Chapter 6 #3
An appreciative growl rumbled from him, a sound of pure, unadulterated male approval.
His eyes, dark and intense, roamed over my body, a slow, possessive sweep that made my skin flush.
He wasn’t just looking at me; he was claiming me.
He was cataloging every curve, every hollow, every flaw, and every strength.
“Go to hell,” I spat, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
He chuckled, a quiet, triumphant sound that vibrated through his chest and into mine. “Oh, I’ll send you there, princess. But first, you’re going to admit you want this.”
I shook my head, a silent, frantic denial, but my body was a traitor. A deep, insistent sizzle had started between my legs, a wet heat that was already slicking my thighs. The fantasy I’d indulged in the bath, the one I’d tried to bury, came roaring back to life, vivid and entirely too consuming.
This was it.
This was the fantasy, except now it was becoming reality.
He shifted his grip, his free hand trailing down my side, his fingers tracing the curve of my hip, then my thigh.
He was so close, his body a looming presence that was both a threat and an anchor.
His scent—clean with an undercurrent of pure masculinity, wild and dangerous—filled my senses, a heady, intoxicating perfume of threatening promise.
Then his hand was between my legs, his fingers tracing the slick folds of my sex through my soaked panties. I gasped, a harsh, ragged sound that was half surprise, half need. His touch was knowing, confident, a proprietary caress that sent a jolt of pure lust straight through me.
“Soaking wet panties, just for me, just like I knew you would be, princess,” he growled in my ear.
“Go fuck yourself,” I gasped, but the words had no force. They were a weak, desperate defense against the overwhelming tide of my own arousal.
He laughed with his victory. He slid his hand inside my panties and parted my folds, his fingers finding the sensitive nub of my clit and circling it with maddening slowness.
I bucked against him, my hips lifting in a silent, traitorous plea for more, a desperate, instinctual attempt to get closer, to take what was being given.
“Your body knows which of us is in control, Kara,” he taunted. “It knows who it belongs to.”
I scowled. I would never admit it, but somewhere deep down I knew he was right.
He slid one long finger inside me, stroked once, then added another, his thumb continuing to circle my clit with an enraging, arousing rhythm.
He was watching me; I could feel his eyes on my face, the way my lips parted, the way my breath caught.
He was savoring this, savoring my surrender and my body’s treacherous response to his bullying dominance.
I struggled, but I wasn’t going anywhere and I knew it.
He pumped his fingers in and out of me at a perfect, devastating pace that sent jolts of pleasure coursing through me. I was a puppet dancing on his strings. I didn’t want to orgasm, but my body was already tensing, and my mind was betraying me second by second.
“Come for me,” he commanded. “I want to feel you come on my hand.”
The orgasm that followed his order shattered me. The world dissolved into a haze of light and color, a symphony of ecstasy. The blissful haze that swallowed me up was like a sudden storm sweeping over the horizon.
He didn’t stop, though.
He just kept fucking me with his fingers, ignoring my sounds and struggles, drawing out my orgasm, making it last, making it completely his.
When the tremors finally subsided, I was limp and boneless, a ragdoll in his arms. I could only hang there, my wrists still pinned over my head, my body a quivering, oversensitive mess.
He let go of my wrists, and I would have slid to the floor if he hadn’t caught me.
Then the world inverted.
He swung me up over his shoulder in a single, fluid motion, his hand landing on my ass with a harsh slap.
A disorienting rush of blood surged to my head, the polished marble of the floor receding below me, the solid wall of his shoulder digging into my stomach. I was like a sack of potatoes, a prize he’d won, a possession to be carried away. For a moment, indignation flared, a hot, useless spark.
I pounded my hands on his back and kicked, but it did nothing at all; his hold on me was too strong.
“Stop fighting me,” he commanded.
I obeyed, because what was the point?
The fight was over. He had won.
He carried me through the suite, his steps even, unhurried. We were heading for the bedroom. I knew where he was taking me, and a fresh wave of heat, a mixture of dread and anticipation, washed over me.
He didn’t set me down gently. He dumped me onto the bed, my body bouncing on the plush duvet.
I landed on my back, but he quickly flipped me over onto my stomach, my face buried in the soft fabric, my legs hanging over the edge.
