Chapter 33 #2
I guide her body to the bed. Sit on the edge. Pull her next to my hips.
“Hands where I put them,” I instruct. “Don’t move unless I tell you. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
Her eyes flash. “Yes, Marco.”
Better.
Then I guide her firmly over my knee, her body draping across my lap like an offering. Her bare thighs press against the denim of my jeans, warm and yielding, while her hips settle into the perfect angle for what’s coming.
The first touch is deliberate.
My palm skimming the curve of her ass, tracing the lace edge of her thong before sliding beneath to cup her cheek.
She inhales sharply, her fingers tightening on the duvet, but she doesn’t move.
“Good girl.”
Obedience is everything.
I start slow, just the flat of my hand gently slapping over skin, mapping every dip and swell, feeling the heat build beneath my touch.
This isn’t punishment, not at all. It’s communion.
I need her to trust me, to understand that every sting is a promise, every caress a claim.
“Count,” I command, my voice low and rough. “From one. Out loud.”
Her breath hitches, but she nods, and when my hand lands the first real smack, a sharp, crisp sound that echoes in the quiet room, she whispers, “One.”
The pink bloom on her skin is instantaneous, beautiful.
I follow it with another, slightly harder, on the opposite cheek.
“Two,” she breathes, her voice trembling but steady.
I keep this rhythm, a slow escalation of force, each strike measured to build anticipation without overwhelming her.
My palm connects again and again, alternating sides, painting her flesh in deepening shades of rose.
With every impact, she gasps, then counts—
“Three... four... five…”
I watch her body respond: the arch of her back, the clench of her thighs, the way her hips tilt unconsciously toward my touch.
Between strikes, I soothe the heat with my fingers, spreading the warmth, kneading the tension from her muscles. Occasionally letting my fingers glide near the growing wet spot in the center of her panties.
“Six,” she moans, and this time it’s less a word and more a plea.
I pause, tracing the outline of her thong where it bites into her skin.
“Still with me?” I murmur, my thumb dipping lower, brushing the damp seam of her.
She whimpers, nodding frantically. “Yes, Marco. Seven.”
I resume, the strikes now landing with more purpose, each one a controlled burst of sensation that makes her jerk against me.
Her counting grows ragged.
“Ei...ght... ni...ne... ten...”
But she holds position, her knuckles white where she grips the duvet.
I admire the sheer will it takes to stay still when every nerve is screaming.
My free hand slides up her spine, feeling the gentle tremors running through her. I let that hand tangle in her hair, and squeeze gently to anchor her.
“Eleven,” she cries out as I land a sharper blow, higher on her thigh. The sound goes straight to my cock, hard and aching in my jeans.
I ease off, massaging the sting away, my fingers drifting inward to tease her clit through the lace.
She bucks. A desperate little thrust.
“Don’t move,” I growl, and she freezes, her breath catching. “Count?”
“Twelve,” she gasps, and I reward her with a slow, open-palmed caress over the hottest parts.
I build the rhythm again.
Strike, soothe, tease.
Each cycle tighter, harder, until the numbers become a fragmented litany:
“Thirteen...”
“Fourteen...
“Oh god, fifteen...”
Sweat glistens on her back, and I lean down to lick a bead from her shoulder blade, tasting salt and lavender.
Her body quivers, poised on a knife-edge.
Sixteen,” she pants.
I deliver two quick, sharp smacks to those ever-widening pink spots, the kind that make her yelp and dig her nails into me.
I pause, letting the burn settle, my fingers slipping under the lace to find her soaked.
“Count properly, Jess,” I order, circling her clit with agonizing slowness.
“Seventeen,” she sobs, her hips grinding against my hand.
I increase the pressure, just for a heartbeat, then pull away to resume the spanking.
The next volley is relentless... eighteen, nineteen, twenty... each impact echoing like a loudly in the charged air.
By twenty-one, she’s shaking, tears pricking her eyes, but she doesn’t break.
I stop, smoothing my palm over the fevered skin, feeling the heat radiate.
“Look at me,” I demand.
She twists her head, eyes wide and dark with need.
“Why are you counting?” I ask, my thumb stroking her lower lip.
“What?” she asks, confused. Her eyes are lidded.
“Why are you counting each spank?” I repeat.
She seems to understand what I want.
“To feel you,” she whispers. “To be... yours.”
That surrender unravels something in me.
I land the final blow, twenty-two, much softer than the others, a seal on her obedience.
Then I kiss her, deep and possessive, my tongue claiming her mouth as my hands claim her body.
