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“No. I....”
“Spit it out. I haven’t got all bloody evening.”
“Your desk. I apologise, Sir. I used the corner.” Blood rushed to her cheeks. Instinctively she took a step backwards. His face ignited with indignation.
“You humped this!” He slammed a fist on the surface. “My own desk! You’ve surpassed yourself.”
She gave him a small nod of acknowledgement. “Sorry,” she whispered.
“I…. Oh, for goodness sake, go stand in the corner.” He pointed to the other side of the room. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
The cream-coloured wall filled her vision. Behind her, she heard him stab the keyboard.
“Is that nose touching the wall?” he barked.
She shuffled forward, and stuck out her nose, until her face was wedged into the corner. She hated corner time, and she was grateful he rarely used the humiliating reprimand.
The floorboards creaked. A barely perceivable sound, and his footfalls cre
pt closer. Hot breath erupted onto the back of her neck. She bristled with the ticklish sensation. He looped an arm around her front, sought out the button at her waistband and unfastened i, then the zipper came down. With a yank, he lowered the tight-fitting jeans down past her hips. With another tug, her bottom was exposed. He nudged her legs apart with a foot and, grabbing her waist, shifted her pelvis backwards.
The tip of her nose caressing the wall, arms folded behind her back and naked bottom sticking out, forcing her to bend slightly, triggered Gemma’s internal warning signal to go on high alert. Was he going to fuck her? She felt a waft of cool air on her bare skin. She shivered, a tiny quiver of expectation.
His hands still gripped her waist, holding her steady. A stress position, one she struggled to hold. When he let go, she lost her balance and knocked her head against the wall.
“Nose. Only the nose touches this wall. Keep that butt on display and shoulders off.”
She complied, balancing herself and concentrating on the precarious position. How much more preposterous could things get? Her jeans slithered down her legs and came to rest by her ankles. She had her answer, and she gritted her teeth in annoyance at her loss of dignity.
“Stay there.” He left the room.
She risked leaning her head on the wall for respite. Pressing her cheek to one side, she could easily see the door and his return. He’d always said he didn’t like to punish and that it gave him no satisfaction or pleasure. Had she felt an erection when he touched her, brushed against her back? Was he in two minds about how to deal with her transgression? The door started to open, and she moved back into the correction position, swaying slightly as she lifted her shoulder away from the wall.
Out of her sight, something landed with a thud on the Chesterfield couch, which was situated along one wall of his study, opposite where she stood. He’d also fetched something else from his stash in the bedroom.
Rope. “Stand up and box your arms.”
She complied without comment.
Jason bound her arms tight behind her back, wrists and upper arms taut and uncomfortable. A rapid coiling of rope to keep her rigid. Her head bowed as he led her to the Chesterfield. She shuffled, her jeans impeded her movements. She kicked them off, leaving them in the middle of the room in a heap.
Now, she could see what he had dropped on the couch. She gulped. She detested it. Bound, naked from the waist down, and about to be spanked, unshed tears hovered in the corners of her eyes.
Sitting down, he pulled her over his lap, and she lay waiting for his chosen implement—the wooden paddle—she especially hated it when over his lap. He’d the knack of applying it painfully without much of a swing.
“Fifty strokes.”
Fifty!
“It was just a teeny orgasm,” she protested sheepishly. “Itsy.” She peered over her shoulder. He didn’t look the slightest bit merciful.
“Oh, don’t lie. I bet it rocked,” he said, poking her in the back. Her body slumped. “You know what really bothers me? Not the orgasm, or even using my desk. It was that you could have asked. A simple text. Instead, you circumvented my request by not using your hands. A deliberate manipulation of my words. I have to give you credit; you know how to find the loopholes. As a lawyer, I’m impressed.”
She perked up a little at his compliment.
“Doesn’t get you off.” He raised a leg and lowered it across her thighs, squeezing her legs together.
She deflated again. Her arms ached terribly, tied behind her back and, with her legs pinned, he’d impeded her ability to wriggle.
