Best Bondage Erotica 2 by Alison Tyler Read Free Book Online Page B

react with a flight or fight response. “Derek?” she whispers. She’s afraid to break the silence, but she feels like she has to do something. “Derek?”
    She doesn’t hear anything. A pull on the cuffs only seems to draw them tighter around her wrists. Is he sitting there watching her? Did he leave her here? What if he’s taping her? She knows, of course, that he would never do any of these things, but the longer she waits the more the fear creeps in.
    Then, finally, she hears a noise. She pricks her ears in that direction, feeling like a wild animal. Is that him? Is it the cat?
She can’t tell. Her senses are deceiving her. Something cold brushes against her stomach, and she has a moment of near panic—she’s ready to rip the cuffs right off—but then she feels Derek’s tongue too, next to the coldness, and hears him crunching something in his teeth.
    He runs his tongue, along with the ice, up her stomach, leaving a tingling trail of heat and cold, until he reaches her chest and the ice melts. Her stomach does somersaults as he winds his cool tongue around one nipple and presses his palm firmly between her legs. She presses against the flat of his hand, willing him to touch her, stroke her, enter her. She has forgotten she is handcuffed to the bed, that she cannot see. All of her senses are focused on just one spot—she feels that if he doesn’t split her open soon she will explode.
    “Please…,” she whispers, “Please….”
     
    “Please what?” Derek asks as he enters the bedroom. She didn’t even hear him come in, and her face flushes with embarrassment. She thinks about pretending she was asleep, then thinks better of it and hands the catalog over to him.
    “Please…please buy me these,” she says softly, pointing to the silk bonds with one tired, trembling finger.

Buckle Fucker
    Rakelle Valencia
     
     
     
     
     
     
    I had been sucked down into the chute jerking my head up in desperation, searching for help, to find that she was all business. Her hands clawed my thick, protective vest with the same tenacity as the others. Hands that lifted me upright, back onto the bronc, and I had wished I could feel them on my skin. Her hands were strong, professional, serious, determined. I knew this in seconds as they gripped my thick, Kevlar vest. And I thought I knew what kind of woman she would be just by her hands.
    Those long fingers had instantly intrigued me. The digits led to muscular yet feminine hands with veins pulsing in excitement. The pointer finger on her right was crooked with a thin, white scar marking flesh from nail to knuckle. A woman’s working hands fascinated me so. I wanted to run my tongue along that scar, caress it, follow its trail, draw the marred appendage into my hungry mouth. And I had chastised myself because my brain was in the wrong game at that moment.
    Shaking my Stetson-covered head, I tried to get back into
my ride, envisioning how the bucking horse would twist and writhe beneath me, this one first going to the left away from my hand then knowing to slam right when I began to overcompensate. Of course I wasn’t planning to overcompensate. I had been planning to walk the edge and get her to buck out straight and strong, picking up points by stroking long, dotted lines with my spur rowels.
    The mare was hot and fresh, not yet used hard at this level, which meant she was a wild card, not consistent. I’d ridden her before, and she was an honest bucker with a few tricks up her sleeve that would become known as her routine romp when she worked more.
    The red mare tossed her tangled mane in angst then lathered into a captured frenzy, banging the steel panels, making me need support once again to keep from falling underneath those large hooves. A cowboy down in the chute is dead, or at least hurtin’ enough not to be makin’ any rides at that rodeo. I stabbed my toes on the rails and wiggled behind a bit, out of the sweet spot, until the horse settled. Hands were all