“Good girl,” I breathe against her lips. “Perfect.”
I help her up, her legs unsteady, and hold her close, feeling her heartbeat pound against mine.
It’s done.
She’s marked, centered, and utterly mine.
I lower her onto her back on the bed.
“Stay still,” I order, my palm pressing lightly against her sternum.
She nods, swallowing hard, her chest rising in shallow bursts beneath my touch.
I trail fingertips along her collarbone, hooking them under the lace strap of her bra.
“Lift,” I command, and she arches her back obediently, granting access to the clasp. The snap of its release echoes like gunfire in the charged silence. I peel the damp fabric away slowly, revealing breasts flushed pink from arousal, nipples pebbled tight.
Her gasp mingles with the rustle of lace as I discard it.
“Look,” I murmur, turning her onto her stomach. My thumb traces the constellation of rose-colored welts blooming across her ass, vivid evidence of my possession. “See what you took for me?”
She glances over her shoulder and shivers as I map the heat radiating from her punished skin, contrasting the pale curves with deliberate strokes.
Kneeling between her thighs, I hook fingers into the waistband of her panties. The black lace is soaked through, clinging to her curves as I drag them down millimeter by torturous millimeter.
Her hips lift instinctively, earning another sharp smack to her inflamed cheek.
“Still,” I growl, relishing her choked whimper.
When the fabric clears her ankles, I spread her legs wide, baring every glistening inch.
“Perfect,” I breathe, admiring the view. The trembling thighs, the swollen redness of her well-spanked ass, the desperate slickness between them.
Her fingers dig into the sheets, knuckles white with restraint as I trace her folds without penetration. “You’re dripping, Jess. Fucking dripping.”
I turn her over so she’s facing me.
Standing, I make her watch my every fucking move. My belt buckle clinks like a countdown as I undo it, the leather sliding free with agonizing slowness.
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, a hungry flicker in her gaze as I pop the button of my jeans.
The zipper’s descent is theater... I drag it down just enough to reveal the bulge straining against my briefs, watching her fucking breath catch.
“Eyes here,” I command when her gaze drifts toward her own nakedness. I point at my fucking cock.
Turning my back, I peel off my shirt, my muscles flexing. Over my shoulder, I catch her biting her lip, thighs squeezing together.
“Don’t,” I order.
She relaxes her thighs.
Facing her again, I push my jeans and briefs down my hips.
My cock springs free, fucking free, thick and flushed, ready to fuck the shit out of her. Her sharp inhale is better than applause.
I stroke myself slowly, deliberately, smearing pre-cum over the head while her eyes devour the motion.
Her hand twitches toward her clit... a desperate, involuntary jerk she stifles mid-air.
“I said fucking still,” I remind her, stepping closer until my tip glistens inches from her face. “You want to taste it?”
She nods feverishly, a whine escaping her throat.
I smile. “Later.”
Stepping back, I drag my fucking palms down my chest, over abs tight with restraint.
Her predatory stare follows every revelation. The defined V leading to my groin, the power in my thighs, the primal ownership in my stance.
When her fingers creep toward her own wetness again, I catch her fucking wrist, pinning it above her head.
“You touch yourself when I allow it.” I kiss her knuckles, tasting salt and desire. “Not a second sooner.”
Her body fucking trembles, her slickness coating her inner thighs, that beautiful red ass still on display as she arches into my hold. Desperation bleeds from every pore.
“Hands above your head,” I command. “Palms flat on the headboard.”
She obeys instantly, arching her back, putting every curve on display.
The sight is fucking exquisite.
“Don’t move,” I growl, climbing onto the bed. I kneel between her thighs, spreading them wider with my knees.
My palms skim up her inner legs, feeling the tremors in her muscles, before settling on her hips.
“This is mine,” I murmur, tracing the hollows of her pelvis. “Say it.”
Her voice is a ragged whisper. “Yours.”
I start with my mouth, kissing a slow path from her ankle to her knee, nipping and sucking lightly.
Her hips lift, seeking more, but I pin her down with one hand. “Still.”
She whimpers, forcing herself flat.
I move higher, my lips grazing her inner thigh, inhaling her scent, so fucking heady, so fucking wild. I’m so close to where she wants me, yet not touching.
I repeat it on the other side, taking my time, making her feel every brush of stubble, every warm exhale against her damp skin.
Her knuckles are white on the headboard, her chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.
“Please, Marco,” she begs. “Please touch me.”
I ignore her, shifting upward to tease her breasts instead. My tongue circles one nipple, then the other, drawing them taut until she cries out.
