by Jane Henry
“And you’re bloody fucking drunk,” I say before I can stop myself.
His dark gaze returns to mine, and his jaw firms. “I warned you.”
“Warned me about what?” I ask in futile protest as he lifts me—lifts me—and easily arranges me over his lap as if I weigh nothing at all.
Maybe he gets superhuman strength when he drinks. That could be a good thing.
His knees are pressed into my belly and this is—this is strangely nice. Soothing. There’s something about being draped over his lap like this that makes me feel… dare I say it? Sexy.
My bound wrists dangle in front of me and my legs are flush against the fabric of his trousers. I close my eyes, drawing deeper into myself. This is one night that I don’t want to forget in the morning.
Before he does anything, I feel his hands all over my body again, as if he wants to remember every curve and valley and dip. Over my shoulders, down the slope to the small of my back, over my arse, then to my upper thighs, my calves, and even to my feet.
“Fucking gorgeous,” he says. “Damn, woman.”
I want to protest. I want to tell him no, I’m not, he’s crazy. I dated a man once who told me I’d be perfect if I could only lose twenty pounds and damn him, I’ve replayed that comment so many times it’s part of my mantra. I’m pretty, but…
But I can’t tell Carson that. He’s already made it clear how he feels, and… well, I’m about to get spanked. So it might not be the smartest time for me to push him.
I feel him draw the edge of my panties down. I shiver at the touch of his fingers on my naked back. I squeeze my eyes tight. I’ve got tits and arse for days, but… well, maybe too much. What if he doesn’t like my arse?
He freezes. “Why did you just tense right now?”
“Because I’m about to get spanked?”
“That isn’t why. Tell me the truth.”
I frown. “No.”
He slams his palm on my arse, spanking me. I buck and squirm.
“Hey!”
“Tell me the truth,” he repeats.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t like what you see,” I say truthfully.
“Not like what I see?” he says in dismay.
And then a memory surfaces unbidden, making me choke on my reply. Another ex-boyfriend of mine, shaking his head when he grabbed my arse. “You’ve got more than a handful there, haven’t you? More than cushion for the pushin’.”
And then I’m angry, because I hate that an unpleasant memory’s come to assault me now, when I’m doing my damndest to enjoy this moment.
Carson’s speaking again, his voice both stern and compassionate. Not quite sure how he manages that. My stern professor.
“You’re the stuff of dreams, lass,” he says, running his palm along the swell of my backside. “Fucking dreams.” I know he isn’t lying because his hardened length beneath me presses into my belly. He squeezes my arse, making me hiss. “But I’ll not have you making these comments again. Do you understand me?”
He punctuates his command with a sharp, searing smack of his palm. I gasp and nod mutely.
“You’ve earned this spanking,” he says. “Now behave yourself, or you’ll feel my belt as well.”
I shiver. Bloody hell, I want that, too. I think.
Do I?
I open my mouth to speak, to protest, to give him a smart retort or laugh this all off, but my tongue is frozen. I don’t know how to speak or what to say when he reaches for my hair, weaves his fingers through it, and yanks it. I arch my back but can’t fight this, my wrists are restrained, my breath freezes in my lungs when he tugs my hair.
He slams his palm on my arse, fiery pain erupting on my naked skin. With my hair held firmly in his grasp, I can’t get away from him when he spanks me a second time, then a third, and soon my mind begins to clear. I don’t protest. There’s nothing in the world but me, Carson, and the throbbing need between my legs that flames with each smack of his palm.
His words are clipped and stern, but he isn’t angry, this much I know.
He’s in control.
I gasp when his hand strikes me again, hard and punishing. He said he’d spank me, and he isn’t letting up. My skin burns, but my need flames even higher. I want to fight this, just a little, just to see what he’ll do. I don’t know why. I don’t even question it. But I wriggle and squirm in protest, maybe needing to see how he reacts. Without missing a beat, he traps me legs with his and he spanks me even harder.
“You really do need this, don’t you?” he says, almost as if to himself. “You’ve earned a good, hard spanking.”
