Raisins #3
I wrapped my arms around Luke’s neck.
“Play with me a little,” I murmured.
Luke sighed. “One of these days Beckett’s going to snap.”
“That’s the dream.”
“What is it about him, anyway?” Luke asked, sounding genuinely curious. “He acts like he has a gigantic chip on his shoulder.”
“I know. I’m that chip.” I glanced at him, relishing the expression on Jon’s face. The game I was playing was as dangerous as it was intoxicating.
Luke traced his thumb across my cheek.
“He looks ready to storm over here any second,” he said conversationally. “Will you visit me in the hospital after he’s assaulted me?”
“Of course,” I grinned. “I’ll even sign your cast.”
Then I rolled my hips suggestively.
Luke groaned. “Fuck, Cooper, you’re really not playing fairly.”
I didn’t get a chance to reply, because I was being lifted, strong hands wrapped around my waist.
Finally.
“Upstairs,” Jon said. His voice was a low warning that made my nerve endings spark.
I followed him. Of course I did. I would’ve followed him anywhere.
The second the door closed behind us, my chest started pounding. My heart was beating rapidly, and I could almost make out the beats: con-se-quen-ces.
“Sit,” he growled.
“I don’t take orders from you.”
I could tell he was affected, but he was determined to stay calm. So I poked and I prodded. Said things I knew would get under his skin. I was waiting for the crack. One tiny crack, and I could carve my way deeper.
I told him how turned on Luke had been—
And there it was. The first crack. His jaw tightened and his hand snapped around my wrist. Heat shot straight through me, making me dizzy.
“Careful,” he said.
My pulse went berserk in his grip.
“Or what?”
“Don’t push me.”
I leaned closer, relishing seeing him like this. “What if I keep pushing?” I let my lips brush his. “What are you going to do?”
“I warned you, Cooper.”
I was unstoppable. Did I pause to think? No. I wanted whatever scrap of attention he was willing to give me.
So I kept playing, thinking I was winning. I thought wrong.
Suddenly, I was airborne. A second later, I was in his lap, sprawled across hard muscle. He pinned me down with his forearm, and the air left my lungs in a rush.
Oh.
Oh.
This was—this was real. This was happening. The sheer size of him made me feel vulnerable, but I wasn’t scared. I was exhilarated.
“Do you think,” he whispered, his voice a low, terrifying caress. “That you should be punished for being such a brat?”
My brain short-circuited. I should have told him to go to hell. What came out was a quiet, wrecked little, “Yes.”
My hands bunched in his shirt. I looked at him from that awkward angle, trapped by his gaze. It was telling me things his mouth wouldn’t.
“Can you handle what you’ve been begging for?” he asked, and a jolt of arousal made my breath hitch.
Did I know what I was asking for? No. Did I want it anyway? Desperately.
He made me repeat the colors, his voice steady and disciplinary, a rhythm I was already learning to crave. I was trembling. Confused and small and at his mercy.
I realized his lap was exactly where I wanted to be.
Smack.
The first hit wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t gentle either. Heat spread instantly, a blooming, stinging radiance. It wasn’t just pain.
It was . . . inevitable.
Something stirred low in my belly. I bit my lip. I wasn’t going to make a sound. I wasn’t—smack. A strangled noise slipped out of me despite my intentions. My face burned. It felt so good. My body seemed to be waking up under his hand, leaning into the sting.
I hated that I . . . that I liked it so much. And not just liked. Needed.
Smack. Smack.
I thought I’d wanted Jon to lose control, but it turned out .
. . I wanted to lose mine even more. I couldn’t stop the way my body reacted.
How I was squirming. Burning. The rhythm he kept was steady.
Inescapable. Tears I tried to hold back spilled over, but they were good tears, born from pleasure, given in the safety of his palm.
Moaning, I rubbed myself against him, feeling him hardening in response, foolishly thinking we were in this together.
I was flying high until I fell. Until I spilled over. In hot, frantic bursts, my body betrayed me. Intense pleasure washed over me, and I came with a broken moan, making a mess in my boxers, shattering to pieces in his lap.
The silence hit harder than anything he’d done with his hand.
“Red,” I sobbed, panicking, and Jon let go of me so fast it felt like revulsion.
I scrambled off his lap, my hands shaking so hard I couldn’t find my footing. The humiliation was a physical, suffocating weight.
I needed to get out. I needed to disappear.
“Cooper—”
His voice was heavy with worry and guilt. Salt in my wounds.
“Don’t,” I snapped.
I didn’t break because of the pain or the sting. I broke because my body gave me away. Because it reacted to him—answered him—like it had been waiting for this all along. Like it knew something I didn’t. And now Jon knew too, and there was nothing but pity and horror on his face.
That’s why I broke.
That’s why I ran.