Only then do I let my hand drift down, fingers feather-light over her thick, beautiful mound, tracing her fucking folds without parting them.
She bucks, a full-body shudder.
“Hands,” I snap, and she freezes, panting. “Good girl.”
I reward her with a single finger sliding inside, just to the first knuckle.
She moans, her walls clenching frantically around me.
I withdraw almost immediately, leaving her empty.
“Not yet.” The denial is a blade, sharp and sweet.
I continue like this, tempting her to the edge with whispers and touches, then pulling back.
My teeth graze her collarbone; my palm cups her heat without pressure.
Her body is so fucking hot, trembling and slick as it is.
“Look at you,” I rasp, dragging my cock through the wetness on her thighs, coating myself in her. The sensation is fucking arousing, and her fucking gasps fuel my own need.
I grip her fucking hips, lifting them slightly, aligning us.
She’s fucking writhing, so close, her eyes wide and desperate.
“Can I—” she starts, but I cut her off with a sharp fucking slap to her inner thigh.
“Hands stay,” I remind her, my voice stern. “You take what I give.”
I lower my mouth to her clit, sucking hard, and she arches off the bed with a scream.
I stop, pulling back, letting her crash down. Tears streak her temples.
“Please, Marco, please, I need to cum.” Her voice breaks.
“Ask nicely,” I demand, my thumb circling her clit with torturous precision.
“Please let me cum,” she sobs.
I intensify the pressure, watching her unravel.
Her thighs shaking, her back bowing.
“Mar— co—” she stutters.
She’s teetering on the brink.
“Now,” I order, and she shatters, a raw cry tearing from her throat as the first wave hits.
But I don’t stop. I keep my thumb working her, relentless, building her toward a second peak. She squirts all over my face, and I lap it up.
She thrashes, begging me to stop, to never stop.
Her words are incoherent, but her body is pure poetry. Every spasm, every flutter against my hand.
When she’s gasping, oversensitive, I finally relent.
Only then do I grab a condom from the dresser.
She watches, dazed, as I tear open the foil and roll it on, the latex smooth and cool against my heated skin.
Her eyes darken with renewed hunger.
I grip her hips, lifting her higher, and drive into her in one deep stroke.
She screams, her walls clamping down, trying to milk the fucking shit out of me.
“Hands stay,” I grind out, setting a brutal pace.
She’s still cumming, her orgasm rippling through her in waves as I fuck her through them. Sledgehammering.
Her moans are guttural, primal, urging me deeper.
I pin her wrists to the headboard with one hand, my other hand tangling in her hair, forcing her gaze to mine.
“You take it all,” I snarl, thrusting harder. “Every fucking inch.”
Her eyes glaze with bliss, her body surrendering completely. When she convulses anew, screaming my name, I let go, my release slamming into me like a blow.
I stagger, then collapse over her, still buried deep, our sweat-slicked bodies fused together.
Beautiful.
Fucking perfect.
She’s wrecked. Ravaged.
Satiated.
We lay there for a moment. An eternity.
Then I carry her to the bathroom. Start the shower. Get us both under the spray.
Afterward, we tower off, and I find lotion in the cabinet. The unscented kind.
I lead her back to the bed.
“Lie down,” I tell her.
She does. Face down on the bed.
I work the lotion into her skin. Shoulders. Back. Hips. Buttocks. All the places that will remember me tomorrow.
“You had to use the bathroom, huh?” she murmurs into the pillow.
I smile, remembering our earlier wordplay. “Absolutely.”
She laughs. Soft and satisfied.
When I’m done, I pull the blanket over us both. She curls into my side. Head on my chest.
“The cabin tomorrow,” she says sleepily. “We’re going to be safe, right?”
“Boringly safe,” I promise. “I’m a billionaire, remember? We have resources.”
“Good.”
I hold her until her breathing evens out. Until I’m sure she’s asleep.
Then I lie there in the dark thinking about tomorrow.
The cabin. The woods. The shotgun locked and cased and waiting.
Everything ready to go.
But for the first time in years, I’m not thinking about control.
I’m thinking about trust.
About letting go just enough to let her in.
About the fact that maybe, I’m allowed to have this.
Not instead of Isotta. Not as a replacement.
Just.
This.
A new chapter.
A different kind of love.
One that doesn’t erase the past but doesn’t worship it, either.
Jess shifts in her sleep. Murmurs something I can’t quite catch.
I pull her closer.
Tomorrow we’ll head north. Into the woods. Into whatever comes next.
With Ben.
But tonight, I’m exactly where I need to be.