Dominating Amy Read Online Free Page B

bolting.
    Once the first wave of fear passed, and he forcibly shoved aside the sickening memories of his parents’ relationship, Amy drew him in. She was afraid of something but she was turned on, too. He knew her body well enough to recognize the flush of arousal staining the pale skin above her breasts. Kneeling at her feet to help with the strap-on harness, he’d smelled her. If they’d been alone, he would have dragged her to the floor and buried himself deep. Out in the corridor, only his anger at her trickery had kept him from hauling her into the nearest restroom. Amy had touched him. His skin still stung from the pressure of her fingernails through his shirt. Scowling, he worked at ignoring the familiar stiffening she cajoled from his dick. He didn’t want to be aroused by the picture of her submission.
    The photographer afforded him a focus. His hands balled into fists of their own accord, craving permission to break the photographer’s pompous nose. Prior to the night of Elizabeth’s party, Mac hadn’t been a jealous man. He was comfortable with the knowledge his wife sometimes worked nude. A camera wasn’t the same as a pair of hands. Everything changed that night, though -- Amy let another man arouse her. Even if it wasn’t her intent to become stimulated, even if the physical was theoretically innocent, she’d surrendered on the inside. The only thing that kept him from going after the guy was Elizabeth’s delivery of his written apology. The guy claimed he’d only approached Amy because she wasn’t “collared” by someone else. Bastard. As far as apologies went, it wasn’t much, but after learning what “collared” meant, Mac figured he shared some of the blame. This prick, though—the photographer—the pretty man hadn’t earned the privilege of Amy and he didn’t have the excuse of a confusing social situation. Mac concentrated on his rage instead of the more visceral urge to dominate his wife, and fantasized about plowing the other man’s face with his fists.
    The photographer snapped several photos of her ass, her cheeks parted just enough that the tight pink pucker was visible, along with the clipped blonde down furring her lips, themselves spread wide by that ridiculous strap-on. The black leather harness wound around her hips and between her thighs framed the display like a picture frame. Even across the distance of the room, Mac could smell as well as see her body’s reaction, rosy pussy wet and glistening. He couldn’t tell whether it was a result of conscious arousal or Pavlovian response. The uncertainty pissed him off. What did she want ? As he drew in his fill of her lush scent, his nipples drew tight and the nature of her arousal ceased to matter.
    His gaze drifted out of a sense of self-preservation, and he searched for something else upon which to focus. He would control himself.
    “Lift your hips and lower your shoulders.”
    The instruction drew Mac’s attention back, away from a neutral spot on the wall where the paint had chipped away. Amy’s shoulders tensed as she repositioned her body. Christophe directed her to lift her shoulders higher—he wanted to get her nipples in the photo. Her knees were too close together. She needed to bring her feet up, hold the rose between her feet but lift them off the table.
    Amy obeyed every instruction, adjusting her pose to accommodate Christophe’s desires. She may as well have been a puppet. Even though he’d long ago accepted her willingness to display her body, she confused Mac because she was usually so modest in every other situation in life. Even with him, she requested low lights, wore lingerie to bed, and managed to hold on to at least one article of clothing in the most intimate of engagements.
    He didn’t know what was worse--that another man manipulated his wife or that she wordlessly obeyed. He’d never asked anything like this from her—didn’t need kinky sex, racy poses, or dirty language. She was enough for