The Chase Ch. 03

"Cameron, you—"

"You have no idea what effect you have on men." He breathes raggedly into the phone. "But I have a very good fucking idea, and I'm not sharing you."

"I know." I'm suddenly breathing a little harder, too.

"Jesus, baby, just talking to you on the phone gets me hard."

My breath catches quietly. "You're hard right now?"

"Yes," he murmurs. He sounds the way he does when his eyes are dark with lust. "Are you wet for me?"

I bite my lip. "Maybe."

"I know you are." I can imagine him sitting in the back of the Mercedes, leaning on the armrest and smirking as he cradles the phone closer to his face. "I know your tight little pussy is already forgetting how sore it is because it wants this cock again."

I turn to make sure the dining room is still empty; I don't want anyone to see how flustered I am. "Cameron..." I mean to chastise him, but everything I say comes out like a purr.

"Fuck," he sighs, "I could get off to the sound of you saying my name."

I decide to press my luck. "Well, we could try that, Cameron," I say slowly, twirling my hair between two fingers, "but I figured you'd rather not shoot all that cum into a handkerchief when there are so many other places to put it."

He actually growls, and I smile despite myself. When he finally speaks, his voice is raspy. "Go to our bedroom and put on something slutty. I don't care what it is. Just don't choose anything you really like because I'm going to destroy it."

I'm a little out of breath as I reply. "And what if I can't wait for you?"

"Oh, are you that desperate to come, wife?"

I head for the window at the far end of the dining room as I feel my pussy tighten in response to his voice. "Let's just say that my dildo might beat you to it."

"It better not."

"Well, let's just imagine that it does." I squeeze my thighs together again and bite my bottom lip. "Let's imagine that you come home and hear me moaning as soon as you reach the top of the stairs."

"Tessa—" I can hear a note of warning in his voice.

"And you open the door and find me writhing on the bed—"

"Shit," he hisses. There's a brief silence, and I imagine him adjusting his hard-on through his pants. "You know what'll happen, don't you, wife?"

"Tell me."

"I'll let you leave it in," he says, exhaling, "but you'll have to take your hands off it because you'll be busy taking my cock out."

"What does your cock have to do with anything?"

He laughs, sounding out of breath. "I'm shoving it right in your smart mouth. You're going to suck me off while I fuck you with that dildo. That's what you want, isn't it, baby?"

My eyes flutter closed. I'm lightly gyrating in the chair. My breasts feel heavy, and my pussy clutches at nothing, desperate for Cameron's cock. If one of the staff walks in, I'll die of mortification, but I can't stop.

"You have exactly five minutes to get ready," he says tautly.

I force myself to stand up and begin walking toward the stairs.

"I want to see your mouth and pussy full," he says, and I pause on the stairs, my hand white-knuckling the railing. "I want to hear you moan around my dick while you're coming."

"Stop," I say plaintively.

"Never," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "I will never stop. You don't want me to stop. Now hang up and get ready for me."

He ends the call before I can say anything else. As I head toward the walk-in closet, my body is practically humming with need despite my soreness, despite my emotional exhaustion, despite everything. I open my lingerie drawer and gingerly riffle through the scraps of lace and satin. I know better than to assume Cameron is bluffing: he really will destroy whatever I'm wearing. I pull out a pair of Wolford stockings, fully aware that they'll have holes ripped into them before he's done with me.

God, what a fucked-up marriage. It's like a physical addiction. A sickness. My attempt to detox lasted five weeks, and it took me fewer than 24 hours to relapse. And now here I am, stripping down and slipping on a red, open-cup bra so he can see my hard nipples as he walks into the bedroom.

Cameron keeps saying we need to talk about the way I left. I know we do. But not now. Now we're too busy distracting each other with sex the way we always do. I open another drawer and pull out a glass dildo that, according to the Internet, set Cameron back about $1200. My pussy clenches as I picture him fucking me with it.

I'm hopeless.

****

My skin prickles as Cameron runs his hand absentmindedly over my body. He's leaning on one elbow and looking me up and down as he strokes my overstimulated skin. I close my eyes and imagine how utterly undone I look with smeared makeup, fresh love bites on my neck and tits, and ripped-up stockings. I could use a hot bath and a hairbrush, but I know Cameron loves looking at the wanton mess he turns me into.

