AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Want me to do something about it?”
What do you think?
“Do you, Goldie?”
He holds my gaze, and those blue eyes of his pin me in place. Lying is pointless because he’s going to be able to tell I am right away. But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of saying it aloud, so I content myself with a nod.
“Good.” He makes a twirling motion with his finger.
I swallow, then turn around and grab the edge of the counter. I sense him moving to stand behind me. The heat from his body wraps around me, then he grips the curve of my hips and pulls me back so my butt juts out. In this position, I feel vulnerable and open, and I know I need it. I want him to do this. I do…but in the right way.
"My mother used to spank me with a wooden spoon," I burst out.
He pauses, then heads to one of the drawers of the far side. I hear him rifling around. He walks back to me and shows me the two large spoons he’s acquired. "Which one?"
I take in their size, then nod toward the one with a larger base.
“Is this similar in size to the one she used to spank you with?
I nod.
He looks between my eyes, “I’m going to replace the memories that brought you so much anguish with new ones that bring you pleasure.”
He sets the other one aside, then takes up position behind me. "Hold on."
Heat flushes my skin. My knees knock together. I dig my sneakers into the floor, lock my fingers onto the edge of the counter and hold…and hold and hold and… The whack of the spoon against my backside sends a line of fire zipping up my spine. I yelp, and almost fall forward, but he steadies me with his hand on my hip. I gasp, then draw in a breath.
"You okay, Goldie?" There’s concern in his voice, and the pressure behind my eyeballs builds.
I will not cry…will not.I swallow down the ball of emotion in my throat, then tip up my chin. "I’m good." My voice comes out strong, and that gives me even more confidence.
"You sure?"
I scowl at him over my shoulder. "Don’t go soft on me, Stone. I want you to spank me… I want you to—"
He brings the spoon down on my other ass-cheek, and I gasp. Then turn and push out my hips. His grip on my waist tightens then, whack-whack-whack, the spoon connects with my backside again and again. Each time, it seems to sear into my butt. The vibrations begin at the base of my spine and build and grow and become thicker and stronger and coil in my core, and still, he doesn’t stop. The next time the spoon connects with my backside, I groan. My pussy trembles, the waves of tension swirl in on themselves until they tighten and fold into themselves, and knot and tense up. And then, he brings down the spoon across both of my butt-cheeks.
The pain arrows to my center, and it’s like a key that opens the ball of sensations twisted tightly there. Just like that, the knot unravels. The orgasm pours over me, and my back curves. I push my cheek into the counter and cry out as I come. The aftershocks rip through me.
I’m aware of him placing the spoon aside and massaging my backside through the seat of my yoga pants. The pain sinks into my skin, into my blood, and coils around my swollen clit. Then he straightens me and lifts me into his arms.
"Wha 're ya doin’…?" The words come out slurred. A heavy weight seems to drag down my eyelids.
"I’m taking you to our room."
Ourroom. I love the sound of that. I try to tell him that, but the words come out garbled. I turn my face into his broad chest and draw in a lung full of Rick. Then close my eyes and allow myself to lift off. I dimly hear another voice—Finn, maybe—ask a question followed by the rumble of Rick’s voice as he answers, then darkness embraces me.
When I wake up, I’m in my bed with the covers pulled over me. My hair must have come out of its bun, and I shove it out of my eyes, then turn on my side and find Rick asleep on top of the covers. His hand is flung out toward me. There’s enough space between us that we’re not touching each other. He’s wearing the same pair of jeans I saw him in when he burst into the kitchen with the same threadbare T-shirt he wore under the sweatshirt; it clings to the ridges of his pecs. The dog tags he wears have fallen out.
I reach forward and touch them. When he doesn’t stir, I drag my fingers over the bulge of his pec toward where his nipple is outlined against the cloth. I look up at his face—his eyes are still closed—then circle the nub.
That dull pulse between my legs kicks up in intensity. The slight soreness of my backside only accentuates the emptiness in my center. I whisper my fingers up his chest, between the strong cords of his muscles to that prominent chin, and when I take in his face, I’m not surprised to see his eyelids are open. He’s staring at me, and those eyes glow with the silver sparks that never fail to entrance me.
I cup his cheek, and when he doesn’t stop me, I push off my covers. I realize I’m not wearing my yoga pants or his sweatshirt a few seconds before I throw my leg over his waist and straddle him. When I bend over him, my hair curtains his face. I lean in closer, until my mouth is positioned on top of his. My nose bumps his, and our breaths mingle. My nipples tighten, and the moisture between my thighs tells me I want him. I need him. I can’t do without him. I lower my chest into his, and my breasts flatten.
His gaze narrows, and his eyes flash.
That’s when I fit my core over the tent at his crotch and whisper, "Fuck me, Rick."
