Chapter 5 #4
Then he was back at my breasts. His mouth closed over one nipple, hot and wet, and the world narrowed to that single point of contact.
He didn’t just suck. He possessed. His tongue swirled around my nipple, a deliciously slow rhythm that was designed to drive me to the brink of madness.
His teeth grazed the sensitive peak, a light, teasing scrape that made my hips lift off the bed in a silent, desperate plea.
“Tell me you want this.” His words were breathy against my skin.
My lips parted, but no sound came out. The words were trapped in my throat, held captive by pride and fear and fury.
He bit down on my nipple gently, then a bit harder until pain radiated through my breast. A cry escaped my lips, a sound that was half pain, half pleasure, and all surrender.
“Tell me,” he demanded again, his tone brooking no argument.
“Never,” I gasped, the word a ragged breath. It was a lie, and we both knew it.
He chuckled triumphantly. “We’ll see about that.”
He turned his attention to my other breast, giving it the same thorough, devastating attention.
I was burning up inside, fiery heat consuming me from the inside out. My mind was a battlefield, a clash of wills, but my body was a conquered territory. It had surrendered without a fight, a willing victim to his relentless assault.
His hand, which had been stroking my stomach, slid lower, tracing the waistband of my pants. His fingers dipped beneath the fabric, a leisurely teasing exploration that made my entire body tense in anticipation of what might come next.
“Right now, these beautiful tits are mine,” he said, his possessiveness a living thing in the room. He rolled a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “All of you is mine.”
He moved with a languid grace that was both terrifying and mesmerizing in the same breath.
Using his knee to force mine apart, he settled between my legs, his weight a welcome pressure that anchored me to the bed, to the moment.
He looked down at me, his blue eyes darkening with a hunger that was exhilarating.
“Slap me one more time,” he ordered, his voice a provocative whisper now. “Slap me one more time if you want me to stop giving you choices.”
My breath stuttered, and I felt it then; the rage was still there, a hot, familiar fire, but beneath it, a new and more dangerous kind of heat was spreading through my veins. It was a heat that made my blood sing, a liquid ache that pooled in my stomach and settled between my thighs.
I wanted to slap him. Not to stop him, but to see what would happen. To see if he’d follow through. To know for myself what it would feel like if, for once in my life, I let someone else take charge.
That fury was the only reason I could find to justify my actions.
The anger at being so utterly seen, so completely undone, was a shield I could hide behind.
The thought of him having his way with me, the forbidden, humiliating thrill of it, was a secret, treacherous whisper in my mind, and it made me wet.
My body, my traitorous, treacherous body, wanted this.
It wanted the pleasure, the pain, the loss of control.
It wanted him.
I was more furious than I’d ever been in my life. Not at him, but at myself. At the war raging inside me, a battle I was losing with every passing second.
And that, more than anything, was why my hand was raising to slap him again.
My palm connected with his cheek with a loud crack that seemed to echo in the sudden silence of the room. I slapped him not with the intent to injure, but with a force born of my own conflicted emotions. A desperate, final attempt to seize control in a situation where I had none.
A predatory smile spread across his face, the kind that promised a deliciously wicked retribution. His eyes roamed over me, taking in the wild look in my eyes, the rapid rise and fall of my chest.
“Yessss,” he murmured, the words a triumphant rasp. “There’s the fight I was waiting for.”
Then he moved, and the slow, terrifying anticipation shattered into a whirlwind of action. He didn’t waste a single second. He didn’t bother with the leisurely unbuttoning of my pants or the gentle removal of my underwear.
He wanted me naked. He wanted it now. And he was a man who took what he wanted, and I was suddenly the kind of woman that would give him exactly that.
With a rough, impatient tug, he grabbed the waistband of my pants. The fabric strained, the button popping free with a loud snap that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room. Then, with a single, brutal yank, he dragged them down my hips and thighs, the rough denim scraping against my skin.
My panties followed in the same rough motion. The delicate, simple cotton was no match for his impatience. The fabric tore with a soft, damning, ripping sound. The cool air of the room hit my skin, and I was naked, completely exposed to this fully clothed stranger. This man.
