One Hot Winter Break (Yardley College Chronicles Book 2) (7 page)

At home I’m too young to drink, but in the villa, I guess I go by Jonathon’s rules.

The drinks are sinfully delicious. I don’t know if they kill pain, but they definitely kill inhibitions. I’m aching for more sex, aching to be tied up again and come like crazy. But I’ve tempted him with ocean sex and I’ve got to follow through.

He’s waiting for me wearing an open Hawaiian shirt over swim trunks. The soft blue and vivid red and purple flowers frame his firm pecs.

To provoke him, I run across the terrace, sprint over the sand. My bare feet sink into the soft warmth and I squeal with pure delight.

Laughing, I stumble, but then I run flat out until I splash into the edge of the ocean. The water is heavenly, breaking into foam around my legs.

Jonathon chases me just as I wanted. He catches me, and I grab him and try to wrestle him into the water. Finally, we both stumble and fall, then Jonathon pulls me back until we are sitting on the sand at the edge of the waves. They rush up, splashing over us.

I move to kiss him, because that’s the point. This is supposed to be an intense, French kissing make-out session that leads to wet, sandy sex. But Jonathon orders, “Get up on your knees with your ass facing me.”

I do it, surprised by his brusque tone.

His hand spanks my bottom through my bathing suit, making my cheeks jiggle. I thought I’d object to spanking, but the slap sets my senses sizzling. I wiggle my ass, encouraging him to do it again. He gives another smack to my rump. His groin presses against me. Already his prick is rigid, pushing against my butt.

I hear the soft rip of a condom package opening. Shifting his hips, he brushes the tip against my pussy lips. He teases me with his hard-on, his hands mold around my ass cheeks, then he shifts his hips forward, driving his cock into my wet pussy.

“So wet and so beautiful.” He stokes my hair, which is damp from the spray.

Then he drills me as we are washed by waves—the tide is coming in. When I burst in orgasm from his playful fingers on my clit and his deep, long thrusts, water is splashing around my upper thighs.

“I’m going to come,” he says tersely.

“Yes,” I urge. We may drown if he doesn’t come soon, plus I want to make him explode. I rock against him, meeting his rhythm so he pounds deep into me. He puts both hands on my hips, gripping them to fuck me hard. I press my wet fingers to my slippery clit.

“Yeah,” he groans. “Play with yourself. I want you to make yourself come.”

But I know I can’t come anymore. I’m starting to feel a little sore. Yet I want to please Jonathon. I stroke with my fingers and cry out in a pretend orgasm. I make my inner muscles tug at his cock so he believes it. I don’t care that I’m not able to climax, since it’s because I’ve had so many.

I turn and see Jonathon’s face ravaged by his drive to orgasm. Harsh lines surround his mouth. His eyes are closed. He looks older, harder, tougher as he pumps into me as hard and fast as he can, almost lifting my ass in the air.

“I’m coming again,” I wail.

“Yes, Mia. You’re amazing—” His words break off on a low groan. I can feel him grow inside me as his come rushes through his cock. He drives his hips against me, rocks slowly, grunting fiercely with his pleasure.

After, he falls beside me, landing with a splash in the waves. One crashes over him, and he sits up fast, sputtering. It’s so sweet. I want to kiss him, but he’s avoided every kiss I’ve attempted.

Soaking wet, he’s gorgeous. I sit at his side. Moonlight glimmers on the waves. Reflected stars dot the dark, mysterious depths of the ocean. The breakers make a soothing, rhythmic sound.

“I’ve never been anywhere like this,” I whisper. “It’s heavenly.”

I think I could stay here forever. Except I can’t, of course. This is one decadent week of fantasy.

A low grumbling slices through the lovely sounds of the ocean. I blush.

“You’re hungry.” Jonathon jumps up, holding out his hand to me. “I don’t feel like traveling in to the main island tonight. We’ll order room service.”

It sounds good to me, even though it’s presented as a decision, not an option.

***

The perfume of island flowers drifts through the open terrace doors. The white gauzy curtains billow seductively. A second bottle of champagne now sits in a massive ice bucket. We finished dinner and dessert, and the used silverware, dishes, and crystal glimmer in the candlelight. It’s dark, but still sultry outside.

Jonathon is having his turn in the shower. Strangely, bathing is something he insists on doing alone. I would have loved to have joined him, but he had me shower first. I’m letting my hair air dry, and my wavy hair is pouring down my back and over my bare shoulders.

