"If you want nothing more, you're free to go, Arabella. I won't stop you." His smooth whisper holds my breath.

Nothing has ever made me crave sex as I do right now. Letting this man play with my body has probably unleashed my dormant libido that's been traumatically repressed from several events of the nearest past.

And this was certainly not the plan.

The plan was to get here, let him do what he wants—not what I want—and leave immediately with some of the problems solved. But how come this little foreplay from him seems to grey my intentions now?

Do I want to go? No, I want more. I want him more than I've ever wanted a man before. My sex is throbbing, my breath as fickle as the stormy sea, and he is probably having a blast of content studying me right now.

"I'm waiting, Arabella." His voice is coupled with a tiny movement of his body as if he's doing something.

Fuck me! Is he undressing?

I yank my hands, but the restraints shut my endeavor. I'm restless, my body and mind battling for dominance. I rub my thighs against each other, anchoring myself, afraid to give him free access.

Free access? Who am I kidding? The beast has me under his leash and it's a no-escape predicament. I do want to run over the hills, but a part of me needs to live with the danger he exudes. He's alluring, and I can no longer deny it.

"I believe your silence means something." His voice is laced with menace and a sweet panic floods in me.

Shifting once again, he forcefully parts my legs. Woah! It happens so quickly that I get no time to register anything until his lips take mine deeply. He's unrelenting, kissing me with unrestrained wildness, and my mouth cooperates effectively.

What kind of spell does he use?

I'm nonplussed, letting the heat consume me as he grips my neck while pushing himself further between my legs. He's hard, fully erect when I feel his cock poking my vagina wall through the fabric of his pants. And damn, he's shirtless.

Solid muscles crash my chest, and for the first time, I discern how sturdy he actually feels. He must work out a lot. I gather this much from the rough touch of his naked chest against my skin, body to body. Suddenly the wish to see him intensifies.

"I said I'll wait until you're ready for me," he says, kissing my jaw firmly. I toss my head back, and his lips fall onto my neck. "I'll do it, Arabella. We'll do it at your own pace."

He doesn't spare my breasts, a reminder that he owns all of me right now, and slowly he reaches for my stomach, trailing wet kisses, seductively, as though he's studying my responses.

My ass writhes, muscles clenched tightly, as I move rigorously, and the handcuffs add much to my excitement. I feel deeply aroused, veneered, my body worshipped by his sensual assault.

And deftly he grabs my thighs and positions himself a bit lower. My breath turns harsher and more ragged, anticipation higher when he pulls me levelly, closer to his current station. When he frees his grip around me, I hear him exhaling softly.

Silence follows. But smooth music from my mobile prevails, turning the atmosphere deceivingly romantic.

Now what? My heart is beating faster, and my stomach rises and falls rhythmically. Fully naked, I ought to feel humiliated.

Instinctively, I pull my thighs together.

"Don't, Arabella!" His soft hiss becomes a command as he holds my waist and sinks in between my legs—just a subtle mark of his territory—nothing intrusive yet.

"But I—"

"You're beautiful. Don't ever doubt it. I want to look at you, Arabella." His words are like a smooth balm for my self-esteem. "Do you understand?"

"Mmm," I murmur.

My muscles relax slowly, and my chest falls. A sound breath lurches from my lips, imagining the look in his eyes. What color could they be holding? Is it black, brown, or green? Maybe grey, or blue? Does it matter?

Interrupting my thoughts, his thumb strokes my lips. I inhale sharply, and soon he's back into kissing me shortly. The taste of his lips is indescribable, and the smell of his skin lingers even when he moves away.

I get no time to register his next move as I'm suddenly pulled downward, his strong grip on my thighs. The handcuffs restrain me and it's where he settles me. My brain is overloaded, too much stuff to process, and he shifts his posture.

I think he's kneeling and what does next is—"Ah!" A sharp whine from my mouth goes hand to hand with my wiggling body when he slides his finger inside my sex.