My sex clenches, and I feel slick arousal painting my thighs. Jesus, this is so hot. It hurts, but I can’t question how or why rampant arousal gallops through me with every hard, uncompromising smack of his palm. I’m moaning and squirming, dying to alleviate the pressure between my thighs. And still, he spanks on.
Something shifts. He hasn’t lessened the intensity. I can tell by the feel of his palm crashing down, the way I buck and squirm. The way he holds me and administers every stroke of his palm. But the pain is mitigated, fading into heated, throbbing need. I’m engulfed in flames, and desperate for release.
In between strokes of his palm, he runs his warm, rough hand over my scorching skin. I wriggle and squirm, it’s so intimate, when he squeezes my abused flesh.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “You took your spanking so well. I’d love to see how you handle the cane, my strap, or my belt.”
I open my mouth to respond and find I can’t speak. I’m somehow still in the muted bubble of arousal and pain and drunken headiness. I murmur something but the words are incoherent. Still massaging my throbbing skin, he bends down and nips at my neck. I shiver, while he parts my legs and strokes his fingers between my legs.
“Fucking soaked,” he says with a guttural growl. “You’re fucking soaked.”
I am. Bloody hell, he’s right. But before I can respond, he sits me upright on his lap. Intuitively, my legs wrap around him, my knees pressed to his torso, and I stare into his eyes. The effects of the alcohol have dissipated under the onslaught of the spanking he gave me, but now I’m dizzy for another reason altogether.
He’s still fully clothed, though his tie’s wrapped around my wrists and his shirt’s unfastened. I let my eyes roam over his body, drinking him in. I’ve never done this before, stared at him with such unabashed arousal and need. I let my gaze roam from the top of his head, from his slightly-curly, almost boyish dark hair to his dark brown eyes, boring into me from behind glasses perched on his nose. Down to his full lips turned down in a stern frown that makes my heart thump faster. He’s got the traces of a five o’clock shadow. With my wrists still tied, I reach one finger to the scruff on his firm chin.
He doesn’t stop me, his hands gripping my hips. Lower still, I gaze at the strong column of his neck, the faintest traces of signature Clan ink on his neck. I’ve never seen him shirtless, and I want to see what ink he bears.
I reach my fingers to his collar. “May I?” I whisper.
His firm fingers clasp mine and he holds my gaze. “Undress me?”
I swallow and nod. I want to see him. I can’t get the image of him in sweaty gym clothes out of my mind, his muscles and tats and strength hidden beneath these clothes.
“You may,” he whispers. I requested permission and he’s granted it. There’s no question who’s in charge here, and bloody hell, if that doesn’t turn me on even more.
With one tug, he releases my wrists, but wraps the tie around his fist. I swallow. It’s a silent promise of what’s to come.
My hands tremble when I undo the button at his neck, then lower still, each pearly white button giving way until his white shirt hangs open, anchored only in his trousers, his stark white t-shirt revealed beneath his clothing. Together, we pull off his suit coat and shirt, the clothes tumbling to the floor with a soft whoosh. I’m sitting on his lap, drinking him in. He anchors his hands back on my hips, as I reach
for the bottom of his t-shirt and yank it up. He lifts his arms, and together we remove his undershirt.
A muscle clenches in his jaw as he grants me a small show of power and control even though he’s given me permission.
“That’s enough,” he says. “No more undressing me. You’ll remember who’s in charge.”
His brogue is a little thicker than my cousins’, still faintly tinged with the dialect of his youth, and his voice is thicker still, a rumble of a command as if he’s been hidden away and hasn’t spoken in years. Like he’s forgotten how to be polite, how to temper words with inflections. But I like it. There’s no pretense. No question. He says what he means, and he gives commands.
Still, I want to push him. I want to tease him. I’ve unleashed a dominant man beneath the aloof exterior, and I’m fucking addicted.
“What if I want to?” I say with a coy smile. “What if I want to undress you?”
