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Suddenly feeling stupid, standing there in a Sublime T-shirt, I yanked my only article of clothing off over my head and threw it on the floor as well. My pierced nipples hardened to diamonds at the sight of Ken’s chiseled body and thick, heavy cock jutting out before me.
His posture was relaxed. He didn’t stand before me with his shoulders back and chest puffed up, like the Adonis he was. He stood like a man who’d left his ego at the door. Open, vulnerable, ready to be wounded.
But only physically.
Emotionally, Ken was more guarded than ever. His features were taut. Expression hidden. He seemed to be watching me from somewhere far away, deep inside his bunker of invulnerability.
Nanny-nanny boo-boo. You can’t get me, his heart taunted from inside its impenetrable fortress, thumbing its nose at me from behind a pane of bulletproof glass.
Challenge accepted, motherfucker, mine spat back, giving his the middle finger.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I announced in my best dominatrix voice. “You choose the implement. I choose the location of the strike.”
Ken’s eyes flashed with excitement.
Taking a step to one side, I swept my hand above the wooden drawer like Vanna White.
Ken eyed me as he approached. God, he smelled good. The piney scent of Irish Spring soap wafted off of his warm muscles as he came to stand beside me. Reaching into the drawer, Ken pulled out a metal meat mallet shaped like a blunt club with spikes on the end.
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
A smile broke through Ken’s mask.
“Put that back. I am not murdering anyone today.”
With a shrug, Ken placed the mallet back in the drawer, opting instead for a large black plastic spoon.
“Slotted?” I asked, hesitantly accepting the utensil. “You are sick.”
Ken grinned as I pointed to a spot on the wall with it. “Assume the position, scumbag.”
Ken tilted his head and arched a brow at me.
“Ugh.” I rolled my eyes. “Please. Assume the position, please.”
Satisfied with my manners, Ken willingly stood in front of his bedroom wall, loose as a goose.
“Hands,” I barked, pointing at the wall with Ken’s torture implement of choice. “Please.”
Ken placed his fingertips on the wall in front of him, clearly not expecting to need it for—
WHAM! I swung the spoon with all my might, slapping the outside of his thigh and leaving three white lines behind, surrounded by flushed pink flesh.
He chuckled softly through his nose.
WHACK!That time, I got him right between his broad, smooth shoulder blades.
Bastard hadn’t even flinched.
SMACK!Left butt cheek.
Ken tilted his head to the left and right, lazily stretching his neck.
CRACK! I clocked him right in the ribs, holding the spoon like a fucking baseball bat.
Ken doubled over in what I hoped was pain, but I soon realized he was laughing as he held his side.
What the fuck? That tickled?
