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His voice is low in his chest. It always gets that way when he wants me badly.
My fingers are on my pussy, soaking from my arousal and his cum. I swipe them over, gathering the wetness, and circle my clit. Touching myself the way he touches me.
“Good girl.” His voice is so low, it’s just a rasp. “Stay put, keep touching yourself.”
I hear his boots on the floor. Then he’s fastening my leather play collar around my throat. His rough fingers are so gentle, moving my hair aside. Pressing a kiss to the top of my head when he’s done. There’s a second, where his hands leave my body, when I’m tempted to beg for him to touch me instead.
My fingers are good, but his are better.
He doesn’t tell me I can stop stroking my clit, so I don’t. He moves about in the corner of my eye. Straps jingle and I know he’s fastening the restraints to the bed. The lights go out and the fireplace flares, chasing away the nighttime cold. Then the drawer where he keeps our toys slides open.
He’s choosing what he wants.
A thrill goes down my spine. My fingers move faster and pleasure sparks. Hitting me hard and fast.
“Sir,” I gasp.
My eyes squeeze shut, but I don’t stop.
“What’s wrong, darling?”
“I’m going to come,” I gasp.
“Stop touching yourself.”
His voice rings out, deep and controlled. My fingers drop and I wriggle back into position, elbows on the bed. The pleasure tightening in my pussy burns. It’s taking everything I have not to drop my hips down and rub against the bed.
He’d spank me for that. I know from experience.
That thought takes root in my head. I don’t brat very often because it always leaves me exhausted the next day. But when he responds to it and puts me in my place, it’s so satisfying. There’s nothing that hits my reset button better.
My hips undulate, without meaning to. He makes a harsh noise in his throat.
A warning not to push him.
My heart picks up. In that split second, I change the dynamic of the night by lowering my hips to the bed and pushing myself up on the heels of my palms. He turns, shirt open. Chest heaving as his lids fall, eyes distracted by my pussy rubbing on the bed. Making a wet spot at the foot of his side.
He reaches down. For a second, I think he’s taking his cock out.
Then he strips his belt off instead. Big, lean fingers fold it once.
And crack it. So loud it splits the room like a gunshot.
My toes curl. I sink back, sitting on my heels. Maybe a little startled by his reaction. He crosses the room and kneels one leg on the bed, taking me by the chin to turn my face up. His eyes are hungry. Pupils blown, lids heavy with lust.
“Bad girl,” he says quietly, his voice curling.
His thumb drags across my lower lip. Rough, edged with warning. I swallow hard as he pushes it between my lips, making me gag on purpose.
“You know what you did,” he says.
He eases my mouth open with the pad of his thumb on my tongue. Taking me by the chin, he bends my head back. I have a fleeting impression of glittering hazel before I shut my eyes. He spits hard, like he’s angry. It hits my tongue and he closes my mouth, holding it shut until I swallow.
Sometimes it’s hard to balance this Westin with the one I’m married to, the ever patient father of my children. This Westin can be cold, cruel, and harsh. He pushes me to my limits and makes me feel things nobody else can.
But the other Westin always comes back to me in the end. Hands gentle, holding me. Whispering praise against my neck.
Bravely, I sink into the deep end.
