LIGHTNING STRIKE

Sommer Marsden

There are no hidden places inside me. Not from him. From the rest of the world, yes. From Jackson, never.

He knows what I crave, what gets me off, and takes great pleasure in keeping me off balance. My pleasure is his pleasure but it comes on his timetable, not mine. It comes in his rhythm, and I have to keep up.

The room is drenched in the odd underwater light that only comes at true dawn. His fingers skate over my hip bones, circle my mons, travel up my belly until the muscles shake. My brain is overthinking and he damn well knows it. Will he go down on me? Use his fingers? Will he flip me and fuck me the way I crave? There is always that moment when I’m airborne for a split second and I cry out. Then I crash back down, gravity doing its work, and he’s sliding into me. What will it be, what will it be…

My mind races but Jackson knows the secret ways to silence it.

He puts a fingertip on my forehead and puts his lips to my earlobe. “Shh…” The heat of his breath and the utterance cause a tremble, a line of goose bumps marches up my neck and disappears beneath my hair. My scalp prickles. “Stop trying to see it in advance.”

Then his fingers are back, stroking down the tops of my thighs, drawing patterns and loops on my belly.

His hand drifts up until he covers one small breast and groans against my neck. Because according to him, my breasts are perfect. Perfect size, perfect feel, perfect smooth skin and pink nipples. I smile…until his fingers close over my nipple and pinch. Hard. I hiss between my teeth and my hips shoot up like they’re on a string and he’s just yanked it.

“I know you like that hard.” His teeth are raking across my shoulder as he talks. Now there are teeth on my skin and the pain of his pinches. The rat part of my brain, the part that is trying to see three steps ahead, begins to weaken. Soon it will shut down.

I relish the shutting down the way some people relish a good meal or an expensive garment. The silence in my head is golden. A gift. Treasured.

He pinches again, and I feel my body ripple.

“Don’t move,” he says. “If you move, Nick, I’ll stop.”

Nick…Nick… No one calls me Nick. To the rest of the world, I’m Nickole. In this bed, with him, when I am to obey or be denied, I am Nick.

My brain flares with anxiety. So that’s the game. To stay still despite the urge—the need—to move. No cuffs or butt plugs or ropes today. Just my own strength and willpower. My ability to control my body when he touches me, which is like holding back a tide during a storm.

His fingers have moved from my hips to my pussy. He delves into the folds of my sex and brushes a fingertip over my clit. His fingers already slick with my wetness. I’m soaked and he’s barely touched me yet. Not the way I need.

I bite my tongue to keep my body from arching up to meet him. It’s second nature, like breathing, and I nearly fail. That fast I almost lose my chance to go to that place he always takes me.

He dips his head to kiss my neck, drags his tongue down along my shoulder, then follows with a nip of his teeth where he’s kissed. I moan, both from the pleasure of the things he does and how well he knows me, and the strength it takes to keep my restless body utterly still.

His fingers drive into me, two fingers surging into my wetness. He curls them, finding my desperate places. His thumb finds my clit and presses. I clench my fists, my body caught between pleasure and focus. I need to keep myself under control when all my body wants to do is scatter like ashes on the wind.

“Good girl…”

I recognize my urge to curl toward him at the last second and stay the way I am. On my back, his body pressed against mine, my legs splayed in a sluttish way that says, Please do all the things you do to me. Please make me feel all the things you make me feel…

He kisses down my body and his mouth finds my mound. He licks me softly. I’m nearly crying as he parts me and traces my labia with his tongue, getting close but not close enough. My body wants to slam up to meet his wet mouth and yet I have to hold on. My fingers clutch his dark-gray sheets, my eyes prick with tears that I pretend are from the brightening of the room, but are due to sheer frustration.

When he finally closes his mouth over my clit, I sob. My body shakes slightly just from the force of it and Jackson pauses. “Careful, Nick.”

I go as still as I can. His tongue circles and flicks my clit. His fingers drive in and out, and I am trying so hard not to move that sweat dots my chest. “You may come at will,” he whispers.

And just like that, I do. A gunshot. A lightning strike. I come even as I struggle to keep my soaring body tethered to earth.

He’s helping me now whether he knows it or not. Big hands pressed to my thighs, keeping me flat.

Just as I adjust, I’m moving. Being flipped. I lose contact with the bed for a heartbeat and then crash down again as he hikes me to hands and knees. His hand comes down on my right asscheek. A flurry of blows that make my pussy flood and my brain shut down. I always try to count, whether I need to or not, but I can’t. It’s too fast and the pain and heat is too much to keep my mind on a leash.

I love it.

I buck when the blows land but grit my teeth to focus on no motion beyond the ones I can’t control. The assault moves to the other cheek. The resounding crack of his palm on my ass is deafening. I bow my head and breathe, tears leaking from my eyes.

They end as suddenly as they begin, the silence in the room a tangible presence.

“You’ve done very well, Nick.” His chuckle is dark. Cold black water rolling over rocks in the winter. “Now you may move if you need to because I’m here for mine. And mine won’t be gentle.”

A shiver slips up my spine, and I arch my back as he drives into me. One hard smooth thrust, and his fingers bite into the meaty part of my hips. Every time he thrusts his cock drags across the sweet spot. He chuckles again, hand in my hair, tugging.

“Come with me,” he commands.

Another lightning strike. They say it never strikes twice. They lie.