His hand passes gently over my oversensitive nipple, and the mix of pain and pleasure makes hiss and grit my teeth. I almost dread the feel of his tongue on my nipple, but I lean up to offer him my breasts, still propped up obscenely in the open-cup bra. As his lips close over the bud and gently suck, I feel blood rush to my overused clit. I can barely believe my pussy is still functional after coming on the glass dildo, on Cameron's cock, and on his tongue. I look down and watch his lips tug lightly on my nipple; his other hand glides up my body and settles on the other breast. Everything feels swollen and tender, yet I'm gasping and moaning like an insatiable whore.

He releases my nipple with a last lick. "Look at you," he smirks, "so desperate to get off again." My head falls back as he latches on to the other nipple.

He's right; I'm squirming and squeezing my thighs together as if that can relieve the wet throb in my pussy. I slide my fingers into his hair and moan as each flick of his tongue sends shivers down my body.

My eyes snap open as I feel his hand glide toward my pussy. I reach down to snatch his hand away, but he cups my pussy hard. The pressure of his hand on my oversensitive clit feels better than it should.

"No, Cameron," I groan. "I'm too sore...I can't take any—oh!" I slap feebly at his shoulders as his fingers enter me. His lips continue to tease my nipple as if I haven't even spoken. "Stop, Cam—please noooo—oh please..." My pussy spasms as he begins finger-fucking me in earnest. I arch my back, shoving my breasts harder against his mouth.

"Come for me, slut," he murmurs against my breast. "I want you to fucking drench my fingers."

My breath catches as I feel the orgasm build; my legs shake as his fingers find my G-spot and press hard. "You—you think I'm a slut?" I gasp out.

"You're my slut," he says, looking up at me, "and you'll come for me whenever I want." His gaze falls to my chest. My nipples are glistening with his saliva; my breasts, spotted with hickeys, are bouncing lewdly in my bra as he fucks me with his fingers. God, I do look like a slut, and the worst part is that hearing him call me that only turns me on more. "Now I'm going to suck on these big fucking tits," he says, still staring at my chest, "and you're going to come like a good little slut."

My orgasm starts mere seconds after I feel his tongue on my nipple. He groans appreciatively against my breasts as my pussy convulses around his fingers. I cry out as the pleasure radiates through me; I'm drowning in sensation. How does he make every orgasm so damn intense? I'm moaning and shaking as if I didn't just spend the last few hours coming like a nymphomaniac.

Cameron presses soft kisses all over my breasts as I come down; he withdraws his fingers gently and brings them up to my lips. I can barely begin licking his index finger before he kisses me deeply. I can taste my own pussy on his tongue.

"Tessa, I love you," he whispers between kisses. "Say you love me." He grips my face in both hands.

"I love you, Cameron." I smile coyly at him. "I think you might be addicted to me."

He laughs and goes on kissing my throat and shoulders. "So addicted I can't fucking see straight."

"But how—wait, stop kissing me—how did you make it without sex for that many weeks?"

His face drops. "I can make it without sex. It's you. Those weeks without you were hell. Don't ever put me through that again." He smooths my hair back and starts kissing my face and neck.

"But why—Cameron, stop a second—why did you let me get that far?"

He rolls onto his back. "Baby, let's not talk about this."

I pull a cashmere blanket over myself. "Please, Cameron."

His eyes stay fixed on the ceiling as he sighs. "I figured that if I was making you that fucking unhappy, I should let you go. And it almost fucking killed me."

We lie there in silence for a long minute. Cameron closes his eyes. When I finally speak, I'm half afraid of waking him up. "What made you finally come after me?"

He turns and looks at me. "You know I had that apartment under full surveillance, right?"

My stomach drops a little. I never felt fully at ease in the sublet that Bertie arranged for me to stay in, but I'd figured it was just the stress of hiding out and the weirdness of the whole situation. "Like...hidden cameras?"

"Yeah, I had some of those."

So that was why that apartment felt so eerie. "Baby, don't worry," he murmurs, reaching up to stroke my hair again. "I was the only one watching. I was the only one who saw you shower"—he looks at my mouth—"and touch yourself."

