What She Needs (11 page)

Behind her, he went quiet and she wondered if her acquiescence excited him. She wondered what the hell all this was supposed to accomplish in terms of her sexual education. And she didn’t want to be aroused anymore—she wanted to be angry. But despite her wishes, her crotch still throbbed against the desk as she waited . . . for something, and sort of wished this were over. Her heart beat too hard.

This wasn’t what she’d hoped for when she’d put on the bra and panties—at all. She even considered using the safeword—just to end it.

Yet she didn’t. Maybe
because
her crotch throbbed. And her breasts felt full, needy, pressed against the desk. Part of her was appalled by this, by what he thought qualified as a fantasy for her . . . and yet, wasn’t she aching for more? Wasn’t she excited?

So she lay there, nervous, pulsing, anxious, torn.

That’s when he eased one finger inside the narrow band of lace stretching downward over the center of her bottom. She bit her lip at the touch—and sharply pulled in her breath as his fingertips moved slowly over her anus. They felt damp, as if maybe he’d moistened them first. She tensed, waiting for the pleasure of his fingers stroking lower, through her wetness—so it shocked the hell out of her when his touch didn’t stray from the small fissure and he instead slid one finger smoothly, firmly inside it.

A startled cry lurched from her throat at the strange, uncomfortable sensation. “Wh-what are you . . . ?”

“Punishing you, naughty girl.”

“B-but . . .”

“Quiet,” he told her, and began to move his finger in and out.

Jenna had never felt anything like it. She wanted to think it hurt—the initial entry had been distressing—but . . . it didn’t. In fact, she began to squirm, almost involuntarily, and she heard her own breath growing ragged. With pleasure? She couldn’t figure that part out, but
something
was definitely making her hotter inside. She suffered the sense of being invaded, never having expected anything to enter her there, yet she never said the safeword or anything else that equated to asking him to stop.

Then he used his free hand to spank her again—harder now, in a faster rhythm. Jesus God. She yelped at each strike of his palm, overcome by the combination of odd feelings vibrating through her. Did it hurt? Or did it feel good? She couldn’t even tell. But each unyielding slap echoed through her body, seeming to heighten every other sensation: the finger moving in and out of her anus, the hardness of the desk beneath her hips and breasts, the pulsation between her legs.

“Have you had enough?” he finally asked.

“Yes,” she burst out. Because her bottom was sore, and inexplicable feelings wracked her from head to toe.

Yet even as he withdrew his finger, making her yelp yet again, he said darkly, “I don’t think you have. I think you need to be punished
much, much
more, Jenna.” And with that, he grabbed her hip and rolled her to her back on the desk.

It shook her to see him again, face-to-face, after what he’d just done to her, yet his expression held nothing but intense desire mingled with power. Stepping between her legs, he leaned over, brusquely curled the fingertips of both hands into the cups of her bra, and yanked them down, causing her breasts to tumble free.

“Damn,” he murmured then, for a brief second sounding more like the Brent of last night than Father Powers, and his reaction reminded her it was the first time he’d actually seen them. His response warmed her cheeks and made her glance down to where the two mounds emerged from a frame of white knotted blouse and askew lace, large and round, nipples pointed.

His
eyes remained locked there, too, as he closed his hands over them, massaging roughly. A moan escaped her throat when, below, his hardened length connected with her crotch through his pants and her thin undies. Her body felt supercharged now, as if everything up to this moment, from the shaving to the spanking to the anal play, had all been priming her . . . for whatever happened next.

Brent aggressively twirled her nipples between his fingertips, then pulled on them, gentle but firm, the move seeming to elongate them further. Soft cries and mewls left her and she suddenly felt out of her head with pleasure—and the need for more.

Next, he bent over her, taking one turgid peak in his mouth, sucking it in hard. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh God!” It hurt—and yet it didn’t. Because it made her throb still more wildly below. He rubbed against her there now, and her head dropped back in abandon. She felt her back arching, urging him to take as much of her breast into his mouth as possible. She’d had no idea she liked things a little rough.

