All Chapters of UNTAMED DREAMS: Chapter 251 - Chapter 260

I don't trust my voice. I nod.His hand slides from the edge of the tattoo to the band of my underwear, and he hooks it, and he looks at me one more time, the same ask as before, the same waiting."Say it," he says."I want it," I say. "Please."He draws my underwear down, careful of the fresh ink, easing the fabric off my hip and down my thighs with the jeans, pulling the whole lot off over my feet and dropping it somewhere I don't watch. Then he rolls his stool between my legs, and his shoulders push my thighs wide, and he looks at me spread open on his table under the humming lights and exhales slowly through his nose, a man steadying his hands before fine work."Look at the state of you," he says, low, almost to himself. "A whole hour of this. You held so still for me.""I had to. You told me to.""You did." His bare thumb drags up the inside of my thigh, slow, stopping just short. "Good girl. Let me take care of it now.""Hold still," he says then. "I mean it. Mind the ink."He p

I book private sessions because I'm the least flexible person I know and I can't bear anyone watching me prove it.That's the whole reason. Or it's the reason I give when I sign up, filling in the form with my sad little goals – Improve flexibility, reduce stress – as if I've never once lain awake thinking about an instructor's hands.I haven't met Sasha yet when I book. But I meet her at the first session, and that's when the reason starts quietly turning into something else.She's tall. Taller than me by a head, long through the arms and legs so that every pose looks invented for her body and borrowed by everyone else. Dark hair pulled up off a neck I notice immediately and then feel weird about noticing. A voice low and unhurried and warm, honey poured slow, a voice that could talk you down off anything. And a body in yoga gear I spend the entire first session pretending not to look at and fail."We'll go at your pace," she says that first day, crouching beside my mat, her eyes lev

She does. She always gets me there, every session, further into every stretch, and now she gets me there like this, her fingers curled inside me and her tongue on my clit and her voice telling me how good I'm doing, and I cum on a yoga mat in a candlelit studio with ambient music playing and a woman's mouth sealed over me, my fingers twisted in the mat, my folded leg trembling against her shoulder, a long cry breaking out of me into the quiet gold room.She works me through it, then lets my leg down slowly, careful of the muscle as she eases me out the same way she always does."Good girl," she says. "See? You're more flexible than you think."I laugh, wrecked and boneless, as she smiles down at me with her mouth shining. Then she moves and arranges us into something new.She strips out of her own gear while I'm still coming down, unhurried, and I watch her do it, the long lines of her finally bare in the candlelight, and when she lies back on the mat and reaches for me, my mouth goes

I nod against his hand.He kisses down my throat, and his free hand drops to my thigh and slides up under my skirt, and I lock every muscle in my body to keep from making noise. His fingers find the edge of my underwear and push it aside, and when he feels how wet I already am, he exhales hard against my neck."You followed me in here for this," he whispers. Not a question. His finger drags through me, slow, and my hips jerk and the shelf behind me creaks and we both freeze.Footsteps. Somewhere. The soft squeak of a cart wheel.He keeps his hand over my mouth and goes completely still against me, both of us listening, his finger still buried between my legs while the cart wheel squeaks away in the other direction. The footsteps fade, and I let out a breath that's more of a whimper against his palm. He feels it, and his eyes go dark.He takes his time, now that we've frozen once. He works me with that one finger slowly and patiently in the dark, learning what makes my breath stutter,

I grew up at Robert's dinner parties.The boring kid at the adult table, nine years old in a scratchy dress, pushing food around my plate while men in good shirts talked mergers and interest rates in lowered voices. Robert at the head of the table across from my father, pouring wine, telling the story that made everyone laugh, patting my head when he passed my chair on the way to the kitchen. How's school, sweetheart? Not even a question, really. A thing adults say to children they've known since before the children can remember.I'm twenty-five now.I graduated in spring. Started at my father's company in the summer, the firm Robert built with him two decades ago, the two of them partners before I could read. And three weeks into the job, I'm sitting across a boardroom table from the man who used to pat my head at Christmas, and he's looking at me, and there is nothing paternal in it at all.I notice it before I let myself believe it. A look held a half-second past professional. His