He's pulled my dress up to where my hands are bound together above my head. Half-naked,  I'm laying on my back and his hand is stroking my hair smoothly—almost tenderly—his invisible gaze well-felt on my face.

Rapid breaths expells through my nose, barely holding my body in place.

His lips scrape on mine as he says, "I'm sure you won't need the safe word today, Arabella. But it's clever to have it beforehand," while padding his thumb on my bottom lip.

"Really?" I breathe, my focus on his subtle touch, ever teasing without transgression. "Does that mean—"

"It simply means I won't fuck you tonight." He chuckles lightly. I frown. "Unless you claim it yourself, which I certainly don't mind." He unhooks my strapless bra as he says this.

Claim it? Never!

But it's such a relief. No sex unless I ask for it—which is very unlikely.

I guess?

Like dough he toys with my now-freed breasts, his big palms cupping them possessively, rubbing and circling my aching nipples with his thumbs. Damn, I can feel them hardening, and my breath hitches when his wet lips touch them.

I flex and my mouth widens slightly, shocked by the electric impulse. My hands are restrained by the cuffs, and he pins them with his strong grip so that I don't move at all. And then, much to my ecstasy, he buries his face into my chest, savouring my breasts, sucking my nipples as though he's feeding off them.

Christ! I cry louder, pleasure inexplicable. Overwhelming.

He pulls back momentarily and catches his breath. "Are you scared of a little pain, Arabella?" he asks me.

I'm breathing heavily, but my answer is evident. I'm not sure what little pain entails, honestly. Pain is pain.

"Tell me. Are you?" he repeats.

"I-I don't know." It's the truth.

Responsively, he bites on my one nipple, and sharply I moan at the nippy effect. A giggle escapes him—rare and pleasing to hear. He sucks it gently, and automatically my body relaxes at the soothing move of his tongue.

I'm already breathless when his one hand holds my thigh, coaxing it toward his hip so he touches my big ass with ease. Do I love it? He rubs me gently and well... it feels splendid. Holy shit, this is not part of the plan, is it?

He bites my other nipple. I nearly jump.

Mind calloused, I inhale fast as if I've been slapped heavily from a slumber. I can feel his smile. He kisses my flat stomach, caressing my breast with one hand as I wiggle beneath him. Again he bites my nipple, stoutly. I cry loudly, and when he sucks it my tummy clenches tight.

"I want to hear your thoughts, Arabella. Does it hurt?" His condescending voice is superior even without shouting.

Hurt? Not really. Maybe it's a bit pungent, but something is arousing about it that makes me want to have him repeat the same process—a tiny addiction.

"Arabella!" he snaps, lips back on mine as he shifts upward.

Damn, when he calls my name I feel weak. No one calls me Arabella except my parents who are no more. Very few people know my full name. To my family and the rest of the world, I'm just Ara, but to him, I'm Miss Lincoln and Arabella when he's in his shady element—like right this moment.

Nothing seems to keep my body relaxed when he touches the waistband of my underwear. Rolling in the deep by Adele is what I hear from my long-forgotten mobile, but I pay no attention to the song or its tune. I'm panting heavily, needy and hungry for his touch between my legs.

What? No way! Do I want him inside my canal? No, I shouldn't even think of it.

"Tell me what you want, Arabella," he demands, his voice husky yet under control of emotions. Those lips keep teasing mine, but no kiss happens. "Don't be shy, tell me." His fingers slide under the side strings of my thong, playing with them coquettishly, a stretch and roll of its elastic material.

"Kiss me," I blurt, my desire to kiss this man bigger than ever before.

What the heck!

"Kiss me?" He snorts, displeased.

"Sir." I can't believe this is what makes him feel good. But I don't care what he feels as long as it pleases his unusual taste.

All for money, Arabella. Right?

His lips finally meet mine, deeper and more genitive. It makes me want to hold his face for balance. Oh fuck me, he tastes so good, and even better when he holds my jaw to still my face. His relentless tongue swirls dominantly as he kisses me further, and it's a really hot one.

"And what else?" he snaps, shifting his hefty mouth toward my neck while tugging my bra away. "What else do you want, Arabella?"

"Touch me," I whisper.

"Where?" He's enjoying my torments. I can feel his proud smile even though I can't see him. "Where do you want me to touch you?"

"There." My thighs are pressed together to demonstrate the throb I'm feeling between my legs. It's damp by now.

