10. Chapter Ten #2
"Good. It's supposed to be sore. That's how you remember your lesson." My hands move higher, my fingers massaging the soft skin of her inner thigh. Her breath hitches, her body tensing again. "But I'll take care of it, nonetheless."
She goes quiet again, and I finish with her leg, my hands smoothing the lotion into her skin. I do the other one, then gesture for her to turn around.
She hesitates, her gaze searching mine. She's looking for something, for some sign of my intentions. But I give her nothing. My face is a mask of neutrality.
With a sigh, she turns around, presenting her back to me. I unfasten her towel, letting it fall to her waist. Her skin is pale, a stark contrast to the dark, rosy blush on her ass.
My hands move to her shoulders, my thumbs working into the tight muscles of her neck. She lets out a soft sigh, her head falling forward.
I work my way down her back, my hands moving in slow, sweeping strokes. Her skin is warm, the lotion a cool, soothing balm. My hands move lower, skimming over the curve of her ass.
She flinches as my hands touch the pink skin.
"It's okay," I say, my voice a low murmur. "Just let me take care of you. Lean forward."
My touch is gentle, almost reverent, as I help her shift her weight forward toward the arm of the couch. This leaves the entirety of her ass exposed and ready for the lotion.
I squirt some onto my palm and gently massage the lotion in. The skin is hot, sensitive. I'm careful, my movements slow, deliberate. I don't want to cause her more pain. I want to soothe her, to comfort her.
Regardless, it's going to leave a bruise. A small one, anyway.
Her body relaxes under my touch, her muscles unclenching. She's letting me in, letting me care for her.
"Is that better?" I ask.
"Yes," she whispers. "It feels... nice."
"Good. We'll put an ice pack on it after you eat. Your pussy too."
Even facing away from her, I see the flush rush over her skin. Amused, I decide to ignore it.
"It will reduce the swelling. And you're going to be very, very sore tomorrow."
I finish with her ass and say, "Turn around."
She does, a slow, hesitant movement. She pulls the towel up to cover her breasts, a small, defensive gesture. She's still shy, still trying to hide.
I ignore her attempt at modesty and pull the towel away before tossing it behind the couch.
I take her chin in my hand and force her eyes to mine. "This is the last time. I will not say it again. Do not hide from me." My tone is firm and leaves no room for argument. "If you do it again, I take away your clothes privileges."
Her eyes round, the blue filling with panic. But she doesn't look away.
I tighten my grip on her chin. "Understood?"
She gives a short, stiff nod.
"Words, Erica."
"Yes... sir." The word comes out as a choked whisper.
I let go of her chin and grab the lotion again. Her chest rises and falls with a shaky breath as I start with her shoulders. My hands move down her arms, over the soft skin, the fine bones. My fingers skim over her collarbones, her shoulders, the delicate curve of her neck.
My hands move lower, skimming over her breasts. The nipples pucker instantly, hard, tight pebbles against my palm. Her breath catches, a soft, needy sound.
I don't linger there. I move down her stomach, my hands smoothing the lotion into her skin. I can feel the frantic flutter of her pulse, a rapid, bird-like beat against my palm.
When I'm done, I sit back and look at her. Her skin is soft, glowing, a faint, sweet scent of coconut in the air. She's a sight to behold, sitting on the couch, naked, covered in lotion, and utterly mine.
I leave her there and go back into the bathroom to grab the two robes hanging behind the door. I throw my towel somewhere on the floor and put mine on before walking back out with the second one.
I help her into the soft, terry cloth robe. She's still limp, pliant. She lets me move her limbs, her body a doll to be positioned.
"Now. Food." I wheel the cart to the sofa and unload all the dishes onto the low coffee table in front of us.
I take a seat next to her and lift the lids on the various plates.
"I had them send up a bit of everything. There's a fruit and cheese plate, a burger and fries, pasta with shrimp and a creamy sauce, and a club sandwich." I gesture to the table. "What do you want?"
She just stares at the spread of food like she's never seen it before.
"You need to eat. You need to replace the energy you spent. Otherwise, you'll feel worse tomorrow. You're not going to sleep until you've eaten enough to satisfy me."
My firm tone seems to snap her out of her daze. She looks at the food, then at me, her expression unreadable.
Her eyes are drawn to the pasta, so I simply push it closer to her and hand her the fork.
She takes it, her movements sluggish. She twirls a small amount of pasta onto the fork and brings it to her lips. She takes a small, tentative bite, chews slowly, then swallows. She repeats the process.
I watch her, a strange, unfamiliar feeling settling in my chest. She's like a wild animal I've tamed, a skittish creature I'm slowly coaxing out of its shell.
I pick up the burger and take a bite. The food is good, but I'm not really tasting it. I'm watching her.
I pour her a glass of coconut water and put it next to her plate. "Drink."
She does, without argument.
We eat in silence. The only sounds are the clinking of silverware, the soft scrape of her fork against the plate. She's eating slowly, methodically, but she's eating. That's all that matters.
When she's finished about a quarter of the pasta, she puts her fork down.
"More," I say, my tone leaving no room for argument.
She's hesitant to pick up her fork, so I pick up the fruit and cheese plate, put half of the club sandwich on it, then put it in her lap.
She sighs, a small, weary sound. "I can't eat all this."
"Eat what you can."
She picks up half of the sandwich, a look of resignation on her face. She takes a bite, her movements slow and deliberate. She's not hungry, but she's obeying. That's what matters.
I finish my burger and fries, then lean back against the couch, watching her. She eats slowly; her gaze fixed on the food in her lap.
"Tell me what's on your mind," I say.
She swallows the bite in her mouth. "What do you mean?"
