Her skin is warm, her breath steadying, and I stroke her hair, feeling the silk of it against my fingers.
“Is this normal?” she asks, a few minutes later. Her voice is soft, almost drowsy. “Being taken care of like this?”
“It is. To me, aftercare is crucial, every bit as important as the scene itself.” I brush my lips against her temple. “For the emotional connection.”
“For the sub?” She tilts her head to look up at me.
I meet her gaze, my hand stilling in her hair. “I’ve found I need it every bit as much as the woman I’m with.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. We’re both active participants. I work hard to ensure your safety and pleasure. As well as being sure you’re properly punished.”
“I am.” She settles back against me, her breathing slowing, her body relaxing fully. “Lesson learned, Sir.”
“And what lesson is that? That you’re always going to behave in the future?”
“Mmm. Yes. Absolutely. That. That’s exactly what I learned.”
She has to hide her face quickly, maybe hoping I hadn’t seen the lie dancing in her eyes.
The fire crackles, the storm rages outside, but here, with her in my arms, everything feels right.
Later, when her breaths are deep and even, I ask, “How was that scene? Enough? Too much?”
“It’s the stuff out of fantasies, Stryker. All of it. But I have one thing to say…”
“Oh?”
“If that’s your idea of punishment, Sir, I’m not sure I’ll ever behave again.”
I was hoping she’d say that.
Because I have plans for another dozen scenes. I just hope she’s ready to meet the beast she’s unleashed.
Chapter Thirty
Lyra
My body wakes up before my mind. Every part of me remembers Stryker. And when I breathe in, it’s his spicy scent that fills my senses.
Opening my eyes, sensing that something isn’t right, I turn toward his side of the bed.
The other side of the mattress is cold and empty.
Stryker isn’t there.
But every part of me is vibrantly aware of him.
A slow throb pulses between my thighs, a tender ache that spreads upward to the small of my back and downward to the backs of my knees.
My ass stings when I shift, the skin hot and tight, as if his palm is still there, branding me.
I draw a breath, and the memory floods in: the way he bent me over his lap, the sharp crack of his hand on my buttocks, the way the pain flipped into something molten and urgent.
My nipples tighten against the soft flannel of my shirt—his shirt—that I pulled on sometime in the night. The fabric smells of woodsmoke and him, clean skin and dark desire, making my stomach clench with want and shame in equal measures.
I press my thighs together and feel the slickness that’s there, even though that shouldn’t be possible when I’m all alone.
