Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
He pulled out, and a torrent of drool burbled out of my mouth. I gulped down air and accidentally swallowed spit, coughed, and covered my mouth.
“Are you all right?” Neil asked as he tucked himself away and zipped his fly.
I met his eyes and nodded, dropping the pretense as he had for the moment. “I’m fine.”
“You won’t be when I’m done with you,” he warned. “Stand up.”
Unsteady on my legs, as they had fallen asleep, I was a little slow getting up. He grabbed me and hauled me over to the bed, pushing me off my feet and onto the silk duvet. He grabbed the front of my bra and jerked it hard. I spent major money to get quality lingerie, so it took some force to wreck the hook and eye closures on the back, but the whole thing flew off to land, ruined, on the bed beside me.
I should have specified no ripping tonight. I really liked that bra.
“Take off those panties,” he ordered, and, wanting to preserve them, I moved fast to do as I was told. I pushed them down my legs, and he caught them at my knees, whipping them down the rest of the way and throwing them to the floor.
“Stay put.” The cuffs of his shirt were already unfastened, and he popped each button down his shirtfront one-handed as he gazed down at me. “Did you ask for permission to come?”
“No, Sir.” I watched his hand as it traveled down his chest. Silver and dark curls of hair covered the skin revealed with each undone button.
“Normally, I would say that you deserved some denial-based punishment.” He tossed the shirt to the floor. He kicked his shoes off. “But, in the interest of brevity, I think it will have to be a spanking tonight.”
The low light gleamed on his shoulders, his biceps, his arms. My gaze fell to his hands, his big hands that could grab me and restrain me and dig into my flesh in unbridled possession, and I grew wetter.
He sat beside me on the bed, and I moved to lie over his lap, but he stopped me and slid back to recline on the pillows. “Come here.”
I got to my knees on the bed and crawled toward him. This time, I didn’t presume. I let him position me between his legs, so that I lay back against his chest. He hooked my legs over his and spread them then placed a hand on the inside of each of my thighs.
Oh, a spanking. I understood now.
He cupped my mound in one hand, massaging my aroused body with tenderness that mocked the pain he would inflict soon. With one hand tucked between my leg and my body, his thumb spread to stroke over my hipbone. “Who does this belong to?”
“You, Sir.” I wriggled my bottom against him. As far as punishments went, he should have picked one I didn’t like.
Maybe that was the point. It was our wedding night, after all, and he’d said we wouldn’t go hard.
He still tortured me, though, lifting his hand sharply then languidly petting my vulva. Or, raising his palm then letting it fall fast, without ever actually hitting my flesh.
“You’re so jumpy,” he teased. He smoothed his other hand over my pubic bone and pulled back my skin, exposing my clitoris. The air brushing across my skin made me moan, and that’s when he brought his hand down, the tips of his fingers, to slap it.
“Motherfucker!” I screamed, curling up from his chest. I hated such rough, direct contact on my clit, but paradoxically, enjoyed the aftermath. We’d used rubber bands, a flogger, his hand, all sparingly, because it was easy to do too much to such sensitive nerves. His rule, whether we were playing together or I was doing it to myself, was no more than five strikes.
As the stinging pain faded, throbbing pleasure blossomed, and I leaned my head back. If he intended to punish me for the profanity, he would have already. He moved the hand at my mound to my throat, closing over my neck above the collar.
“This is mine,” he growled against my ear, and he slapped me again, hard, across my open, dripping flesh.
“It’s yours, Sir!” I gasped under the pressure on my throat.
Another slap, and I struggled not to close my legs this time. “And every orgasm.” Another slap. “They belong to me, too.”
“Yes! Yes!” I had lost all control now, whipping my head back and forth, scrabbling my pinned feet to find some leverage.
“Who decides when you get off, you filthy little slut?” he demanded.
It was nearly a moot point; the way his stubble brushed my ear and jaw, and his low, wicked voice said such dirty, wonderful things—I could have gone over at another rough word. I cried, “You! You do, Sir!”