Chapter 11 #3
“Answer me,” he said again. “Do you want to be a good girl, Matilda?”
She realized as he held her hand pinned behind her back that he was asking for something more, something beneath the words. He wanted to know what would please her—to be praised by him? To be punished?
Something broke free in her chest at the realization.
Safety—there was such safety in him, in the way he pushed her and cared for her.
The way he wanted to know her—and more than that, the way he wanted her to speak her own mind.
She felt a thousand contradictory things at once: lust and tenderness, a need to push against him and the desire to submit.
She wanted him to be rough with her, and then she wanted him to pet her and soothe her and tell her she’d done well.
She wanted him. She wanted all his hard edges and the sweet tenderness lurking there as well.
“I want to be wicked with you,” she said, trying to put words to the feelings that had always been within her, set free now by her own boldness and the security she felt in Christian’s hands. “I want to tease you and torment you. And even more than that, I want—I want you to make me be good.”
He yanked her back to the bed by her wrists, and she gasped and shivered and let him tow her. He sat on the bed and pulled her down across his lap, her arm still caught behind her. One of his legs came across hers and pinned her down.
She squirmed against his hold, her blood hot, her skin thrumming.
She loved this—ah God, she loved his hands and the hard muscle of his thighs beneath her.
She was pressed naked against his trousers, and the contrast between her nudity and his clothed body aroused her further.
She arched, pressing her sex against him, her body instinctively seeking relief.
He bent his head to her ear. “Say stop,” he said again, “if you want me to stop.”
“No,” she gasped. “Keep going.”
She felt it then—the smack of his palm across her buttocks. “You want this,” he said, his voice a hot demand.
“Yes—”
Another swat, quick and stinging. She writhed against him, against his cock, hard as iron beneath his trousers—she needed friction, she needed more, she had never felt like this. She could not think of anything except the craving for pressure between her legs.
“Please,” she said, her voice thready. “Please, please—”
He spanked her again and again, harder now, and between each smack he pressed his hand against the swell of her bottom, soothing the hot skin. She tried to arch up into his hand, her back bowing.
“So greedy.” His palm kneaded into her flesh, holding her down. “So desperate.”
“Yes,” she said thickly. “I need you to touch me.”
He did. His fingers swept down the cleft of her buttocks, finding her sex, and she cried out. He hissed, and she felt his hips buck beneath her, his cock pressing against her naked body.
He stroked her, circled her clitoris, dipped inside her body. “Jesus”—his voice was hoarse—“you are so wet. Matilda—”
Then somehow she was off his lap, facedown in the bed, and he yanked her hips up so she was on all fours.
She pressed her palms down into the rough cotton sheets, and he locked his big hands around her thighs from behind, pressed them apart, and licked her, hot and wild, where she needed him most. His beard dragged along the sensitive backs of her thighs.
The world spun. One of Christian’s hands moved around to the front of her body, dragging across her still-sensitive backside and then finding her sex.
His fingers were wet from touching her, his tongue parting her, and she wanted to press into his mouth behind her, his hand in front, she wanted more and more, she wanted everything.
His other hand was still around her thigh. She could feel his fingers digging into her flesh so hard she thought he might leave a scattering of bruises.
She wanted it. She wanted to be used and marked. She wanted to feel the bright embers of his touch on her skin tomorrow and the next day and forever.
Pleasure coiled within her as he licked into her, as his fingers circled her clitoris, quick and steady and hard and relentless. She felt tight all over, in her belly and her sex, the muscles of her shoulders, the soles of her feet. It pulled her, that pleasure, hotter, darker, deeper—
Until she snapped. Her climax burst through her, a wave, a roar, an explosion. Her whole body shuddered and bucked, and Christian gripped her, pressed himself against her, held onto her until she stopped shaking and slid limply down onto the bed.
She was not quite sure what happened after that. She might have briefly lost consciousness, she thought—it was all flashes of sensation.
Christian beside her, his body pressed full length against hers, careful, grounding. His lips beneath her ear. The whisper of his breath. The bedsheet drawn up over her body, cool against her heated skin.
His hair was silky where it touched the back of her neck. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her back, again and again, brushes of lips as soft as goose down against her skin.
“Christian,” she whispered, but he shushed her. His hand slid up her back, and she pushed back against it, relishing the firm weight of his touch. He turned her on her side, and then stroked her damp hair back off her forehead.
Sweet girl, she thought he said.
When she blinked open her eyes again—moments, some minutes perhaps—it was dark.
The candle had gone out, or Christian had put it out.
His body was wrapped around hers, her buttocks nestled against his groin.
She could feel him—his hard length through the trousers he still wore—and the sensation roused her.
She started to turn, but he pressed his mouth to the back of her neck.
“Hush,” he said. “Rest. Another time.”
His hand came to her belly, then up between her breasts. She had not known—oh, she had not known she craved this too. All this touching, this surfeit of sweetness.
Beautiful, she thought she heard. My brave girl.
But perhaps by then she was dreaming.