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His fingers rubbing and squeezing my butt are doing wicked things to my insides. Churning my stomach up into knots,making my pussy clench and pulse with need. How is it possible to be so sore, yet so turned on? My butt is burning. It’s throbbing and aching, and even his gentle touch is too much, yet I don’t want him to stop. I want him to keep rubbing. I want him to keep holding me. I want to melt against him. I want him to kiss me again, properly this time.
I want to hate him for what he did to me. Ishouldhate him. He spanked me with my shoe! I shake my head against his chest, burying my face in his shirt, rubbing my tears away on his breast pocket. I definitely should hate him. But I don’t. I can’t. And I hate myself for not being able to.
“It’s okay, Jade,” he whispers, his mouth so close to my ear I can feel his warm breath on the side of my neck. “It’s okay.”
But it’s not okay. It’s not okay at all. I want to scream at him, to tell him it’s all wrong, all terrible, and about as not okay as it’s possible to get. But I don’t. Instead, I press my body harder against his, letting his strong arms support my weight. I don’t even try to hold back my sobs—I just cry into his shirt. Now that the tears are flowing, I can’t make them stop. They’re not only tears of pain, but complete and utter anguish.
Grief, of a sort. Disbelief. Part of me, the part that’s not in searing pain, is numb. I feel like I’m drowning, getting tugged further and further out to sea and I’m flailing helplessly but the more I fight, the deeper down under the waves I sink. Down into the darkness. Down into a hole. And I can’t reach the top. I can’t climb out.
I lean against him, and I cry.
And cry.
“Talk to me,” he commands, his voice soft, compassionate. “Come on, Jade, tell me what’s going on.”
“You… you… sp… Spanked me!” I blubber, between sobs. “You put soap in my mouth and spanked me so hard! It h-h-hurts!” And he did—but that’s not why I’m crying. Not entirely, anyway.
“Oh, Jade.” He speaks gently, concern lacing his tone. He hugs me tighter and I hold him tighter in return. I don’t even know why I’m hugging him. I didn’t even do it consciously, but when he wrapped his arms around me and comforted me, I was so distraught that I wrapped my arms around his strong body in response, and I like holding him. He’s solid, like a tree. Or a wall. Or something. In any case, he’s big and strong and he makes me feel safe. Probably I should be afraid of him. A sensible person probably would be. But I’m not. I can’t explain it, but deep inside me, I know that Jaxon is a good man and he’s not going to hurt me. Aside from spanking me, obviously, but even that, I’m pretty sure, was restrained and controlled.
“Let it all out, little girl,” he croons, rubbing my back with one hand and tangling his fingers in my hair with the other. I liked it more when he was rubbing my ass, but right now, any touch is good. I need to be held.
He doesn’t rush me. He just stands there holding me, and when the plane rocks and sways a bit, he just holds me tighter. I’m grateful for the comfort and security he offers.
“But that’s not the only reason you’re upset, is it?” he asks, and I shake my head. It’s not. But I’m not sure how to explain my feelings to him. I’m not even sure that I want to. How do I explain to the person who just soaped my mouth and spanked my butt that I’m struggling with accepting punishment? Thatfollowing rules—obeying, complying—is as foreign to me as this new country he’s taking me to?
“Talk to me, Jade,” he says softly. This time, it’s not a command, it’s an invitation. It’s not a ‘do this or I’ll beat your ass’ thing, it’s more of a ‘talk to me, it might help’ kind of thing.
I shake my head. I don’t want to tell him that bending me to his will has awakened feelings inside of me that I never knew existed. I don’t want him to know that I love him and hate him in equal measure. Most of all, I don’t want him to know how aroused he makes me, with his gruff sternness tempered with soft gentleness, sprinkled with a possessive, protective touch.
“No. I’m okay.” I push against him and straighten up, determined to regain control of the situation. I hate crying in front of him. Actually, I hate crying, period, but I hate crying in front of him even more because it makes me weak. And Jade Owens is not weak.
I’m a hot mess. My face is damp, my makeup is probably smeared everywhere, my nose is running, and my eyes are still wet with tears. But at least I’ve stopped crying.
“Here.” Jaxon pulls a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and wipes my face, gently cleaning away the mess of tears and snot. I screw up my face, a bit disgusted, a bit embarrassed. It’s been years since anyone has tended to me so carefully, so caringly wiping my face clean and it’s awkward at first, but it’s sweet, at the same time. Just the fact that he’s taking the time to help make me look presentable before we go back out there speaks volumes.
He wads up the used towel and throws it in the trash and when he turns, I see his shirt. Or rather, I see the damp, staineddarkening on his chest where my tears and snot have mingled with the drool I left behind there earlier, apparently when I was asleep on him. A wave of mortification washes over me. I’ve been reduced to nothing. Or a crying, drooling, snotting baby, anyway.
“Come on, little girl, let’s go back to our seats, yeah?”
There are those words again:little girl.I’m still not sure what they’re meant to signify. Are they simply a term of endearment, or does he truly think of me as nothing more than a little child that he’s in charge of, someone far inferior to him? I mean, I guess it’s a fair call—the damp patch on his shirt is proof of that—but still, it’s confusing. And this man has confused me enough already.
I don’t know that I’m quite ready to go back out there yet, but I can’t hide in here for the rest of the flight. So I nod my head, just slightly.
Jaxon shoulders open the door. And then he places his hand righttherein the small of my back so protectively the way he does, and guides me down the aisle of the plane, back to our seats.
Nobody pays any attention to us, including the lady seated next to me. I think most people are asleep.Just like I want to be.I yawn. I don’t even know what time it would be at home right now, but today has been exhausting, on an emotional level, at least. All I want to do is curl up into a ball and go back to sleep.
Beside me, Jaxon relaxes back in his seat. I’m surprised he can make himself comfortable, being as big as he is. But somehow, he does. He wriggles around a bit, stretches, then opens his arms to me.
“Come on,” he tells me. “Lean on me and go back to sleep. I know you want to.”
I do want to. And I hate that I want to.
I can’t meet his gaze. He must think I’m such an idiot. Why does that bother me so much? Why do I care what he thinks? This morning, I was blissfully unaware that he even existed. And now, just a few hours later, I’m being reminded so effectively that he not only exists, but that he’s in charge of my every movement, my every decision. I’m sure that if he could control my thoughts, he would.
I hate that he reduced me to a quivering, blubbering, punished mess so quickly, and I also hate how he comforted me just as effectively. And despite how much I hate being controlled, I’m so attracted to him, and I hate that, too.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says gently. “Just go back to sleep.”