After a few strokes, in and out, he eases his fingers out. I gasp for air.

"Easy, sweetheart." He chuckles, enjoying my tremors. "You want more? Open your mouth," he asks and orders, respectively.

Bastard. I want everything you can possibly give. I open my mouth.

He slides his fingers inside, urging me to wet them. I always found this gross but apparently it's not. Holy hell, it's hot.

Especially when he says, "See how you taste, Arabella? Now I want to taste you.'' He withdraws his fingers and takes a proper hold of my lower body.

A second later I feel something soft and wet touching the apex of my sex. I quiver at the jolt of shock. A being shock. Is it his tongue? My mouth widens as he artfully glides his way around it, and I don't my eyes, he sucks me.

I let out a sharp whine. Fuck!

Relentlessly, he places his hand on my stomach, firmly putting me still with all of his strength. But how do I stay still, dammit? I cry louder at each tease, his thumb and tongue working together in rubbing, thrusting, and sucking me.

And there my legs start trembling, my head tossed to the sides like a dying worm. Willful but powerless.

He doesn't stop.

I want to hold on but what I'm feeling is too powerful. The current in my blood is channelling out, clenching my stomach tight, and my legs give me away quite easily. I moan loudly, screaming insanely from a blast of pleasure.

He sucks in a deep breath, sounding pleased. "Good job, Arabella. You look lovely like this."

Look how? Defeated? Succumbed to his command? Lost in his ocean of bliss? I don't understand what he's saying but I'm in complete awe, shocked even.

If this is what an orgasm feels like, then I've just had my first.

I'm panting heavily, unable to remain still yet, pulling the handcuffs so hard that it hurts, but the pain is hardly felt in comparison to pleasure.

A minute passes until I resume my sanity.

"How do you feel?" he asks gently while moving toward me.

"I-I can't explain," I breathe.

He chuckles softly. I'm not sure what he's doing exactly but he's surely undoing the handcuffs. In a short moment, my hands are free from restraints, and I feel like I've passed a very important subject.

"Come." He's lying beside me, and I'm surprised. "You're wonderful, Arabella. I love how receptive you are." He scoops me up against him, and his arms wrap around my body as I lie on my side.

I'm too weak to move, but he gently pulls the duvet and drags it onto us. It feels warm, his unexpected cocoon being one of the factors. I still in his brace, my eyes refrained from any sight.

I'm taciturn; nothing comes to my mouth.

"Arabella," he calls, his tone unrushed. I hum my response. "I want to hear how you feel."

I'm in shock, maybe. This is my first time feeling this... cared for, sated, and protected from my own demons.

"You didn't get anything. I got to come but you didn't," I blurt out, for I can still feel him hard against my ass.

He laughs softly, amused. "Are you worried about me?"

I don't know. It just doesn't feel right. It is, in fact, very strange. I've learned sex in a hard way—that a woman is sorely for pleasing. Maybe it's a misconception.

"Don't worry, Arabella. I won't die from this," he says confidently. He pats my arm smoothly and then kisses my shoulder blade. My skin shudders. "Like I said at the beginning, I only wanted to learn about your body today."

I don't know how to respond, so I keep quiet. John Legend is singing on my phone and I try to relax at last.

"I want to take this blindfold off. I want to see your face, but I'm afraid you seriously meant what you said," I confess my inner worries and thoughts.

I don't want this to be our last meeting, do I?

He sighs softly. "I always mean what I say."

I think I believe him.

"I wonder why you don't want me to see you," I say in a whisper. He doesn't respond, even though his breath quickens uncomfortably. "How do you look? Are you light-skinned? Or dark? Or tanned?" I chuckle at every possibility.

I'm dying to at last see his face, yet I'm scared of the reason behind this pure discretion about our affair.

After a short silence he answers, "I'm biracial, Arabella. I don't know where I belong. But pride myself black."