She wanted to protest when he released her breast and stepped back, disconnecting their bodies completely, but she held her tongue when he reached under her tiny scrap of a skirt to pull the lace thong down and off, over her sexy shoes.

Once it was gone, he moved back between her legs and flipped the skirt up again to look at her—there. She tingled madly, pulsated almost violently. But then—oh no—he looked furious. What on earth was wrong?

She didn’t have to wonder long. “You disobeyed me again, Jenna! I instructed you to shave your pussy completely, yet you didn’t.”

She simply blinked, surprised—and still crazily aroused, as well as a little freaked out because he seemed so upset again. “Yes, I did. Mostly,” she insisted, realizing he was referring to the small thatch of hair she’d left, despite its being located well above the area that mattered. “I mean, I just thought . . .”

“You just thought you’d do what
you
wanted to do,” he boomed at her. “How many times do I need to make this clear? When I tell you to do something, you do it—or you suffer the consequences. Do you understand that?”

Quietly, she nodded. She didn’t know how else to reply.

“I don’t think you do,” he groused. “And I think I need to teach you a lesson the hard way!”

Lying half dressed yet fully revealed before him, she shuddered. “How?”

“I’m going to fuck you until you scream.”

Oh. My. That didn’t sound much like punishment.

But then she got it . . . sort of. He was
pretending
sex was punishment. He was doing what she’d asked him to do last night—take the choices away from her, and at the same time give her what they both knew she wanted.

Why did that make it so much easier?

And yet, for her, it did. It felt so much more instinctive to act dismayed at the words than show her delight. She even managed a gasp and drew her knees up, closing her legs tight.

Their eyes met and she realized he understood—all of it. That it was her natural, normal reaction, even when she desired sex. That all her life, it had felt easier to
make
a guy part her legs than to do it willingly. And that’s what felt better now, too—as he placed his hands firmly on her knees to briskly pry them open.

She let out a breath of excitement, surging with still more moisture when his gaze dropped again to where she’d shaved for him.

His palms skimmed swiftly up her inner thighs, coming to rest where they met, framing the part of her that glistened wet and open there. It was another way in which she’d never quite seen herself, but like him, she was looking. His expression made her feel obscenely beautiful. And she almost wanted to beg.
Please, please touch me.
But she didn’t. Because she couldn’t. Because it was just like everything else—so much easier if the guy just
did
it, if she never had to worry about letting him know her desires.

That’s when Brent stroked two fingers down through her moist folds—thank God—making her whimper and quake. He smoothly pushed the same fingers into her drenched opening and a low sob left her.

Rather than move his fingers in and out then, he instead began to turn them in a slow and more circular motion, as if reaching around inside her, exploring her inner walls. The odd sensation gave her chills, despite the room being comfortable, and she breathed unevenly, audibly. With his free hand, he reached to undo his pants, his zipper, and she bit her lip when his erection burst free.

Oh—oh God. She’d not seen it last night, only felt it. Long and straight and undeniably hard, the straining veins along its length made it look like a powerful, dangerous tool. Even having taken it into her already, the sight made her nervous now—because he looked bigger than any other guy she’d been with.

“Get ready to take your punishment, Jenna,” he said, his voice low and threatening.

In response, she lay back more completely on the desk and shut her eyes.

Yet as Brent’s hands closed tight over her bare hips, he leaned over and rasped, “No. Open your eyes and watch me fuck you.”

She forced them wide in response, but focused on the ceiling.

And then felt him waiting—waiting for her to do what he’d said.

So she lightly clenched her teeth and drew her gaze slowly, uncomfortably downward, until she met his—and he said, “Lower. My cock.”

She sucked in a breath, felt her chest heave. Dragged her gaze downward, over the priest’s collar and the black fabric of his suit. Until she again saw the large male appendage jutting from it like a steel girder.

