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She smiled. "Ask me again and find out."

I did not ask her again. I have survival instincts. Occasionally, anyway.

She moved up my body, slow, until she was kneeling over me, one knee on either side of my head, the headboard in one hand and the other hand sliding into my hair. She looked down at me from above, the city glittering behind her, and I'd never seen a view like her in my life.

"Open your mouth," she said.

I opened it.

She lowered herself onto me, and the hand in my hair took over, holding my head exactly where she wanted it, guiding me, setting the rhythm. I didn't get to choose. Not the pace, not the angle. She rode my mouth like she ran a fast break, absolutely sure of where she was going, and all I could do was hold my wrists to the mattress and take it and be good.

It was the hottest experience of my entire life.

"That's it," she said, in a rough voice above me. "That's what that smart mouth is for."

I moaned against her. She liked that. Her hips stuttered.

"Fuck. Again."

I did it again. Her grip in my hair tightened until it stung, and her thighs started to shake on either side of my face, and she said my name once, fierce and surprised, and then she came. Hard. Head thrown back, one hand white-knuckled on the headboard, the other holding me against her while she rode it out. She didn't make me stop. She made me keep going, slower, gentler, until she shuddered and pulled away.

She collapsed beside me on the bed, breathing hard, one arm thrown over her eyes.

I lay there with my wrists still pressed to the mattress above my head, because no one had told me I could move them.

After a long moment, she lifted her arm and looked over at me. Saw my hands. Saw that I'd kept them there.

Her expression cracked open, and my heart swelled with affection again.

"You can move," she said quietly.

I brought my arms down. They were a little numb. She seemed to sense this, because she took them and rubbed them, one and then the other, and pulled me into her side, and I went.

"You're such a brat," she said into my hair.

"You love it."

"I really shouldn't."

"But you do."

She didn't answer that. Her hand stroked slowly up and down my spine, over the sore heat of my ass, which made me hiss, and then back up again.

"Sore?"

"Very. In a good way. In an 'I'll feel this tomorrow and think about you every time I sit down’ way."

"Good."

"You don't have to sound so pleased about it."

"I'm very pleased about it."

We lay there in the dark, and the quiet stretched out between us, and it was the most dangerous part of the whole night. More dangerous than the belt, more dangerous than her hand on my throat. Because it felt like we'd been doing this for years. It felt easy.

"I should probably go," I said. I didn't move.

"You could stay. It's late."