His eyes glitter, and there’s the faintest touch of a smile on his lips. “You’ll do it on my terms,” he says softly, moving my hips just enough so that he can reach for his zipper. His eyes still on mine, he unzips his trousers and removes his thick length.
“Get the condom out of my wallet,” he says, with a curt nod to his pocket.
My hands shake as I take his wallet out, open it, and slide a cello-wrapped condom from inside. I hand it to him.
“Good girl,” he says approvingly. “Very good.”
He hands me the condom between his thumb and forefinger. “Put it on.”
Every other fucking man I’ve been with before has asked, damn near begged, pleaded. He does none of it. He issues commands like he’s meant to, no question in his eyes or tone that I’ll obey.
So I do. I fucking do.
I unwrap the condom and slide it on his thick, hardened length.
“Good girl,” he says again, and the gentler tone of his approval makes me feel wanted and secure. “Now ride me, Megan.”
Once he’s sheathed, I move as he arranges my hips over his lap and I anchor my arms around his neck. With a low moan, I spread my legs even wider. There are damn patches on his trousers where my arousal painted his legs. Any other place and time, I’d die of embarrassment, but not tonight. With booze still thrumming through my veins and arousal racing through me, there’s nothing that embarrasses me.
I want this, and so does he. He wants me. And that makes all the difference.
Holding my gaze, his stern eyes made even sterner behind his glasses, his jaw clenched tightly and hands on my hips near painful, he lifts me and slams his cock into me. I throw my head back and moan, lifting my chest to him, and he responds by bending his mouth to my breasts and capturing my nipple between his teeth.
“Oh fuck,” I groan, my pulse racing when he suckles and nips as his thick cock pulses inside me. “Oh God.”
He lifts my hips again and impales me once more on his length. The walls of my pussy clench around him, and I have to close my eyes against the pulsing need as my body responds to him. With hard thrusts of his cock, he lifts my hips as I rock my body, the walls of my pussy clenching around him.
“Bloody fucking hell,” he groans, bending his head to my neck and sinking his teeth into the tender skin. I moan, unabashed. I want him. He wants me. I want to erase the lines of pain between his eyes, soften the tightness of his mouth. I want him to lose himself in me, for a little while. I want him to take command, and master me, for my own troubles and doubts to vanish into brutal, beautiful, vicious lovemaking.
“Carson,” I groan when he bites my neck again, fear and pain and arousal joined together with every bite, nip, and lick. He releases my hips and drags his thumb to my clit, circling the slick bundle of nerves as he thrusts his cock in me again. I drop my head to his chest, overcome, as he expertly masters every nerve in my body.
We rock in perfect rhythm, and his mouth and hands roam all over my body, suckling, biting, grabbing, taking. My pulse races when he draws my nipple in his mouth, biting down with the hardest thrust of his cock into my core. I whimper and moan, gliding along with him as I ride him.
“Take it,” he groans in my ear. “Every last fucking inch in that tight cunt of yours.”
I whimper and roll my hips.
“Don’t you dare come,” he growls. “No coming until I tell you.”
“Or what?” I breathe, craving even more control.
“Or I’ll cane that sweet pussy of yours and make you come over and over again until the sun rises.”
If he was trying to talk me out of this, he used the wrong tactic.
I can’t stop myself from coming even if I wanted to. Spasms have already started low in my sex, and with one more swipe of his fingers, I lose all self-control. I chase release with my head thrown back and his mouth on my lips, panting and writhing, my sex clenched around his thick cock, spasming as he continues to thrust.
“Naughty little girl,” he growls. “You’ll pay for that.”
He reaches for my face, cups my jaw, and drags my mouth to his as he comes. He moans into my mouth as his hot seed spills inside me, his thrusts harder, more vicious than before. He loses himself inside me but remains in control, and when we’re complete, he stands with his cock still inside me.
“I told you I’d punish you,” he says, shaking his head. His forehead’s dotted with perspiration, his slightly curly hair a little damp. My own body’s a mess. I’m trembling and aching, little red marks all over my shoulders, my neck, my breasts.
“You didn’t say you’d punish me,” I whisper, my breathing still labored with pants. “You said you’d cane my pussy and make me come.”
