His Forever Series Books 11-21

1. His Order, Book Eleven-3

As soon as my body is pressed against his, I realize how much I've missed him in just the last few hours. I won't do anything to jeopardize what we have.

"You want me not to write the story?"

He chuckles and just shakes his head as he ushers me into the restaurant by laying his hand on my lower back. A leggy brunette who's almost as tall as Mark in her heals leads us to a table. The restaurant is mostly filled with businessmen having lunch, and a couple of all female parties.

"I meant it, Mark," I whisper after he sits down across from me.

"Sure you did, Nicole," he says and opens the menu, then ignores me as he scans it.

I don't even pick up the menu the hostess placed in front of me as I watch him. When the waiter comes, he orders a bottle of wine, and food for the both of us.

"This is a very nice place," I say after he pours the wine, then sits back looking at me over the rim of his glass. I have to break this tense silence between us, because it's literally melting me.

"You've wanted to write this article about me since the beginning," he says, ignoring my attempt at changing the subject. "But you' do understand that I need to keep my involvement with this to a minimum."

He grins as he says it, and a lot of the tension dissipates, though something between us tightens too.

"So no interview?" I ask.

"Right now, no one knows the full details about my past with Reynard except you," he says. "I'd like to keep it that way."

"Martin knows about your wife," I counter.

"He suspects, but has no proof," Mark says. "He never actually saw Reynard's photos."

"He knows enough." My journalistic instinct is kicking in. If Mark won't let me tell the full story, I don’t have much of an article. I might as well tell Martin what happened to me and let him write it. So, he's not telling me straight out not to write it, but he's preventing me from doing it just the same. And he's fully aware of it too, I can see it in the tightness of his jaw.

"There's no story without your side of it, Mark," I tell him just as the food arrives.

He starts eating right away, but I don't touch mine. It's some French dish, a steak in a mustard sauce, the smell of which is making me slightly nauseous.

"Eat," he tells me between bites, but I don't pick up my knife and fork. After awhile he sets his down too.

"Alright, I'll put it more bluntly," he says. "Reynard set out to destroy me, and he nearly succeeded in killing you. I can't let him take away everything I've worked for now."

"That won't happen," I mutter, playing with the edge of my napkin because I can't meet his eyes. I understand what he's saying, and I may be wrong to force the issue.

"I need people to trust me enough to give me their money," he says. "Any liability would destroy any hope of that, and my involvement with Reynard is a huge liability."

"The story is already out there, all I'd be doing is telling the truth," I mutter, but I'm not even convincing myself.

"We'll discuss this later, Nicole," he says and picks up his knife and fork again. "Now eat."

And I obey this time, because my conviction that I must write this story is fleeing like air from a popped balloon. But my career is on the line here too, and I can't ignore that fact.

We don't speak much after that, and by the time he drops me off in front of my office building the tension between us is so high, I'm having trouble breathing.

He pulls me into an embrace as I exit the car, his arms wrapped around me so tightly I feel like we're joined together.

"I'll be home at eight," he whispers into my ear, his hot breath tickling me. "Wear the white corset and nothing else."

My p***y twitches at the command, pleasant warmth flooding my belly, and I very nearly swoon as he releases me, and gets back in the car. I wish it was eight already, and I have no idea how I'll get through the rest of the day waiting for it. It takes me a few minutes just to move from the spot where he left me, as I will the memory of his arms around me not to fade.

The rest of my day passes in a haze of desire, tinged by Mark's sharp refusal of allowing me to write his story, our story really.

Yet all that fades to the background as I enter our apartment that evening. It's become a safe haven for me in this last week, a place where all problems are locked away outside it. Except for the nightmares. But I don't dwell on that as I run the hot tub, scenting the water with lavender oil.

I strip as I wait for the tub to fill, watching my reflection in the large mirror. The steam makes it fuzzy, so it's easy to ignore my imperfections, as I run my palms over my breasts imagining they're Mark's hands. My p***y is throbbing, aching for his touch, and I sigh as I run my fingers over my swollen c**t, enjoying the sensation of velvety softness against my fingertips, along with the sharp pang of need the touch brings.

But no. I can't pleasure myself, must wait for Mark. I've made him angry with my article idea. He will punish me tonight, and even though my mind protests, my whole body is tingling in anticipation of it.

I get in the tub and stay there until the hot water turns lukewarm, thinking of nothing, enjoying the weightlessness of my body.

The corset Mark wanted me to wear is tight and the bra lifts my breasts high, squeezing them together and barely covering my n*****s. The thong that goes with it is just a sliver of translucent lace on an elastic string. Despite how revealing the outfit is, I feel virginal wearing it, like a bride about to enjoy her wedding night.

The elevator door slithers open at precisely eight o'clock. I get up off the sofa and approach Mark in my stocking feet. His chest heaves as he watches me, his gaze waking fiery butterflies in my stomach.