Before I could scramble away, his hand was on the back of my neck, pressing me down, holding me in place as he yanked my panties down, baring my ass to his gaze.
Oh, fuck.
This was really happening.
“Stay,” he ordered.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
I heard the metallic click of a belt buckle and the whisper of leather. A thrill of pure terror shot through me, followed immediately by a surge of liquid heat that slickened my thighs.
This was it.
This was real.
Lev was taking off his belt right now and I was bent over with my face in the bed and my naked ass in the air.
I was about to get the very first belting of my life.
“Stop. You can’t—” I gasped, but it was useless. A protest without a target. A plea I didn’t mean.
“I can,” he cut me off. “And I will. You’ve earned this, Kara.”
The first blow came without warning. A stinging crack of leather against my skin. An unforgiving line of fire. I cried out into the blankets beneath me, a pained sound that was swallowed up by the duvet.
This couldn’t be happening. I must still be fantasizing, right? I couldn’t possibly be getting my ass belted by my high school bully right now, could I?
Another blow landed and it became shockingly clear that this was really happening.
“Count,” he ordered.
“No,” I sobbed with humiliation, my hands fisting in the sheets.
The belt came down again, in the same spot, doubling the pain.
“One,” I cried, the word torn from me.
“Two,” I choked out as the belt fell again, a little lower, painting a new line of fire across my skin.
He continued, setting a mercilessly punishing rhythm that had me writhing on the bed, my sobs echoing in the quiet room.
My body was a mess of conflicting signals.
The pain was intense, but beneath it, a dark, insidious desire was building, a shameful, traitorous response to his dominance.
Each lash of the belt sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated need straight to my core, making my pussy clench, making me even wetter. And I kept my position.
Over and over again the belt struck and I counted. Soon enough, my eyes started to water, and I was clenching my teeth so hard I feared they might shatter. But Lev just thrashed me harder, and then I was crying with my tender ass ablaze with no end in sight.
By the time I obediently gasped out “Twenty-five,” my voice was a broken whisper, my ass was on fire, and I was a quivering, sobbing mess. I was so aroused it was humiliating, my slick juices thoroughly coating my inner thighs.
“Please,” I sobbed.
I didn’t know what I was begging for. For him to stop? For him to keep going?
After a few more harsh strokes, I heard the belt fall to the floor with a soft thud.
His hands were on me then, his touch surprisingly gentle as he traced the welts rising on my skin. His fingers were cool against my burning flesh, and I shuddered with need.
“Look at you,” he growled possessively. “So wet for me even as your ass is suffering from my belt. Your body knows what it needs.”
His fingers dipped lower, sliding through my slick folds, gathering my arousal on his fingertips.
“And what it needs right now,” he continued, his voice rumbling through me, “is my cock.”
He was right. Damn him, he was right. I needed him. I needed this. The fantasy I’d imagined in the bath, the one I’d tried to bury, had been a pale imitation of the reality. This was what I’d been craving, what I’d been running from. This raw, dominant, possessive claiming.
His hand left me, and I heard the whisper of his zipper, the rustle of fabric. Then his cock was pressing against my entrance, thick and hard and insistent. He was dripping, too. I braced myself, my hands buried in the duvet, my body tense with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
He wasn’t gentle, but I hadn’t expected him to be.
He pressed into me slowly, surely, completely taking control.
I keened, a ragged sound that was half pain, half shock.
He was so big, so thick, stretching me to my limits.
The burn was so intense that I squeezed my eyes shut and arched my back, just trying to survive it.
“Fuuuuuck,” I sobbed, my nails digging into the bedspread.
He didn’t give me time to adjust. He buried himself inside me then, to the hilt, and started to fuck me without mercy, his hips snapping against my sore, red ass, the sound of his body slamming into mine filling the room.
He set a ruthless rhythm, each thrust hard enough to hurt, which was only made worse because I knew he meant for this fucking to be a punishment, too.
“Tell me you want it,” he grunted.
And I did. Because in this reality, he had already broken me with his belt before he even thought about taking me with his cock.
“I want it,” I cried, surrendering to his dominance and the long-ago pull from our youth. “I want you to fuck me, Lev. I’ve always wanted you to fuck me.”