Cristiane Serruya - Trust: A New Beginning

She blinked at the light and stared at him. Flaming forest-green eyes filled with lust locked onto huge yellow-diamond ones, desire and fear mingled in them.

It unsettled him. He had never seen fear before. Pain, yes; not fear.

And the dark lust that shimmered inside his eyes unsettled her. Her breath became erratic and she closed her eyes.

“Open your eyes. I want you to see who is pleasuring you.”

She gasped and her eyes flew open. When he repeated the pressure, she rocked onto him, seeking fulfillment.

He halted.

“Don’t. Move,” he ordered.

“Impossible.” She panted, “You are torturing me.”

“Trust me?”

She nodded.

He smiled darkly. “You shouldn’t,” he murmured before ordering, “don’t move. Stay still.”

She nodded again, her lips parted, breath ragged.

He started all over again. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

“Open. Your. Eyes.” The sound of his hand hitting her thigh sounded in the room.

She opened her eyes again and there were tears in them. “Please, no more. I’ll do as you ask.” How can this be? Pleasure and pain? Where is this going?

With every slight thrust of his erection, her head pressed down on the pillows and her ribs expanded forcefully. A pained moan escaped her lips and she fought for control over the deep need to close her eyes.

“Feel it, Beauty. Feel the pleasure building, expanding, taking control.” And he rocked his hips up and down, again and again, exerting a bit more pressure on her slit, but evading penetration. “Oh, Sophia,” he breathed, “feel how wet you are. All for me.”

Her fingers flexed open and retracted with so much force around the scarves, her arms straining against the ties, that the muscles in her arms were showing. Her legs started to quiver and she fastened them with force around his body. Shock speared her and she called out, “Alistair.” Her eyes grew wide, alarmed at the intensity of the pleasure. Desire flooded her. “Please, let go my arms.”

His lips curled, “This is it, Beauty.” And without warning, he slammed into her in one single thrust. “So. Tight,” he bit out as Sophia screamed, pleasure and pain mirrored in her voice. Never in her life had she felt so complete, so full.

He released her wrists and grabbed her nape, taking her mouth in a greedy kiss, holding her with both arms, flush to his body, almost crushing her.

Sophia’s nails grazed his scalp and her fingers entwined in his silky locks, tugging. “Again.”

“Again what?” he stopped once more.

“Please, do it again,” she begged.

He grunted in masculine approval and pounded in her again. “Want it rough, Sophia?” He breathed in her ear, licking and biting her earlobe and her neck. “Answer me. Do you want it rough?”

“Yes!” She felt disoriented from so much unfulfilled desire. And she raked her long nails from his head down his back, embedding them in his taut buttocks. “Move!” She rocked her hips.

“No orders!” He stopped.

“Please, let me come!” Oh. My. “I’m begging. Please,” she whispered.

“Who do you want, Sophia?”

“You, Alistair, you. Please, make me come.”

“I’ll make you come.” He growled with pleasure and stepped up to an intense and fast pace. “Move with me.”

Sophia let out a low cry, almost a lament. She soared, higher and higher.

With each hard stroke, pleasure and sweet pain blended. She burned, flames licking her whole body. She started to tremble on the brink of a shattering orgasm.

“Oh, please,” she was too high and afraid of the fall. Her gaze searched his, tormented. “Too much.”

He shifted his arms and transferred one from her nape to her butt, lifting her. “Now, Sophia,” he yanked her hair in his fist, “Come for me. Let me feel your pleasure.” Alistair buried his face in her neck, scattering kisses and small bites on it. Inhaling her scent. White roses. Fresh oranges. At his next hard stroke, he fused their lower bodies and, rotating his hips, teased her clitoris with his movements, pushing Sophia from the cliff.

She threw her head back. Her nails were digging into him for support and then she let go, brokenly crying his name. He followed her after another violent shove, her inner muscles clutching him in violent spams that quaked their whole bodies. He stilled above her, felt perfection in himself and let go, wishing he could feel all of her.

He fell on top of her. His arms brought her to his chest and he rolled over, still inside her. His world was spinning, but he lay there thoroughly sated.

Exhausted.

And sad.

Why, Alistair Connor? Why do you drag everyone to your darkness?

Eyes closed, he waited for some measure of normalcy. He suddenly realized that Heather’s hated face hadn’t haunted him this time. It’s because I’m with Sophia. Heather is dead. Gone. Forever.

The silence in the room was broken only by the sounds of their harsh breathing.

Alistair arranged them on the pillows and pulled up the sheet to cover them. Regaining his breath, he watched Sophia as she came back to life again, still shaking from the intense experience.

“I don’t deserve you,” his voice cracked.

“Trust me,” she retorted, hoarsely, “you do.”

After a few moments, she pushed at his chest with her fingertips, making him lie back on the bed. She crawled over him, running her long smooth leg over his coarse ones, putting her head and a hand on his chest. She settled for sleep.

He gently tugged at her hair to look at her eyes, but she didn’t move. He could see the line of her profile and her long lashes shadowing her cheeks. “How are you feeling?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” she stuttered, “scared, satiated, hurt, pleasured. I don’t know.”

“Did you like it?” he asked, an uncertainty leaking in his voice. “Would you do it again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, it was… disturbing. It was… wonderful,” she murmured, almost afraid of voicing her mixed and confused sentiments.

“You’re wonderful,” he crooned, “best ever.” He kissed her hair, amazed by all his feelings for her. Why does she feel so good? He shook his head at the intruding thought. “Speaking of scared, do you always frighten your bed partners like this? I thought you’d had a heart attack the first time.”