I stop just short of touching him, looking down at my feet. His briefcase lands against the hardwood floor with a thud. He grabs my chin and lifts my head so I'm forced to look at him, the intensity in his eyes sending a jolt of lighting through my very core.

"You did as I said. Good girl," he says hoarsely, and then kisses me hard, his tongue entering my mouth violently, demanding my submission. He yanks down my bra, then rolls my n*****s between his fingers, squeezing hard just as I moan in pleasure. The sudden pain rips through me like a cut through fabric, making me wetter, heightening my need for him.

He breaks the kiss and releases my n*****s, leaving me weak in the knees, the room fuzzy around me.

"On your knees by the sofa," he orders, nodding towards the spot where he wants me.

His eyes are daggers piercing my back, my ass and thighs as I obey. The hard floor hurts my knees.

"Hands behind your back," he barks and I do it immediately.

He opens his zipper and I have to concentrate very hard not to lick my lips in anticipation as his rock hard erection comes into view.

"Don't move now."

He runs the head across my lips, wetting them, then reaches down and pulls on my n****e, making me gasp then yelp as the pleasure turns to sharp pain. He releases me and grabs the back of my head, making a fist in my hair.

"Open," he commands, and the cold light in his eyes douses the butterflies in my stomach, encases them in ice.

Yet I do as he says, opening my mouth wide to accommodate his massive c**k. And just the velvety smoothness of his flesh, the throbbing of his heartbeat there, is enough to break all the ice. He doesn't stop pushing until I gag, gives me just a moment to catch my breath before plunging back in, opening my throat, using me for his pleasure. I think of nothing but his smooth, hard, pulsing c**k filling my throat as he works it in and out, taking my air.

He starts thrusting harder, pulling on my hair now, the sharp pain mixing with the pleasure I'm giving him, which is mine too.

He pulls out suddenly, leaving me feeling empty, used and spent.

"Up," he barks, then leads me to the barstools lining the kitchen island. I stumble along, my wet panties chafing my swollen c**t.

He swirls the stool so the seat is facing me, then lifts me onto it as though I weigh nothing, pulling my hips back until my ass is practically hanging off.

"You're ready, aren't you?" he asks hoarsely, as he runs his fingers over my throbbing c**t.

I look back and nod, smiling at him.

He pulls back the string of my thong, then releases it, the elastic snapping back against my c**t, making me whimper in pain. He's not done punishing me, and I don't want him to be.

"I want you to drop the article," he says harshly and I can't stop anger from flashing in my eyes as I glare back at him.

He slaps my ass hard, the sound echoing in the silent room, sharp pain racking through me.

"No," I say through gritted teeth.

His eyes flash a cold flame as he slaps me again.

"I won't," I say, wanting him to hit me again for defying him. Which he does, over the same spot, hard enough to leave a bruise.

"I will not let you ruin me," he says, smacking my ass again. "And you will obey me."

"I—" But the rest of my sentence is cut off by my scream as he rams his c**k into my p***y. He's holding me firmly by my hips, preventing any hope of escape.

He buries his c**k inside me to the hilt, and I feel every pulse of his heartbeat deep inside me, as though it's my own.

He slaps my ass again, causing my p***y to clench on his hardness, making me cry out again. There's such a thin line between this pleasure and pain, it's almost non-existent.

He pulls his c**k out all the way, my body convulsing at the sudden emptiness, then rams it back in viciously. He does it again and again, hammering his c**k into me then withdrawing, opening me up, causing every nerve ending in my p***y, my whole body scream for release. My screams are closer to moans now. One more thrust, and I'll topple off the edge, drown in the river of pure pleasure only he can cause.

He removes his c**k and doesn't re-enter. His fingers are digging into my bruised ass cheek, sending flashes of pain through me that starkly oppose the throbbing need in my p***y.

"You want to come?" he asks, running his fingers over my tender c**t.

"Yes," I sigh, my p***y clenching involuntarily.

"Not until you agree to obey me." He presses his thumb against my opening, right over the spot where all my orgasms originate. I gasp again, my physical need to climax, to please him so he will pleasure me, warring with my need to retain my free will, stand my ground on this, the only rule I laid down.

"Mark, please."

I whimper as he pushes his thumb in deeper, my p***y clenching around it without my permission.

"I'll let you think on it," he says and withdraws his hand.

I turn to look at him. "Don't do this, Mark, please."

My voice is shaky, disappointment and sadness washing over the fire he woke in me like a deluge of ice-cold rain. My body is his to use as he wishes. Yet my mind and my work are still my own. How can I give that up?

The hard edge in his eyes softens as he leans forward and kisses my cheek.

"But we will discuss this further," he whispers into my ear, and rams his c**k into me.

His thrusts are fierce, deep yet shallow, the stool nearly toppling over with each of them. But he's holding me, keeping me safe, and that's all I know as I come hard, any objections I still have lost in the sheer force of the pleasure hitting me, drowning me, breaking all barriers.