She watched him close his fist around the base. She watched him guide the engorged head, a dot of shimmering moisture at its tip, to where her pink folds lay parted, ready. She watched him push the head inward—her body braced for the impact, which came, hard.

As his length drove slowly, deeply, into her, they both let out long, low groans, and Jenna continued witnessing the amazing way her body swallowed that part of his. Until her eyes fell shut again, out of pure pleasure, fullness—and this time he didn’t insist she open them just yet.

With his big hands back at her hips, he began thrusting in earnest. He didn’t go slow like last night—instead he found a brisk, hard rhythm, and she felt every stroke at her very core. Each made her cry out as it jolted her body—her breasts jiggled within the tight lace still outlining them, and she found herself gripping the bottom edge of the desk with both hands to hold herself steady.

“Open your eyes, Jenna,” he said, his voice warm, dark.

She obeyed, meeting his as their bodies collided, again, again.

Then he released one of her hips and reached down for her hand, removing it from the desk’s edge. He drew it up over where he entered her—hard, so hard—and pressed her fingertips to her clitoris, holding them there. “Touch yourself while I fuck you,” he said, his gaze still steady and commanding on her.

Impulsively, she tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t allow it. He pushed her fingers back down, even moving them over the sensitive nub to send an unbidden pleasure expanding outward.

“I don’t want it to happen that way,” she protested as he continued to pound into her flesh below. “I want
you
to do it.”

He simply gave his head a short, definite shake. “Rub your clit,” he insisted. “Do it!”

But the second he began to remove his hand, she did, too—so he shoved her fingers back down, rougher this time, forcing her to feel her own wetness.

She bit her lip, their eyes still locked. “This . . . doesn’t . . . make me . . . feel good,” she managed between the hard strokes of his erection.

“It will if you let it,” he assured her. “You can even close your eyes if you want.” He suddenly sounded a little more like Brent than Father Powers, and she immediately accepted the offer to shut her eyes, shut out all the shocking, erotic images assaulting her. But she still didn’t want to touch herself. It wasn’t that she never did—she did sometimes; it was that she couldn’t bear to do it in front of someone. Even during sex. It felt so . . . private, personal.

Yet Brent still held her fingers down into her folds, and even just the friction created by his thrusts succeeded in moving her clit against her hand. And soon she heard her breath begin to change, deepen, felt her chest begin to expand and contract as she bit her lip and lifted her hips to better meet his hard drives—and her own fingers.

Oh God. Oh God, it would happen soon. Still, Brent flattened his fingertips over hers, moving them in a hot little circle that made her begin to moan.

And as his touch grew gradually lighter, she wanted to lift her hand away, too—but she didn’t.
Couldn’t
really. Because—dear God—she was so close, everything inside her pounding, pulsating, reaching. And then she exploded in orgasm, crying out, lifting to meet his big erection and her own wet fingertips, again, again, again.

Oh God.

When the hot waves passed, she felt spent.

Above her, Brent was saying, “That was good, baby. So hot. You did so well.” And she opened her eyes to find his gaze on her—and it somehow made her thrust harder against him, wanting more and more of him, deep inside her, wanting him to make her feel
everything
, everything there was to feel in the
world
, in
sex
, in
passion
.

Until he was moving in her so violently, fucking her so hard, that she couldn’t think straight, screaming at every powerful plunge, and he began to growl, to groan, and then his eyes fell shut and he began murmuring, “Fuck, aw fuck, I can’t stop. Here I come, baby, here I come.”

And the thrusts he delivered then, accompanied by still more fierce growls, nearly nailed her to the desk—and she liked it.

Soon he fell forward onto her, collapsing in exhaustion, and she noticed for the first time that her legs were wrapped tight around him, the tall heels of her shoes digging into his ass. And as she lay there beneath him, she realized in pure horror that somewhere along the way she’d begun to think in the terms
he
used: ass, fucking, clit. How the hell had
that
happened? It made her feel like . . . someone else, someone she wasn’t. Or at least she didn’t
think
she was that person.