She relaxed and gave a lazy throaty laugh, “C’était la petite mort.”

“The French again,” he snorted. “I always thought it was totally inappropriate the way they call such a special thing the small death. At least, it should be called la spéciale morte.”

“Whatever.” She chuckled, “You did kill me. With pleasure.”

“And this death of yours? Does it happen with every partner?” His voice took a hard edge of jealousy that she didn’t notice. And as he felt her grin, he relaxed.

“Gabriel almost took me to the hospital the first time it happened. I only managed to convince him everything was all right when he had me wrapped in a bed sheet and was carrying me through the hotel corridor, wide-eyed, barefoot, and clad only in his jeans. Afterwards, he got used to it,” she laughed more. “But he made me see a doctor when we got back from our honeymoon.”

“And you’re going to see another.”

“There is no need.”

“And I’m going with you.”

“Come now, Alis-”

“Sophia,” he warned, sternly. “And we can ask for the STD exams and the other stuff.”

“All right, all right. Just let me know your schedule, I’ll make an appointment with John.”

“Monday, if it’s okay for you. I’ll call him first thing in the morning. I’m sure he will fit us in. And,” he hesitated. “Does it happen every time?” He had to know. “With the others?”

“You want to know about other men?” she asked bewildered. He nodded. “Why?”

“I need to know,” he cupped her face in his hands, “I need to know every single thing, every small detail. I don’t like being in the dark.”

“But I’ve told you.” She shook her head, still astonished, “I don’t… Why I-”

“Sophia,” he warned in a hiss. Suspicion insinuated in his mind. How many men?

She raised her brows and chuckled, completely unaware of his dark thoughts, “Curious, aren’t you? God, what is the problem with British men? So nosy.”

“Nosy? Nosy? What happened to you twice-no, three times-tonight isn’t something one sees every day. You were barely breathing and you fainted the first time. I’ve never seen a woman react like that before. It’s weird, to say the least.”

“And you are an expert?” How many women, Alistair Connor?

“I could say so,” he raised his eyebrows at her. “Nevertheless, we’re not talking about my bed partners, but yours.”

“Did you know that curiosity killed the cat?” She raised her head, controlling her features but with a twinkle of amazement coloring her clear eyes. “Well,” she tilted her head and blinked twice, “I’ve always had problems with boyfriends because of this,” she waved her hand in the air, “reaction. The first three were so scared they never wanted to see me again. After Gabriel, the other twelve,” she paused, laughing so hard at his stunned look that tears appeared in the corner of her eyes. “Alistair, I’ve only had three partners. Gabriel. Ethan. You.”

Only two before me. He almost exhaled aloud, relieved. “Did you frighten Ashford too?” Jealousy glinted in his piercing green eyes.

“I don’t kiss and tell. What happened sexually between Ethan and I concerns the two of us, not you.” She turned suddenly serious. “Ethan, he’s intelligent, smart, and handsome, but he was a mistake.” She sighed. “I had been too much alone since Gabriel.”

He tenderly brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

She closed her eyes for a moment enjoying the caress. “I met Ethan at Heathrow Airport last year, in October and he gave me a much-needed ride. He was very insistent and I was too lonely. You know the drill,” she shrugged. “In January, I decided I had to let go. But as you already know, the relationship didn’t last. He had-”

“Two years,” he breathed, flabbergasted, “you were alone for almost two whole years. Why?”

“I,” she sighed, “I don’t know. Because I loved Gabriel too much? Because I was a mess? Because I was scared and sick - outside and inside? Because I was afraid? Because I had to begin everything anew? Take your pick.” Again, she waved her hand in the air. “As things are, I mistook a good friend for a… boyfriend.” Lover, don’t you forget, Sophia.

She shooed away the memories and kissed Alistair’s chest, a grin lightening her features. “Don’t worry, this, ah, weirdness, as you put it, doesn’t happen with the same intensity every time. It depends on my mood and,” she giggled, “a job well done.”

“So, I passed inspection,” he smug smiled told her he had no doubt about his performance.

“With honors, Alistair. With honors.” She put her head back on his chest, yawning, “Let’s sleep. We can talk more tomorrow.” She caressed his chest and abs with her nails until she drifted off to sleep.

He lay there, awake for a long time, mystified. He combed through her hair with his fingers and questioned why everything felt so right when she was around.

That night, as they slept clasped in each other’s arms, neither Alistair nor Sophia had any nightmares.

Ethan Ashford’s Penthouse.

Saturday, March 13^th, 2010.

9 a.m.

Ethan sat in the living room armchair as another gorgeous woman entered. He tilted his head to the side and ordered, boredom showing in his voice, “Disrobe.”

Unashamedly, the dark-haired woman took off her clothes and ambled through the room. She stopped in front of him and pivoted.

He looked her over and shook his head, “No, thanks. You can pick up your payment on the way out.”

Without a word, the woman redressed and left the room.

Ethan glowered at his personal assistant as the thin man entered the room, with a bright smile on his face, clutching a black leather case in front of his chest. “Goddammit, Scott. It’s been weeks and not one even comes close.”

Scott stopped and his smiled broadened even more. “Sir, I found her.” He opened the door and a young woman walked in.

Ethan sucked in his breath and rose from the armchair. Jesus! People might mistake them for twins. He motioned for the woman to stop in the middle of his living room as he strolled to her and then around her. He gripped her chin in his hand and raised her face to look into her eyes. He frowned. Yellow contact lenses. “Disrobe and undo your hair.”