50 SHAPES OF GREY
What was it that drew her to him—his vast wealth and power or his mysterious past as a circus contortionist? She couldn’t think—not with both arms pinned in his vice-like grip, as he pressed her to the wall using only his stiff upper lip. Meanwhile his other hand tugged her hair, forcing her face upward, while his tongue probed her quivering philtrum. His lower lip was undoing her blouse; she heard him gnawing the pearl buttons and a muffled pting!, as he spat each one into a cuspidor he’d balanced on her shoulder. His left leg rustled beneath her dress, removing garments that, with his right foot, he neatly stacked and folded. Thinking him thus fully engaged, she was startled to feel her feet leave the ground and to find herself lifted along the wall by degrees, helpless as a pallet on a forklift.
Frank
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-- Frank
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