He didn’t give me a moment to feel the shame, to process the vulnerability because his next move was shockingly fast. One moment, he was over me, a heavy, dominating presence.
The next, he was standing over me and he had me flipped over, my face pressed into the cool, clean sheets of his bed.
It happened so quickly, I had no time to process, no time to react.
One of his hands pressed firmly into the small of my back, pinning me in place.
The other grabbed a fistful of my hair, tilting my head back and forcing me to arch.
“This,” he said, his voice a growl that vibrated through my entire body, “is for all the anger you won’t let go of.”
Then he let go of my hair and smacked my ass.
It wasn’t a playful tap. It wasn’t a gentle, teasing swat.
It was a brutal, open-handed slap against my bare ass.
The sound was a sharp, stinging crack that was immediately followed by a white-hot flare of pain that radiated through my entire body.
A cry was torn from my throat before I could stop it.
I’d been shot before. I’d been stabbed. I had scars that told stories of pain and survival, but this was different. This wasn’t the cold, impersonal pain of a bullet. This was a personal, intimate, and utterly humiliating pain.
This was a grown woman getting her ass spanked by a real man for the first time in her life.
“Let it out,” he stated, his voice a calm rumble that was more terrifying than any shout.
The second spank landed, this one on the other cheek, just as hard, just as ruthless.
My body jerked, my muscles tensing in a futile attempt to escape the pain. I bucked against the hand pinning me to the bed, my anger a roaring fire that threatened to consume me whole.
I was a fighter.
I would not be broken.
He would not break me.
“You think this hurts?” I snarled, my voice muffled by the sheets. “I’ve felt worse.”
“I know you have,” he said, his tone infuriatingly reasonable. “But this isn’t about pain, is it?”
Crack!
Another spank, this one harder than the others, the sound echoing in the room like a gunshot.
A yelp escaped me, a pathetic, shameful sound.
“This,” he said, his hand rubbing the hot, stinging skin he had just assaulted, “is about letting go of that rage, of becoming the woman you never let free.”
“This is about you being a sadistic bastard!” I spat, trying to buck him off, to gain some leverage, to do something, anything to fight back, to ignore how soaking wet my pussy was right now and knowing he could see it at any given moment.
The hand on my back pressed down a bit harder.
“I am,” he agreed. “And you’re loving every second of it.”
I wanted to deny it. I wanted to scream at him, to tell him he was wrong, that I hated him. But the words wouldn’t come. Because a small, treacherous part of me, a part I had buried deep beneath layers of discipline and grief, was loving this.
He spanked me again. And again. With nothing more than his palm, he painted fire across my bare cheeks, burning away my defenses and my pride with every single smack.
Then he paused, and I felt a different kind of heat. The heat of his gaze.
He rose, and I was moved again. He pulled me up, not off the bed, but simply repositioning me for his purposes with an ease that was both impressive and insulting.
In one fluid motion, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and I was placed over his thighs facing away with my legs spread around him.
My bare, stinging ass was up in the air, and his hand between my shoulder blades firmly pushed my torso down toward the floor.
My legs were draped on either side of him, leaving me utterly exposed, my most intimate parts open to his view, to his mercy.
In a panic, my hands flew out and landed on either side of his feet.
I found myself looking at the plush carpet and imagining what he was looking at.
The position was supremely humiliating. It was demeaning. And it was exactly what I needed.
“Look at you,” he murmured with appreciation. He ran his hands over the hot, stinging skin of my ass and down my thighs, a soothing, gentle caress that made my entire body tense. “So beautiful when you’re trying so hard not to break.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, a wave of shame washing over me.
His fingers delved between my legs, not to enter me, but to test. To confirm.
His rough digits slid through my folds in a wickedly thorough exploration that made my breath hitch in my throat.
He found my clit, already swollen and sensitive, and circled it once, a light, teasing touch that sent a jolt of pure fire straight to my core.
Then he used the flats of his fingers to spank me right in between my legs. Then my ass once more. Then my pussy again, and it didn’t stop. He used both hands and spanked me all over—ass, pussy, thighs—and I begged and writhed and moaned as the stinging slaps seemed to land everywhere all at once.