Page 56 of Bared

“Sweet Creator on high.” Containing her throaty words was as crazy as ignoring the sight of him. The spikes of his dark lashes, more prominent as he studied her splayed sex. The part of his lips, their firm pads wetted from his slow licks. And then the heavy flare of his nostrils before he spoke again.

“Sweet is absolutely right, little one. Every inch of you is that.” He used the spatula’s edge now, swiping it back and forth across her most sensitive petals. “But your creator? Not on high right now.”

“Wh-What? What…are you…” More words she was unable to keep down, even as the man used his free hand to push her chin up.

“Your creator is right here,” he stated, forcing her to confront the emphasis in his unyielding eyes. “Right here, right now, you’re my clay. Mine alone, ready to be molded, painted, and then incinerated. To yield to my touch and be pliant to my pleasure. And when the time comes…to open for my penetration.”

As he drew out that final vow, his voice like a dragon’s sigh, he tossed away the spatula—and used his finger on her flesh instead. As Jayd cried out at the incursion, she reached to steady herself on his shoulders—recognizing, too late, that impossibility. Freeing herself from his ingenious shackle required being at a different angle.

She was really and truly at this man’s mercy.

His to mold. To use. Perhaps even to hurt…

So why was she writhing even more than before? Excited in ways she had never dreamed? Wetter and hotter than she ever thought possible?

She was robbed of even a second to think about that. Brickham clarified that by clamping her chin harder. He expected her to be right here with him, mentally as well as physically. Not that he was making the mental part easy, with the steady pumps of his finger in and out of her weeping core. And soon his fingers, plural. Two of his digits, meaning twice the heady force of his invasion.

“That good too, Pixie? Answer me.” His order was half an inch short of a snarl.

“Y-Y-Yes, Sir,” Jayd got out with a gasp. “It is good. So, so good…”

His comeback was a tender but ferocious kiss. His tongue hunted for her tonsils as their teeth collided. When he finally released her, she was panting even harder. This time, she was not alone. Brickham’s chest whooshed like a bellows. His neck was starkly corded.

But it was the look across his face, as if he had just found a rare jewel in a desert, that brought her a stunning epiphany.

He was her clay, as well.

He was trusting her just as fully, already showing her aspects of himself that had been buried for a long time. She knew that by noticing the little revelations. The tells that came in small, scattered moments. One of them came right before he slid his grip to the back of her neck, pulling her over as if to kiss her again. But he smiled instead, staring down at her with the full force of his arresting blues.

“Beautifully expressed, Pixie. Such a pretty little whisper.” But then he dipped his head back in, growling so perfectly in her ear, “Now let’s see about turning your whisper into a scream.”

“Yes…Sir.”

The words practically stuttered out of her, a frantic replacement for the expression that first sprang to her mind. A mind that Maximillian Brickham was deviously unraveling, moment by wicked moment.

By the sweet Creator.

Chapter Nine

Yes, Sir.

How many times had Brick heard that in his life, from how many beautiful and willing women? How many times had he savored the phrase, knowing exactly what it meant for a submissive to offer it?

But how many times had those occasions still felt so hollow? Nice, but nothing else. Frameworks for deeper meaning but never fully filled. He’d given up on anything different. The issue had to be him, not them. Something deeper than Doc Sally could get to, twisted into the panic that wouldn’t dissipate and the guilt he refused to let go.

Yes, Sir.

But this time, it was different. With this stunning, sincere princess, it was very different.

Maybe it was the truth of their finality—knowing they’d have tonight and nothing else. Maybe it was the danger that had defined their every moment until now.

And maybe the difference was more obvious.

Maybe the magic was simply her.

Seeing him, nearly from the start, for what he really was. Liking him like that. Even pleading him for more. Trusting he’d give it to her. And wrapped in that trust, giving him more of herself too.

Christ. So much more.