"This isn't just recovery for your body. It's for your mind too," I say. "You went through something very intense; you need to talk about it."
"Intense." She lets out a chuckle without humor. "You mean the part where you called me a liar, then hit me?"
"Spanked you," I correct. "And you deserved it. I told you there would be consequences if you lied and disobeyed me. I followed through."
I pick up the bottle of coconut water and hand it to her. She automatically drinks it. I bite back a smile of satisfaction at her obedience.
"I don't even know what's real anymore," she whispers. "Everything is so confusing. My body doesn't feel like my own."
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "It's not," I say bluntly. "Not anymore. For tonight, it belongs to me. And your body's responses were real, Erica. Very real."
A flush creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks. "I didn't mean..."
"I know what you meant. But the confusion is a normal part of it. Let me be clear so you can have some peace of mind. What you experienced tonight, what you're feeling right now, is normal. The shame, the pleasure, the confusion. All of it."
She looks at me, her eyes searching my face. She's looking for the catch, for the hidden trap. But there isn't one. This is a truth I can give her.
"The pleasure is a direct result of the surrender," I say. "The more you give up control, the more intense the pleasure. The shame is a learned response, a societal construct that tells you what you experienced was wrong. It wasn't. It was a natural expression of your own desires."
I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're not a bad person for liking it. You're not weak for wanting it. You're just a woman who's figured out what she needs."
"No," she says and sets the glass down deliberately. "That's not what I need. I don't know what the hell happened, but this isn't normal. This isn't what—"
She struggles with her next words.
I watch her and wait.
"This isn't how it's supposed to be," she finally whispers. "I've always imagined it differently. Romantic. Gentle. In a bed, with someone who... who loves me."
And there it is. The core of it. The fairy tale dream that's been shattered by my brand of reality.
"Life isn't a fairy tale, Erica," I say, my voice a low, gentle murmur. "And sex isn't always about love. Sometimes, it's about need. About power. About a raw, primal connection that transcends all that sentimental bullshit."
I reach out and tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze. "What we had tonight was real. More real than any manufactured romance. It was raw, it was honest, and it was intense. And you loved every second of it."
A tear tracks down her cheek, a silent, silver bead. She shakes her head. "No," she whispers sadly. "I can't."
Not "I don't."
"You can, and you do. You may not want this just yet, but you need this. You just don't want to admit it." I take her half-eaten plate and set it aside. She doesn't protest.
I open my arms, a silent invitation. An invitation to comfort. An invitation to more.
She hesitates; her gaze locked on mine. She's at a crossroads, a precipice. She can either cling to the broken pieces of her old self, or she can take a leap of faith into the unknown, into the dark, dangerous world I'm offering her.
With a shuddering breath, she makes her choice. She shifts on the couch, then moves into my arms, curling against my chest like a small, wounded animal. Her body is still tense, a tight coil of conflict and resistance.
I wrap my arms around her, holding her close. I can feel the frantic flutter of her pulse, the ragged rhythm of her breath. I can feel the war she's waging with herself, the battle between her desire and her denial.
"It's okay," I murmur against her hair. "I've got you."
She's silent for a long moment, her body slowly, reluctantly relaxing in my arms.
"This isn't the end of the world, Erica," I say quietly. "You can still have your fairy tale romance."
Her head lifts, and her tear-filled eyes search my face. "How?" she whispers. "After this?"
"This is just a piece of you," I say, soothing her. "It's not all of you. You can have this need, and you can also have your white picket fence. You just have to find someone who understands you. Someone who can give you both."
I'm offering her a way out. A way to reconcile the warring parts of herself. A way to have her cake and eat it too.
But the thought of her with another man giving her what she needs, taking control of her and giving her pleasure, sparks a fresh surge of possessiveness in me. I don't want her to have a picket fence. I want her to have a cage. My cage.
A single tear escapes, tracing a path through the dried tracks on her cheek. She's looking at me, really looking at me. Her defenses are down; her carefully constructed walls crumbled to dust. She's seeing me, not as her captor, not as her buyer, but as a man who understands her.
A dark, twisted understanding, but an understanding nonetheless.
I guide her head back to my chest and settle back with her. I can feel the exhaustion in her, the bone-deep weariness that comes from a night of intense emotional and physical exertion.
"You're safe with me," I say, my lips brushing against her temple.
She lets out a soft, watery chuckle, a sound that's half sob.
"Safe," she repeats, the word a hollow, bitter echo in the quiet room. "That's the last thing I am with you." Her fingers curl into the lapel of my robe, a small, desperate gesture. "You broke me."
"I didn't break you," I say, my voice a low, gentle murmur. "I just peeled back the layers. I showed you what was already there. And you're not broken. You're just… figuring out who you are."
I pull her closer, her body a soft, warm weight against mine. Her breathing is deep, even, a sign that she's finally succumbing to the exhaustion that's been nipping at her heels.
"Sleep, Erica," I whisper.
She doesn't fight it. She can't. Her body is too tired, her mind too overwhelmed. She drifts off, a small, sighing breath against my chest.
I hold her for a long time, just listening to the sound of her breathing, before gathering her up to carry her to the bed.
She doesn't so much as stir as I gently lay her down on the cool, crisp sheets that were changed while we were in the bathroom. She's beautiful in her sleep, her face relaxed, her features soft and untroubled.
A wave of something tender washes over me.
I shake it off. I can't afford to feel anything for her.
I pull the covers up over her, tucking her in, before sliding in behind her. I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her back against me, her body fitting against mine like she was made for me.
This is just a transaction. A one-night stand that happened to have a price tag attached.
That's all it is.
But I know I'm lying to myself now.