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If they did this, if they played the game, how would he punish her? What would the punishment be?
Knowing Benson, it would be calculated and precise. He would remain emotionally remote as he administered the discipline. Probably to where he wouldn’t even put his hands on her.
That thought made her stomach clench. Every part of her hated the idea of Benson’s punishment being icy cold rather than fiery hot.
The battle between whether a kink relationship should run hot or cold was a good metaphorical representation of them as people.
It was also important to remember that sometimes when hot air met cold, violent storms were born.
* * *
“Benson.”
Benson squeezed the coffee cup so tight that he was worried it would break.
He’d stopped by the dining room for coffee. He was on his way back to grab a shower after a long morning run. Las Palmas didn’t have a gym facility—though there was plenty of repurposed gym equipment now outfitted for kink in the playrooms. But the grounds of the sprawling estate offered good options for running.
They were up in the Malibu hills, but there was plenty of flatland since this had, at one point, been a horse estate. However, the estate grounds extended beyond the areas that had been leveled flat, out past the large training arenas and stables that had yet to be converted into something kinky, and so retained their equestrian setup.
Hard-packed trails cut through the hilly terrain covered in drought-tolerant native California vegetation. He’d run hard, pushing himself so that all he could think about was that next step. He’d run in search of exhaustion, the kind that occupied his mind with the burning in his quads and calves, the heavy feeling in his chest as he breathed hard.
It had taken him too long to get to the point of physical exertion that muted his thoughts. He had relived a moment from last night with each pounding step. His foot hit the ground and a moment, captured like a still image, popped up in his brain.
Mal’s eyes bright with anger as she told him to fuck off.
Mal naked and submissive, knees spread.
Mal arched back, the crop striking her raised, vulnerable breasts.
Mal declaring she wanted to be used.
It had been distracting enough that at one point he ran right into a wild desert rosebush. He had the scrapes on the side of his calf to show for that.
The pain from the thorns had seemed poetically fitting, and spurred him on, making the third mile of his five mile run the quickest by several minutes. He’d pushed himself until finally, just before the start of the fourth mile, while powering up an incline, he’d hit that point of exhaustion where his thoughts and emotions quieted, leaving no room for anything but physical exertion.
He’d accomplished what he’d wanted, exercising to where, on his cool down walk back to the main buildings, he hadn’t thought about Malvia.
Only for her to appear, the sound of her voice undoing the mental static he’d worked so hard to generate.
Benson took a long sip of too-hot coffee. Ignoring the singed skin on the roof of his mouth, he turned to face Malvia.
It was still early, just past 8 a.m. They weren’t the only people awake. There were a handful of couples inside the dining room, the soft murmur of their voices filtering through the partially open door. But they seemed far away, despite the relative physical distance. He was, for all intents and purposes, alone with Malvia as they stood in the hallway outside the dining room.
Mal’s hair was in a loose braid pulled over one shoulder. In dim light, her hair and eyes were a brown so dark they looked black, but morning sunlight revealed her hair was a dozen shades of brown, everything from auburn to mahogany.
She wore a pale dress…thing. The bodice was loose and draped. It hung low on her breasts, while soft strips of fabric served as the shoulder straps. The waist was tight, looking almost like it had a piece of elastic built in, so it hugged her midsection. Below that, the silky-looking material hung in soft folds down to her ankles. She shifted her weight, and the skirt swished enough to show him a glimpse of her leg, thanks to the slit that went up to mid-thigh.
The material was sheer enough that he could see her pinky-brown nipples and that she’d switched nipple jewelry. Today it was gold bars rather than silver. The piercings kept her nipples nicely erect, tenting the soft, sheer fabric.
Her concession to the morning chill—which was slight, they were in Southern California after all—was a thin knit sweater, as long as the dress itself, worn open so as not to hide anything.
He realized he’d been starting, and jerked his gaze to her face.
She smirked at him. Her full, glossy lips curved up in a smile that was just this side of cruel.
Anger made him squeeze the mug again, while embarrassment heated his face. He could only hope the flush from his run hid it.
Then he caught her eyes flicking to his arms, and that made him feel marginally better. She’d always had a thing for his arms, loving to trace his tattoos with her fingers…and tongue.