Dinner was spectacular, served to us by our own private room steward, Piers. I’d guess he is the age of a new college graduate. He has a British accent, says ‘wanker’, and his red-dyed Rastafarian locks work surprisingly well with his polished, elegant grey suit. He brought trays of food by golf cart in insulated boxes. Gilt-rimmed plates were set on our huge, teak dining table, along with gold-plated cutlery and crystal goblets. Course after course was served: perfectly seared shrimp, skewers of jerk chicken, curry with fish, vegetables, chick peas; a salad with papaya and crisp greens. Dessert was a tropical fruit cheesecake, topped with more papaya and mango, sitting on ribbons of white and dark chocolate sauce that patterned our plates. This was followed by tall flutes of gooseberry sorbet, tart and refreshing.

Even as I run my brush through my hair, I lick my lips remembering the sheer decadent pleasure of dinner. After a term of residence food, which I often never ate because I had to work through meal time, this was the most delicious meal ever.

The shower stops in the bathroom.

I close my eyes. With Jonathon, being tied up was something erotic, healthy, and fun, as opposed to…wrong.

Do I suggest more fun? Then I realize I’m swaying on the stool in front of the vanity, yawning at my image in the Hollywood style makeup mirror, with its twin columns of bulbs.

I’m exhausted.

Jonathon steps into the room, naked. He’s rubbing his thick black hair with a white towel. Droplets of water glisten on his tanned chest, his muscled abdomen, his long legs. Ryan kept in shape by running, working at his father’s small garage, and performing random acts of manual labor for local farmers and seniors. Jonathon has a huge gym in his house, and he uses it daily with admirable discipline.

“This is to be your bedroom, Mia.”

“My bedroom?” Suddenly I realize what he means. “We aren’t sharing a bed?” I’d assumed that was the fun part of going away together. 

“I never do,” Jonathon says. “I need privacy when I sleep. Also, a lot of times I don’t sleep. I’ll stay up and read or work. I would only disturb you.”

I know Jonathon’s abuse has built walls for him to hide behind and filled him with deep, painful issues. “You aren’t afraid of sharing a bed with me?”

“Of course not.”

But I see the strain in his eyes. He is.

He said we were alike, but we aren’t. I’m willing to take the risk and open my heart to him.

It’s one thing to just know he suffered abuse. But it shaped him, formed him, and I want to know what happened, so I can understand him.

Or help him.

Chapter Six

The next day is my first full day in paradise. I start out having the most glorious, perfect day of my life.

Breakfast is served on our poolside terrace. Dressed in a terry cloth robe instead of the silk one—since my skin is damp from laps in the azure pool—I sip delicious coffee. Swimming is something I do well. My mom had a phobia about water, so she ensured I took swimming lessons up to lifeguard level.

Trays of fresh fruit tempt me, along with waffles and some traditional spicy dishes. I love grapefruit and devour it. Breakfast is accompanied by rich coffee and tangy, sparkling mimosas. It’s the perfect fantasy.

“After breakfast,” Jonathon says, refilling my coffee, “We’ll go snorkling in the reef.”

I can’t say anything, I’m so stunned.

I spent the morning living a life I could never have dreamed of. After chasing bright, exotic fish around waving weeds and breathtakingly colored coral, we sit on the beach to have a picnic provided by the resort, along with chilled champagne. 

The afternoon is about sex. At my urging, we have vanilla sex in our pool, then Jonathon instigates sessions on the terrace, the granite bar countertop, in the huge soaker tub in the largest bathroom. On the bar, I get the most daring—I let him blindfold me, and he introduces me to the ball gag. At first I’m apprehensive, but I find it kind of sexy to have it between my teeth, there to bite when I’m out of my mind in orgasm.

We have dinner by candlelight on our terrace, which leads to another night of bondage to the bedposts, anal sex with me on my tummy, then showers—separate showers.

With Jonathon, I don’t have to hold anything back. I was so afraid Ryan would learn about my past and be disgusted by it, I acted like a virgin with him. I pretended I’d never dreamed of anything naughty and wicked, like having anal sex.

I keep remembering what Jonathon said when I told him in fall term that I was still in love with Ryan. When I insisted I wouldn’t give up Ryan for him.

