Lifting them, he helped me slide to the middle of the table and then he reached under its lip, his forearm flexing as he manipulated some control I couldn't see.
I heard the well-oiled whisper of the bar above being automatically lowered. My heart beat a little faster and a hell of a lot harder inside my chest. The bar stopped and he secured both of my ankles.
And then he showed me another of the device's tricks -- a small button in the middle of the bar could be pushed down, allowing him to slide the ends of the bar, and my fastened ankles, further apart. He opened me wide, wider than he had ever spread me before, removed my sandals, and then he pushed another button beneath the table and my feet were suspended two feet off the surface.
Moving to the center side of my body, Dylan studied my face as he trailed one hand from my ankle to the top bend of my thigh and then halfway across so that he could palm my mound. He squeezed the flesh once, twice and then I whimpered on the third squeeze from the rough grip and the look in his eyes.
A good whimper, a "holy hotness, I want you to fuck me now" kind of whimper.
"Not yet, love," he said in that same, unfamiliar voice that made my pussy contort around itself and my clit jump.
Moving to the head of the table, he brought the second bar down. My fingers danced in anticipation of him uncovering my breast, but he wouldn't be rushed. Stopping the bar a foot above the surface, Dylan gestured first for the hand at my side and secured it. Then his fingers wrapped around my other wrist and I heard a tortured groan, one I knew well from that night in Geneva and several nights since.
As alien as parts of Dylan might seem to me in that room, it was still Dylan, the man who loved me, who had allowed me to deflect his attempts to formally propose at least half a dozen times but who had not retreated.
Crap, I was going to cry again!
His hand released my wrist then moved to thumb away my tears.
"I've been remiss," he said, the tenderness in his tone twisting like a knife through my chest. "I feared I would be, and I have. You
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