He doesn't waste any second until I feel him pulling my underwear off my legs. Oh God! I'm naked... for him. I press my thighs together as though afraid of humiliation. I'm not confident—hell, I've never been.

I thought I could do this. I was so prepared, thoroughly cleaned and dressed in a gorgeous pair of white lacy lingerie. But being naked with a man still feels strange, even though I'm not a virgin.

"Arabella, spread your legs," he orders. I don't comply. "Do it for me. I want to see your beautiful body without anything on. You've no idea how much I've been waiting for this." His voice is beseeching, quite unusual of him.

"But—"

"No buts, Arabella. Do it for me," he interjects, his tone superior.

I do as he says. For him. Rapidly my heart starts beating, and his breath becomes sound.

"Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?" He sounds intoxicated and I don't understand why.

Surely not because of my body, right? No, I've heard so many negative remarks from Richard to say I'm comfortable in my own skin. Sometimes I wonder why we dated in the first place if he couldn't accept my scars. Verbal abuse and humiliation were what I constantly felt by being his girlfriend.

How about losing some weight, baby? Don't you want to be skinny and hotter?

That dress is too tight for your big ass. Don't you have something better to wear?

God knows how many times I felt shitty for being thick and curvy, different from the beauty standards set by the world. Breaking up with Richard was the best thing that could've ever happened to me, and I don't want to fall into the same dungeon he once locked me in.

"You're so fucking beautiful, Arabella. You don't know how much I want to taste you right now," says Mister Castle, and I thank heavens that I can't see anything.

It's better this way.

The mattress shifts when he moves. He lays beside me, and soon he coaxes me into his arms. His hand slides between my thighs and I'm surprised that I don't stop him. On the contrary, my legs part willingly and anticipation blooms in me.

"You want this, don't you?" he asks, cajoling me.

I don't respond.

"We can do this all night long, Arabella. You hold your tongue, and I'll keep waiting for it." He doesn't touch me, instead he caresses my inner thighs, loitering around my folds, teasing my womanhood.

Oh please, it's a torture. My waist rocks responsively, eager for his touch.

"Say it," he whispers.

"Please," I mutter, and immediately I add, "Sir." I want his touch—fuck, I do.

"Please what?" Like scissors, his fingers clutch my elongated nipple while playing with the arousal in my center, gliding the most sensitive point of my female anatomy.

Every muscle of my body awakens, desire pooling like an ocean spread during the evening current rise. But short-lived is my pleasure as he suddenly quits the sweet torture.

"Please. Touch me there," I beg.

"Good, Arabella. Very good," he mutters and my reward is another soft glide across my canal, ever slow and smooth like he wants all the feeling embedded in my body.

It works. My heartbeat accelerates, my skin turns moist, and my hips flex up to claim his hefty finger—rough and manly—inside my moist core. He slams his one finger and I moan with pure delight.

"Oh, you're wet, Arabella. That's good. And so tight. When did you last have sex?" He's proud, and I tip my head back to relish the thrust he gives me.

Is it the last time having sex? It's a topic I don't desire to pursue. It was a horrible night.

"Answer me," he says quietly, but persistence remains his charm.

"Perhaps a year or so." I cry at the erotic thrust, two fingers now.

In and out, he catches a fast pace, while leaning onto my face.

I want his kiss. Oh, I need it.

"What to do? I don't fancy kissing as much as you do, Arabella." He sounds serious yet amusing.

Is he joking?

"Why?" I can't breathe as I should, and my stomach tightens at the current built inside like a balloon threatening to burst.

He doesn't respond. A little kiss, more of a bite on my bottom lip, is what he gives me before lowering his head to reclaim my breasts once again. Is he addicted to them? Weird. But I love the attention.

I don't think I can take it anymore. The more he speeds his finger thrusts the more my hips move to pick up his pace. Oh, it's seductively sweet and awesome. It's sexy—he's sexy and hedonic.

I scream as the foreign current whirl inside, my pussy so wet that I hear his two fingers move in sync, and just as I welcome this strong and rare sensation that may be what they call orgasm, he withdraws his damn fingers.

What? I feel shortchanged, my breath uneven.

"Why?" I demand.

He laughs softly and replies, "Because I can."

"Huh?" I'm breathing heavily.

Leaning over, he whispers into my ear, "I know a better way to make you come, Arabella. You just have to say the word."

__________

A/N: Now this was a longer chapter, huh? Enjoying the story? Touch the STAR at the bottom. I need some motivation for a quick update.