Falloir (Passion Noire Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Veuve’s terms which basically meant that everything was on Veuve’s terms. The number one rule was that nothing happens outside Vouloir.
    But that was before she ended up staying here. How the hell am I going to keep my hands off her now? It’s been a mindfuck of a day. My stress level is somewhere between volcanic and thermonuclear. When I’m agitated through stress, a good fuck usually relieves the tension. A good, hard, animalistic fuck.
    I was tempted when I left the flat earlier. Fuck, was I ever? It would have been easy to jump in the car and drive to some bar, pick up some slut and take her back to hers. Balls emptied, stress level lowered—all’s good, right?
    Wrong.
    Since I’ve met that infuriatingly sexy Domme, I don’t crave sex with anyone but her. The one woman I can’t walk up to, proposition and then fuck. The one who is playing hard to get because she is hard to fucking get. But when I get her ... I know it’s going to blow my fucking mind. So I’ll play her games, do whatever she wants because I know it will be worth it.
    I’ve no idea whether I can restrain myself or mould myself in the ways that she demands. But the thought of it makes my cock twitch. The challenge of satisfying her makes it hard. The challenge of making her crave me ... making her come back for more ... that’s what arouses my brain. Because I’ve read that it’s not the Dom/me that has the true power, it’s the sub. That’s what flicks my switch, so to speak.
    But not with any Domme. No, only her. Because I know it would be just as demanding a challenge for her to embark upon this journey with me, as it would be for me, with her.
    My cock lurches its agreement, tempting my hand but I’ve a feeling that having a wank with a sex goddess nearby will only make me hornier. She’s under my skin as surely as the splashes of coloured ink that I’m so proud of. She’s an indelible itch ... and there’s only one way to scratch her out. And that’s fucking her until I’ve got her out of my system.
    I step out of the shower, feeling just as hot and bothered as when I stepped in. Nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the sex therapist across the hall. I towel myself off quickly, giving my hair a good rub and then make to go to bed.
    I get halfway across the hall before realising that I’ve given up my bed for the night. But it’s a king size bed. Five feet wide. Plenty of room for two. Firmly sprung with a thick cashmere layer on top. It’s at the other end of the comfort scale to that damn sofa. Oh well.
    I turn back towards the living room, take two steps and think, ‘Fuck it.’
    I double back, walk into my bedroom and find she’s already in bed. On my side, the one nearest the door. The room’s in darkness but there’s some light from the bulb at the far end of the hall. I’m halfway to the bed when she speaks up.
    ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she says, sounding half asleep.
    ‘Getting into bed,’ I reply, pulling back the duvet.
    ‘You said you’d take the sofa,’ she retorts, sounding much more awake now.
    ‘Did I bollocks. I told you to sleep in my bed because the sofa was shit to sleep on. I didn’t say it was a straight swap. I meant what I said, last time I slept on it, I could barely move the next day. How the hell am I supposed to break into your flat and secure it again afterwards if I can’t stand up?’
    ‘I’ll sleep on the fucking thing then,’ she says. I hear the duvet rustling. I can see her sitting up—and that’s only because my eyesight is so good in dim lighting.
    ‘Don’t be stupid, Veuve. It’s a king size bed. Plenty of room for us both without having to lie one on top of the other ... unless you ask nicely. Secondly, you’ve got shit to sort out tomorrow. How are you going to do that if you’re crippled?’
    It’s gone quiet. There’s a click before her side of the bed is illuminated in a puddle of light.
    She’s wearing my tee-shirt. It’s