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“Dirty girl.”
“Not as dirty as you.” I smiled, meanly.
He pounced and flipped me over, holding me onto his thighs, and was spanking me, before I’d figured out his intentions. His hand pounded at my ass. Three, four, five swats, and the force in those underscored that a strong man was smacking me. The pain radiated, built, merging with the pleasurable feels, both making it worse and better, by turns.
The confusion of this was awesome but…
He stopped.
I glowered and turned my head, pushing my hands at the earth, to lift my upper body off the ground.
“I almost forgot to punish you. Don’t make another sound, unless you want to be found by someone, like this, with my come in you and with a red ass.”
I gritted my teeth as he delivered several further smacks. When he was finished, he leaned down and bit me there, teeth feeling as if they were cutting out a lump, until he let go. Shocked, I’d been screaming silently.
He stood again, tidied himself, zipping up, while I shot my hand behind me, incredulous.
Was I bleeding? No. There was no redness on my hand.
“You might want to pull your bra and panties into place before you leave.”
No kindly words, no promise of more.
I blurted, “Why?” as he turned to walk away, holding up a low branch to duck beneath.
He looked back. I had meant why the punishment, but maybe I didn’t need to know if it was for forgetting to wear red or for putting it on at all and inviting his attention.
“Why did you fix that—I mean take out the cloth when I choked?” My heart pitter-pattered harder than it had a second ago.
He stared, hesitated, then reached down and retrieved the balaclava from the ground, dusted it off and picked off a twig. Even upon straightening, he said nothing, just stuffed the balaclava under his belt.
I waited. Something about this was vital, and I was unsure why, but I had to know.
“There has to be more than this,” I whispered.
He stepped closer then squatted with his mouth fixed in a hard line. I could see him looking at me, truly looking, rather than simply being this evil-ish predator who got off on the same sick fantasies as I did.
“Because…” He tucked a finger under my chin, and though the pressure was barely there, I felt the sifting in of a connection—both arousal and some strange feeling I hadn’t felt for a long time, if ever.
I quirked an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I didn’t want to kill you. You’re too pretty, too suited to my purposes. All of that.”
The distant eyes were back, and when he made to rise, I was almost too slow, but I snatched my hand forward to snag his wrist.
A wrist so big I could not encompass it.
As if I were made of sand or marshmallow, he twisted and instead held mine in an iron grip.
“Oh,” I said quietly, swallowing, loving the delicious throb of awareness from where he’d caught me. Jesus, he turned this into something else so quickly. I shook myself out of that. “I want more. Please?”
He let his hand drift down mine, fingers gliding over my upturned palm until our fingertips were all that brushed. “I do, too, Emme. However, I’m afraid that would ruin us.”
I blinked as he straightened. “Meaning?”
Again, he paused, and I heard the soft exhalation. “Get dressed.”
I looked down at myself. I pulled my bra into place, wriggled my underwear into place, tried to fix my shirt, but clearly, I would have to hold it together. Some buttons had vanished. The skirt was easier fixed. While kneeling, I pulled it down then eyed him hopefully.
