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“One. You moved your hands. Two. I am going to enjoy this.”
Shit. Panic galloped in. My hands were on his shoulders.
While I was still figuring out why his words had made me hornier, he took my wrist and towed me out from the wall. Then he strode to the bed, sat down, and patted beside it.
His erection was so obvious I could have taught penis anatomy with a picture of the gray pants he wore.
“Come here.”
I actually had to mentally brake myself, so as not to twist my foot on the floor. I felt like a teenager about to get chastised. Only this wasn’t going to be just a grounding.
“Come.”
So assured, damn him, and his eyes devilish. The man was supremely confident I’d come when called and I... Truthfully, it made me want to go over there, kneel at his feet, and suck on that cock he displayed.
Hesitantly, I walked his way, only a little sideways, so that I might or might not be going there.
“Do you remember how hard I can hit, Jazmine?”
Duh. You fucker. I pressed my lips into a line and nodded. I think my eyes were on fire, I couldn’t help staring at his lap.
“If I have to stand up and grab you, those bruises are going to be twice as big.”
Bastard. “You’re supposed to help me heal!”
He gave me an assessing look. “They will. Your hand.” He reached out and stupidly I let him take mine and pull me to him. His palm massaged up and down my lower back. “Lie down over my lap, hands on the floor.”
“This doesn’t mean I’m yours or that I’m going to do this again. Experiment. Only.” I was babbling.
For the first time he grinned.
Amusing, was I? “Fuck. I’m so confused.” I was whining now. Shit. I was a wimp, a pussy, and a few other words I never wanted to be.
“Don’t over think it. You like being made to do things. You like doing what I tell you. Nod.”
What a trick. He’d made it easy for me and he knew it. Slowly, shifting my weight from foot to foot, I plucked up my courage, and I nodded, but I whispered, “Just this once.”
“Lie down.”
I was still naked.
I could see the headline – female journalist is traitor to the feminist cause. What did it matter? I’d already been tied up and tortured. I owned the woman kidnapped and turned into sex slave headline.
I sighed, looked once more at the erect present nearly poking a hole in his pants then lowered myself onto his lap until my hands were flat on the floor. Through the wet strands of my hair, I found myself looking at the silver angel on my wrist. I blinked at this pretty reminder of ugliness. Thankfully, Pieter began to wind my hair around his fingers, diverting me from thoughts of Gregor.
The tension and small pains as his fist gathered my hair were familiar, and as the pressure increased, I sighed with pleasure. This, I could grow to love.
“What an ass.” He explored there while he held me in place. All I wanted was to lie on his lap with my head pulled back and my eyes closed, letting him do it, lost in the sensations as he smoothed his fingers over the mounds of my ass and into the divide. He teased me, swirling close to my nether hole, before tickling up my back and exploring elsewhere. Sometimes he brushed over old hurts and made me hiss. And repeat. Mentally I was begging him to touch between my legs. My moans made him take another turn of my hair around his fist.
Nothing existed but this moment. Where we were, the past, everything, I let it drift away.
If I shifted on my hands, it was a distant thing, barely registered.
Every so often, he delivered a light smack. The frequency increased until I was both anticipating and dreading the next. The reverberations in my flesh and his gentle touches combined with lying naked across his lap, and trapped, was locking me into a mindset. What he did, I endured, because he was doing this to me. My normal logic died a fast death.
Once only, when I instinctively tried to escape, he locked his leg over mine until I ceased wriggling.
Damn, I liked that. I fucking loved being trapped like this.
