her gown as she had while he'd been spanking her and it surprised him, until he realized that the cost of another one might well come out of her take. "I'll leave you more than enough to cover this," he whispered by way of apology against her bared breasts, just before taking a pert pink nipple into his mouth.
Chapter Three
Cimmy couldn't believe what was happening to her. Not only had she just been very thoroughly spanked, but now this man was suckling at her breast as if they were lovers! If it turned out that this was one of her rare sex dreams, she wasn't at all sure she liked it—well, she wasn't sure she wanted to like it, anyway.
And what had he just said about leaving her enough to cover…
He thought she was a prostitute! How could he possibly have come to that conclusion? Wasn't he another guest at the hotel? She didn't much care whether or not her questions were answered. She just wanted him to stop!
And that was, in large part, a lie too, because this man—this stranger—was stirring feelings in her that she had never felt with another man. Leave it to her to become aroused by someone who was at best either drunk or badly mistaken, or at worst, a complete lunatic.
But her frantic efforts to ward him off had just about as much effect as when she had been trying to stop him from searing her behind; absolutely none. She might as well have been a housefly buzzing around him for all the good she was doing, whacking away at him as best she could and as hard as she could, but she couldn't seem to put the slightest dent in his enthusiasm. For all her flailing around, she rarely managed to make contact with anything other than herself or the bed.
And worse, much, much worse, was the fact that her body was melting beneath him, quickly eroding her resolve to fight him to the death to preserve the innocence he didn't deserve to take, and she was—intellectually, anyway—unwilling to yield to him.
"Let go of me! Get off me this second!" She screamed the words but the gag captured them from where they came.
Cimmy was fighting a losing battle and she knew it, not that she gave up the fight. Instead, the ignominy of her position—and the fire that still raged in her backside—spurred her on until she had no strength left to lift her arms.
Throughout all of her valiant efforts, he had—with an annoying calm and languorous determination—made his way from peak to peak, using those big hands to squeeze her breasts from the base so as to present them to his mouth at their fullest as he continued to massage them rhythmically while his mouth devastated her defenses, making her want to hug him to her rather than smash her fists into his face the way she ought to.
He seemed to know when she had to surrender, when she could no longer actively fight against him, and he took quick advantage of her resignation, slipping the nightgown that had been completely split down the front off her shoulders, and rendering her naked beneath him.
That seemed to reignite her interest in fighting him, but she was even less successful this time around, when her arm muscles were already so sore she could barely convince herself that she needed to lift them, and her haphazard attempts were even easier for him to ignore.
But what she couldn't ignore was the way he felt against her; his rough cotton shirt abrading nipples that had been brought to achingly anticipatory peaks, unused to such raw treatment but unable to deny the sparks both he and his clothing were creating between her legs, where he settled himself as though he'd been there many times before. Cimmy could feel the prominent bulge of his jeans against her very vulnerable self, and she couldn't keep herself from staring into his eyes as he very deliberately dragged himself back and forth against her.
That was when she noticed that his eyes weren't really blue. They were almost purple in their darkest depths. As she stared helplessly up at him, she felt