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I pull him down onto the bed beside me, and he comes willingly, his body pressing against mine, warm and solid and real. The kiss never breaks. Just keeps going, keeps building, our mouths moving together in a rhythm that feels both familiar and brand new.
This is what New June wants.
Chapter Twenty-Three
June
His hands are on my face, in my hair, sliding down my sides, and I’m pulling at his shirt, needing it off, needing his skin against mine. The fabric pulls over his head, and I see the white bandage on his side where Morrison stitched him up, and for a second I hesitate, afraid I’ll hurt him. But then his mouth is on my neck and his hands are working the buttons of my jeans and the hesitation burns away into pure want.
My jeans come off. His follow.
We’re down to underwear and skin and heat, and I’m kissing him like I can consume him, like I can take everything he’s offering and make it mine. His hands slide up my back, unhook my bra, and then that’s gone too, and his mouth moves down my throat to my breasts, and I arch into him, fingers digging into his shoulders.
“June,” he says against my skin, and his voice is rough, breathless. “June, I need you to do something.”
I pull back enough to look at him. His gray eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there’s something in his expression that’s vulnerable and hungry and completely focused on me.
“What?”
“I need you to dominate me.”
The words hit me like electricity. I freeze, my hands still on his shoulders, trying to process what he just said.
“What?”
“I want to submit to you.” His hand comes up to my face, thumb brushing my cheek. “I want you to take control. To use me however you want. To make me beg for it.”
My breath catches. Heat floods through me, different from before. Sharper. More focused. This is power he’s offering me. Real power. The kind I’ve been discovering all day, the kind that makes me feel like New June instead of scared, controlled, diminished June.
“Are you sure?”
“Seeing you with that whip, seeing you take control, acting out that stuff with Molly… Fuck, it was hot. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
I look at him for a long moment. At the bruises on his face. At the way he’s watching me with complete trust and total desire. At the man who used to control every aspect of my life now asking me to control every aspect of his pleasure.
Something fierce and hot rises in my chest.
“Get on the bed,” I say. “On your back. Now.”
He moves immediately, lying back against the cheap motel pillows, and I climb off him long enough to grab the duffel bag from the floor. My hands find the handcuffs, the whip, and when I turn back to him, he’s watching me with an expression that makes my pulse race.
I climb onto the bed, straddling his thighs, and take one of his wrists. Click the cuff around it. Then thread the chain through the metal headboard frame and secure his other wrist. His arms are stretched above his head now, completely vulnerable, completely mine.
“This okay?” I ask, because even in this moment I need to know he’s choosing this.
“More than okay.” His voice is strained. “I’m yours, Mistress June.”
The title sends a shiver down my spine. Not ironic this time. Not a joke for Molly or a performance for a drug dealer. Real. From him to me.
I pick up the whip and trail the leather across his chest, watching his muscles jump. Down his stomach. Across his hips. He’s hard, straining against his boxer briefs, and I can see the way his breath quickens as I drag the leather lower.
“You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you?” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than expected. Commanding. “You’ve hurt me. Controlled me. Made me feel small.”
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I have. I’m sorry, Mistress June.”
“Sorry isn’t enough.” I bring the whip down across his thigh. Not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough that he feels it. “You need to be punished.”
He groans. His hips lift slightly, seeking friction, seeking relief. I whip him again, this time across his other thigh, and watch the way his cock twitches.