A corner of his lip quirks up. “The cane’s always punishment.”
Well I didn’t know that.
“But I’m sort of a kink virgin,” I try to explain. But it’s too late. Joined together, he walks me to the bed and lays me down. He draws himself out while I watch. I’m still trembling in the aftermath of climax as he walks to the bathroom and returns with a washcloth. Silently, he cleans me, his eyes on mine.
“I always mean what I say, Megan. Always.”
I nod silently. I’m not sure how to respond. I swallow and nod again.
Wordlessly, he zips up his trousers and walks away. Now that the heat of the moment’s gone, I wonder if I’ve pushed this too far.
How well do I really know him? Yes, he’s a man of the Clan, best mates with my cousins, but I had no idea he was a kinky bastard behind closed doors.
What else about him do I not know?
He’s opening drawers and closets and arranging all sorts of things. And I lie on the bed. I wait. I try to take in details in his room, but I can’t see much in the darkness. There’s a dim light on the bedside table and in the closet, but the door to the bathroom’s shut. What I can tell is that this room is impeccably clean. I wonder if he’s a neat freak.
It’s also completely devoid of anything at all sentimental.
No knickknacks, no drawings from his daughter, no pictures or framed prints on the walls.
“Hands above your head, please,” he says. I’m still fuzzy headed from the drinks, and I’m already getting used to doing what he tells me, so I obey.
“Good,” he approves. “That’s much better now. Now that’s how a good girl obeys. Very good.” Soft restraints are on my wrists, then my ankles, until I’m spread out on the bed and under his mercy. I’m still in the blissful aftermath of my climax, when I realize he’s returned with a slim, slender rod in his hand.
“Um. What’s that?” I ask in a rush of words so it sounds more like “wazzat.”
“A cane.”
I look down at my body spread out on the bed, my curves on display with nothing to cover me but the assortment of red marks he’s left, and I realize how fucking vulnerable I am. I begin to tremble.
“I think I need another shot.”
“I think you need to be taught to mind.”
A shiver skates through me.
He stands
over me with the cane, a glow of light illuminating him from behind. He crosses his arms on his chest and walks around me, like a sexy version of a professor pacing in a classroom.
“The correct response from now on is ‘yes, sir.’”
Bloody hell.
I swallow.
“Yes, sir.”
He nods. “Good girl.” Standing over me, he unfolds his arms and holds the little rod out. “Why are you being punished?”
I swallow again. My mouth’s suddenly dry, and I sure as hell wish I had another shot. “I came without permission.” I manage to reply.
With measured precision, he lifts the rod and doesn’t even swing it, just lets it drop on my bare pussy. Swat. Oh, Jesus. The pain is excruciating, and I cry out from it. Oh my God. People shouldn’t spank people there.
“And what did I tell you would happen if you came without permission?” he asks, like a stern professor lecturing a tardy student.
“That you’d… you’d cane me there,” I say, cringing.
“That’s right,” he says with a nod, before raising the cane and letting it fall again on my naked skin. He isn’t even swinging. I scream from the stripe of pain he lays on me, but even as he continues the lecture and punishment, my clit begins to throb and my sex clenches again.
I’m shaking from head to toe, fully at his mercy.
“And do you think I mean what I say, Megan?”
“Yessss,” I hiss, bracing for the next smack. My pussy’s throbbing from pain and need, when he tucks the slender rod away and kneels on the bed beside me.
He holds my gaze and reaches his hand to my swollen sex. Slowly, so slowly it’s almost torturous, he begins to stroke his index finger along my seam. “So wet,” he says, shaking his head, though his lips twitch. He brings his fingers, still wet with my juices, up to his mouth and suckles them. He groans and I swear I almost come right there, right then, from the unbridled eroticism in the sounds he makes.
He strokes me again and I’m already ready, primed for pleasure, as he dips his fingers into my sex and one at my bottom, fuck. I tense, but he shakes his head.
“Relax, love,” he says. I’m falling under his spell. “And come.”
