The Dare Collection December 2019. Clare Connelly

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      I run my tongue over his tattoo, hating it in that moment, because I don’t want Nicholas to be his own. I want him to be mine. I flick his hair-roughened nipple, enjoying the feeling of his chest lifting, his breath snagging in his lungs as I move lower. His naked body is tanned against the matte black of his sheets. I kiss my way down his body, tasting his flesh, remembering everything I can about this, taking his hard cock into my mouth, absorbing the guttural oath he spills into the room as I move my mouth up and down, my nipples tingling, heat pooling between my legs.

      I will never get sick of this. Him, me, naked. I want this to last for ever.

      But it is already approaching dawn, and I hate that. Never have I wanted a night to last longer than I do this night.

      I taste a hint of his salty pre-cum and then his hands are under my arms, pulling me up his body, his mouth seeking mine, his frame rolling me, so I’m on my back, his arousal hard between my legs. I arch my back and spread my legs wide, wordlessly begging him to take me, to make love to me, needing his body to console mine in the only way he can.

      But he breaks the kiss and reaches across me. I hear a drawer and then something metallic. His hands curve around my wrists; he pulls them to the bedframe and then cold metal surrounds me. I pull on my hands. They’re cuffed to the bed.

      I stare up at him, my eyes wide, lips parted.

      ‘Do you trust me?’

      My stomach swirls with acid. ‘With all my heart.’

      His smile is sensual. A second later, his hands are trailing over my flesh, so light, barely touching me, and I’m crying his name out over and over. His mouth follows them, his tongue flicking my nipples, as he moves lower with his hands, spreading my legs to make way for his mouth.

      His tongue is gentle at first, running over my seam, exploring me, rediscovering me. I thrash from side to side, my handcuffed wrists a new form of torture as I ache to touch him or touch myself, to do something to relieve this tidal wave of sensation.

      ‘Please,’ I groan, incapable of saying anything else. He keeps my legs pinned wide as he sucks my clit into his mouth and flicks it with his tongue. I am on fire; I am burning up. ‘Please,’ I whimper, needing him, needing more, needing everything.

      He pulls away, up my body, his mouth finding my nipples, his hands roaming my skin freely, inquiringly, and I’m so hungry for him I can barely cope. I need to feel him inside me.

      ‘I want you,’ I beg.

      ‘I know.’ His smile is tighter now, tension on his face. He pauses, rolling a condom over his length, and hope is a beast inside me.

      His eyes hold mine as he pushes his rock-hard arousal into my wet core; my muscles spasm around him and I jerk against the handcuffs, wanting to touch him now, to feel his muscles bunch beneath me as I run my hands over his skin.

      His laugh is soft, a caress against my skin. He moves inside me, deeper, and I groan, surrendering to this completely. My body is an instrument and he plays me with perfection.