He said:
You know you can tell me anything. I will accept you and desire you no matter what.

So after he insists we bathe separately, I decide to go for ‘no-holds-barred’ approach. I surprise him in the bathroom, towel drying his hair.

Jonathon is perfectly clean, smelling of a sandalwood-scented soap that’s so sexily masculine I could die. I start by sucking his cock, ending by rimming him, teasing his anus with my tongue while I stroke his long cock and play with his balls. I’ve heard about rimming, have never done it, but since Jonathon is fresh from the shower I want to be daring and do it. It gets just the reaction I want. His eyes go huge—round and green. His hands tighten in my hair (though he doesn’t pull on it) and he moans hard. He tastes so clean and he’s so tight around my tongue. I feel wickedly erotic. Then Jonathon shouts loud enough to be heard by every villa on the island and explodes in my hand.

He gazes into my eyes as though he’s in shock. “I’ve never come that way. Normally it takes a lot to make me explode. Oral sex never makes me come. Neither does a hand job.” A wickedly proud look comes to his face. “I can last a long time. But not with you.”

I laugh. “What’s more important to you, Jonathon? Your pride or a searing orgasm?”

His brow puckers in a frown. He’s really thinking about it.

“Oh God,” I say. “Don’t be so…wealthy and entitled. Orgasms should come first. Always.”

“I agree.” He’s naked and he walks casually to his treasure-trove of kinky toys. “Now I get to choose the game.”

He brings out a spanking paddle. At first I giggle. It does look funny, and I only remember being spanked once in my life, when I was a kid. I’d done something that could have hurt me badly and my mom spanked me with a hairbrush. She broke the hairbrush on my butt, stared at it in shock, and never touched me like that again.

But that memory makes me uneasy. He’s already spanked me playfully with his hand, so why am I getting tense?

Where is this going to go? Does he want to hurt me? I’m half-excited about this, but I’m wondering: why do people need this? If I feel I need to be punished, isn’t there a flaw deep inside me? Maybe what I should do is get over myself and figure out why, then make that need go away?

But Jonathon insists the past doesn’t make you who you are sexually. But the role of the submissive still worries me. Is it natural for a victim to consent to being a victim one more time? Is that what I’m doing if I let him spank me?

“What if I agreed to this if you get to spank me first, then I get to spank you?” I say it to tease him, to buy time, to try to figure out how I really feel about this.

“That’s not how it works.” But he grins.

“Why do you need to dominate me?”

He walks around me, letting me study his face. How gorgeous he is with high cheekbones, a straight nose, emerald-green irises, long black lashes. He must be used to getting everything he wants. Except, I think, for love in his family; safety from abuse when he needed it.

I can’t lose the nagging sense that he wants to be in control because he wants to protect himself. Or because he wants to play out different scenarios where he comes out on top.

But I was abused and I have no interest in taking control. There really is something deeper to this, I guess.

Finally he says, “I want to play with you. It’s about trust.”

That’s true. A trust that is so deep, it’s frightening. “But you wouldn’t trust me to turn this around on you.”

“Maybe I would. But that’s not my desire. This is what I do, and I want a partner to join me in this.”

And that’s the simplicity of it. He wants a relationship where he is the Dom. I guess I can see why. I wouldn’t want that role. So I have to make one decision: will I be a sub?

This is the simple statement that brought me to a halt at the very beginning, when Jonathon broke up with Lara and I asked him why he wouldn’t change for her.

Jonathon Powell doesn’t want to change. Has no intention of doing it. Emotionally, he recognizes he has issues. But sexually, he is comfortable with who he is. If I want to be with him, it’s my boundaries I have to push.

He may be indulging me by letting me have the vanilla stuff, but this is the endgame. Paddles, floggers, whips.

I take off the robe, revealing another new bra and set of panties—purchases that mean there will be no extra snacking next term. I’ll be living strictly on residence food and I’ll probably have to give up coffee by February.

I get on my hands and knees on the huge bed, sticking my butt in the air. “Do your worst,” I challenge. Then say, “No, not your worst. Let’s start this slow. Let’s say I’ve been barely naughty at all.”

Sometimes I’ve dreamt about being tied up for sex by a guy I desire. I’ve never fantasized about actually being taken by force. I’ve never wanted pain. I don’t know if I’ll be good with pain. I mean, I can bear it when I have to, but what about when I
don’t
have to?