I blush.

"You know I prefer to be the one to get you off," he says, "but I did enjoy the show." I don't have to look to know that he's hard again; I can hear it in his voice. "When you made plans to go to that club, I canceled every fucking thing and went after you."

I press my lips together. That night with Bertie was my first night out after leaving Cameron, and he had made sure it was my last. I remembered what he'd said that night shortly before throwing me into his car and fucking me: "Too many goddamned men here." I had brought my little cross-country adventure to a grinding halt by daring to enter a room with men in it.

"You're a psycho," I say, turning away from him.

He shifts until he's right behind me and pulls me to him. "Yeah?"

I can hear the smile in his voice, and it irks me. "I'm serious. I know you punched Howard Bainbridge. What did he do?"

His arms tighten around me. "Why so concerned about Bainbridge?"

"What, did he inquire after my health and you decided he wanted to fuck me?" I try to wriggle out of his grasp.

"What did Alyssa Bainbridge tell you?"

"Oh my God, stop answering my questions with a question!" I try to pry his hands off. He obviously got a full report of my coffee shop visit from Sokolov. "I can't even get a goddamned coffee by myself."

He shakes the bed lightly as he laughs. "You can't blame me for keeping that fucker at the coffee shop away from you."

"Uh, yeah, I can," I retort. "And I can blame you for randomly punching people."

"Nothing random about it, baby." He pulls the blanket off my shoulder and nuzzles me.

"Then tell me what Howard did."

He kisses a line across my shoulder before answering. "I'm done talking about this."

"Fine," I answer, rolling my eyes, "I'll find out on my—Cameron!" I gasp as he pushes me onto my back. The blanket falls open as he grabs my arms and pins them to the mattress. I look him squarely in the eyes and make a vow to myself: I'll find out on my own.

"This," he says, looking at my mouth, "is what I thought about while jerking off at work this morning."

I blink up at him. "You jerked off at work?"

"Yeah, at my desk." His tone is casual, as if I've just asked him whether he had lunch. "I thought about holding you down and fucking you." He kisses me, and as his tongue overpowers mine, I press my body against his. Christ, I really am a nympho. I'm a little short of breath when he finally breaks off the kiss. His eyes meet mine before darting down to my lips. "I thought about you begging me to stop—"

"You're a psycho," I repeat, but I practically moan it.

"I thought about covering your hot little mouth to shut you up while I fucked you." He parts my legs with his knee.

"Is that what got you off?"

He slides easily into me and sighs. I hiss as I feel the burn in my sore pussy, which is, of course, disgustingly wet for him. He thrusts hard into me.

"What got me off," he grunts, "was thinking about you coming for me. Your eyes closing as my hand muffled your screams. Oh, fuck..." he trails off amid the obscene noises of his cock slamming wetly into me. "Your pussy milking all the fucking cum out of my cock. Baby," he says, looking opaquely at me as his orgasm approaches, "you say I'm addicted to you, and I am, but you—oh, shit—you're addicted to my cock." He squeezes my arms hard. "Say it."

"I'm addicted to your cock," I whimper. "I want it all the time."

"Good girl," he says hoarsely, and I feel my pussy tighten around him. "You only come for me."

"Only for you," I sigh, and it's mostly true. I've always been able to get myself off, but he's the first man to get me there. The few boyfriends I had never took the time to learn my body, though I did my share of orgasm impressions for them, and I got alarmingly good at pretending to be in paroxysms of bliss. It wasn't until Cameron that I discovered the pleasure of truly surrendering to someone else. "You're the first to make me come."

He releases one of my wrists and grabs my face, digging his thumb lightly into my cheek. "First, last, and fucking only," he says, thrusting faster. "You're mine," he groans, his voice tight. "Mine," he repeats, and the word seems to trigger his release. I watch his face as he spills his cum inside me for the third time today—counting the shower sex we had in the wee hours, that is. I wonder whether he's as sore as I am.

"My God!" He collapses on me, and I trail my fingers lightly over his sweat-slick back. His face is buried in my hair. His voice is muffled, but I hear every word. "I will never let you go again. Never fucking ever."