I want her over my lap, her cute, pert ass turning pink then red as I spank it hard, each slap a reminder that she’s safe with me, that she can let go.
I want to watch her squirm, hear her gasp my name, feel her slick heat coat my fingers when the pain flips into pleasure.
Still, she’s new to submission, and more eager than I could have imagined. More than I dared hope.
Earlier, when she tested me—reached for my thighs when I told her to keep position—I was surprised. And more than a little pleased.
Generally the subs I’ve played with have taken time to push boundaries, unless they were full-on brats, which I clock within minutes.
Allie—if that’s her name—isn’t a natural brat. She’s curious, hungry for the edge, and the fact that I’m the one introducing her to the intricacies of submission satisfies something primal in me. Something I’ve never felt before.
She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s mine. For the rest of our lives.
No doubt she’d fight me if I told her, try to flee even sooner than she’s planning.
And I have no doubt she’ll seize the first opportunity, despite everything we’ve shared. She might look back, might feel a twinge of regret, but she’ll run hard and fast.
I’ve seen the pattern before—overseas, with clients I’ve protected. Allie has spent her life in the shadows; sunlight scares the hell out of her. Whatever she’s running from isn’t worse than facing the past. I’ll see to that. Once she trusts me enough.
I’ve broken past some of her physical barriers, some mental ones. The emotional ones will be the hardest. Fortunately for me—maybe unfortunately for her—I’m a patient man.
“So what will it be?” I prompt, letting my thumb drift to the corner of her mouth, feeling the plush give of her lower lip.
Her blue eyes focus on me. Slight bruises are shadowed beneath them, evidence of the toll the last days have taken. Exhaustion tugs at her features, but she still has her spark, defiance wrapped in vulnerability.
“No pressure tonight if you want to go to bed.” I fold my arms. “I can collect tomorrow.”
Her gaze drops below my waistband, lingering on the obvious ridge of my erection.
I grin, slow and deliberate.
Because of her, this hardness is constant. Jerking off between sessions of fucking her isn’t taking the edge off. “A movie?” I offer again. “Talking?”
She hesitates, teeth worrying her lower lip, fingers twisting into her shirt. I watch the war play out—curiosity, exhaustion, the need to retreat into something safe. Finally, she exhales, a small sound that’s almost a laugh.
“How about a movie?” Her voice is soft but decisive. “Something light. A comedy, maybe?”
I nod, brushing my knuckles along her jaw. “Movie it is.”
We return to the living area, and the cabin’s chill hits us immediately. I stoke the fire, crouching to add logs, the crackle and pop filling the silence as flames lick higher.
The heat blooms across my skin, chasing away the last of the shower’s dampness.
Behind me, she moves into the kitchen.
“Cocoa?” she suggests.
“Sounds good.”
“And how about some popcorn?”
“I’m in.” How many years since I’ve had this kind of night?
Within a couple of minutes, kernels begin to pop in the microwave. The scent of butter and salt drifts over, mingling with the woodsmoke.
I glance back and see her standing on tiptoe to reach a tin of cocoa, her shirt riding up to reveal the curve of her ass. My cock twitches again, and I force myself to find something useful to do.
This feels natural. Too natural. Her moving around my kitchen, barefoot, hair drying in loose waves down her back.
