Free Restrain (Siren Book 3) by Katie de Long

administrators to let me stay. We weren't talking, at that point. I only knew she was there from a glimpse of her heel-clad feet as she walked away. No one wore heels like her. The power, and the aggression, evident in every attention-getting step.
    My physical scars were always meaningless. But his smile says the act of sharing them has meaning. And he'll never see the mental ones.
    Even the perception that this is mutual breaches a barrier inside me. It's me being honest with him about some part of myself, even if it's not the whole thing. I don't know how I'll look him in the eye tomorrow.
    But that's a thought for then. And tonight, there's no space in my head for anything but Calder, my man, and Mil, his woman. Not Calder, the cruel industrialist, and Milla, the homicidal socialist terrorist.
    Calder catches my eye, in his gaze the promise of the strongest afterglow.
    Calder, the man, wants Mil, his woman.
     
    *              *              *
     
    As the day, night, whatever , goes on, it's impossible for him to hide his desire, naked like we are. No matter how long I ignore his erection straining upright against his abdomen, it's always there, tucked against my leg, letting me know exactly what he wants from me.
    In his condition, it's left to me whether to ignore it, or take on all the work. Between the cuts on his hands, and on his shins and feet, there's no way he's dominating me, no way he's overpowering me, no way even missionary is on the menu. And that seems to be the main thing keeping his mouth shut about it, though there's a distinct flush to his cheeks when he catches me peeking.
    Without the demand or the pressure to please him, the idea becomes a seed planted in my mind, a plant slowly sprouting in the wreckage of my psyche, cracking down my stony resolve to not entangle myself deeper than I have to.
    Plainly, I have the power to hurt him, my insecurities aside. That's perfectly obvious. But my influence on him, my control, it goes so much deeper. A thousand threads of pleasure and pain I can play with, a thousand paths we can take.
    I climb on top of him, straddling his hips, and he grins broadly, still getting the hang of touching me with either side of his relaxed fingers, rather than using his hands. My mouth trembles, at the thought of willingly fucking him for the first time. No justifications. No need to string him along, no fears for my own self-preservation should he tire of me.
    I'm already wet from the brush of his lips, and his skin against mine, a pure primal reaction that has nothing to do with either of us. So without an ado or discussion, I guide him into me, and ride him senseless. I won't give him my orgasm, no matter how he begs for it. That's too personal to be his. Only mine.
    Everytime I might get close, I change my rhythm, and alter the sensations to be duller, less satisfying. He sees my ploy, I think, but is in no position to press it. And no matter how he wants to hold out, there's only so long he can, with my body clenched tight around him, grinding and milking his cock toward release. His eyes half shut as he comes, flexing inside me, his body warm beneath me.
    I kiss him on the forehead, and slip away to rinse my hands in Allen's cistern. I grab my still damp sports bra and rewet it. Returning to clean the evidence of our tryst from off him, I wipe it from between my legs, as though that'll erase all that it represents. I clean it from the bra as best I can, and rehang it, returning to him to sleep off the rest of our alcoholic languor.
    Only when I'm reassured that he's fast asleep can I slide my fingers between my legs to use the slickness he left in me to slip toward my own pleasure.
    My fingers gliding effortlessly over my clit, and fighting to not make a sound, I let myself come, the orgasm sweeping over me in intense waves, until my legs convulse, and it's all I can do to hold back from screaming Calder's name, remembering how he felt inside