In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
Samara: Don't come over. I think I'm coming down with something and it could be contagious.
Reagan: Aww, want me to bring you soup?
Samara: I love you Ray, but I'd rather not drink Soup De La Blood.
Reagan: No, that's fair. Love you too, and get better soon.
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I FEEL THE WARMTH of the sun seeping through the curtains, and the gentle hum of the world outside starts to seep into my awareness as my mind drifts in and out of consciousness. The steady rhythm of someone's breathing makes my eyes flutter open, the sound wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. At first, I’m not quite sure where I am or how I got here, and for a moment, I lie still, disoriented, as the events of last night slowly seep back into my consciousness. Then, a warm flush of embarrassment spreads through me.
My head is resting on Paris's chest and it rises and falls in a steady, reassuring motion. I linger here for a moment, relishing the flutter of butterflies in my stomach. I let myself drink in the sight of his naked chest, the colourful swirls of his tattoos, and the feel of his heartbeat beneath my cheek. His scent fills my senses and lulls me into a state of contentment like it always does. I tilt my head to look at him to find his gaze already on me. "Morning Baby," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. The sunlight filtering through the window glances off his hair, casting a warm glow onto his face and I feel a warmth in my chest that goes beyond the physical. A blush creeps up my cheeks.
"How long have you been watching me?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light and casual despite the butterflies rioting in my stomach.
"A while," he says with a small, lopsided smile. "Your nose twitches when you sleep. You suck your tongue, too," my cheeks grow warmer at his words, and I duck my head. "Why are you hiding? It's adorable," there's a laugh in his voice and I can feel his gaze on me. It sends a shiver of nervous excitement straight down my spine. I shift my gaze upward to look at him again and his eyes, still heavy with sleep, soften as they meet mine. "You smell so fucking good, Princess," he says, flipping me over so suddenly my hair scarf falls off. I gasp when he presses open-mounted kisses down my neck. "Like Jasmine and sunlight and. All. Fucking. Mine," Every word is accentuated with a kiss and I'm already so turned on I arch into his hold.
"Do you, uh, want some breakfast?" I manage to stammer out, my voice betraying the fluttering nerves that have taken up residence in my chest. He chuckles softly, and it's dark and sexy and the sound of it sends a wave of warmth through me. Paris props himself up on one elbow to look at me and his usually forest green eyes are a darker shade.
"How about I eat you, instead?" he says, trailing his hands to the waistband of my sleep short, his eyes never leaving mine. "Are you going to lift your hips for me, Reagan?" he's offering me the opportunity to stop this before it goes any further but I sink my teeth into my lower lip and nod my head. "Good girl," he murmurs, slowly pulling my shorts down my thighs. He makes a low sound of approval in his throat when I'm in nothing but my underwear and t-shirt and there's absolutely no stopping the blush I feel rushing across my face and down my chest.
"So perfect," he tells me, his voice a whisper that lingers in the air, leaving me momentarily breathless as he crosses the room to reach his wardrobe. I watch as he retrieves a sleek black bag and places it deliberately on the dresser, his movements exuding a quiet confidence. I sit up on my elbows, unable to tear my gaze away from him and my eyes widen as he carefully unfurls a coil of sturdy brown rope. He turns to look at me and I swallow the knot in my throat.
"Do you trust me, Princess?" His question hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions, as he approaches me, his gaze searching mine for any sign of doubt. I nod my head and he continues forward, his every step filled with purpose. "Go higher up the bed, love," he instructs, his voice a melody that offers both reassurance and command. I follow his instruction obediently with my heart pounding in my chest, holding my breath when he takes my wrists in his hands.
"This is hemp rope, Reagan. It's not going to hurt you, I promise," he murmurs, his words a soothing balm to any apprehension I may have. He brushes his lips against the scars on the inside of my left arm, leaving warmth and tenderness in its wake before he deftly secures my hands to the bed frame. I strain against the rope, but it refuses to budge under my efforts and Paris watches me struggle with a calculating gaze as he assesses my resolve. I sense his lingering scrutiny, weighing whether or not I would tuck tail and run and in response to the unspoken challenge, I draw in a deep breath and sink into the softness of the mattress beneath me. Him being in control means, I don't have to think, only feel.
"You look so beautiful all tied up for me Reagan," he says before leaning down and kissing me until my heartbeat throbs between my legs. I'm gasping for air when he takes his lips away and the smile he gives me is vicious. "We're going to need a safe word, Amore mio. You say it and I stop whatever I'm doing. But it can't be something you'll accidentally say during anything intense," I can hardly focus on his words but I nod my head and force myself to think of something.
"Promise?"
"Okay, promise. If you think you're close to Promise say yellow," he says, his voice carrying a subtle urgency as he grips my underwear and tugs it off. My first reaction is to close my legs, but he holds them open, a predatory look in his eyes as he watches my most intimate part. "You're breathtaking," he tells me, "And this is mine. Say it, Reagan,"
"It's- it's yours," I say, trying not to squirm with the heat I feel spreading under my skin.
"Mmm, that's right, Amore mio. This is my cunt," I slam my eyes closed for a second. When he gets like this his language is erotic and foul and I shouldn't like it but I do. I hold my breath as he ties his hair back with a strip of leather from his wrist and then I lose my mind when he dips between my legs and licks me from entrance to slit.
"Paris!" his eyes close and he moans a sound that travels up my spine and makes me writhe. He makes sounds of approval deep in his throat as rock helplessly against his face, straining against my bindings.
"You're dripping down your thighs, Reagan," he spreads my legs further apart and his eyes are downcast as he looks at me there. "So pretty, you're soaking the sheets love," his gruff praises are like heroin injected into my veins, setting me on fire.
"Paris, please!" I beg and he cuts me a look that has me smartly closing my mouth.
"You call me Sir, and don't rush me, Reagan. I'm looking at my pussy," I barely hold in my wine when he bends to suck my clit into his mouth and my back arches off the bed at the sight of his head dipped low, his shoulders bunched under my knees, my legs tanned and thin against the massiveness of him.
"Sir, I need- please, please, please,"
"You beg so prettily, Princess. Do you want to come?"
"Yes!"
"Then fucking cry for me baby," he shoves two fingers into my heat and I scream, my back arching off the bed and my eyes squeezing shut as more pleasure than I've ever known wracks my body. I must have blacked out because when I come to Paris is kissing my lips as he unties my hands and I can taste my arousal on his tongue. As soon as I'm free, I wrap both my hands and legs around him, pressing a series of kisses down his neck. He grips my chin and tilts my head to look at him and I offer him a loopy smile, my body feeling as malleable as putty.
"How was that?"
"Awesome,"
"Good, I'm going to need to do that at least once every day," I hide my face in his neck and he laughs, smoothing my wild hair back and pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Don't hide, Amore Mio, you were delicious. But now that I've had my breakfast let's go make yours," he says, lifting me off the bed and dressing me in one of his shirts before taking me to the kitchen and making me French toast.
