“Oooh,” she moaned when he landed a blow that particularly smarted.
“Bend all the way over and put your hands on top of your feet.”
He’d spoken so sharply, she couldn’t help but turn to look at him. She moaned shakily when she saw he fisted his cock in his hand and was stroking himself as he continued to spank her. Even though his gaze remained on his task, he must have noticed that she looked.
“Head down,” he rasped.
She bent farther, stretching her hamstrings, staring blindly at her hands when she laid them flat on top of her feet. Did his low grunt sound pleased? Her thoughts suddenly scattered when he used his large hand to pull back her ass cheeks, exposing her wet outer sex to the cool air.
She cried out sharply when he tapped the slapper over the delicate, aroused tissues. He pressed harder with his hand, peeling back her buttocks and sex lips.
Pop.
Her knees buckled at the concise tap on her swollen clit. She suddenly understood the full value of the crop as a sex toy: small, precise, lethal—at least in Ian’s hand.
He hastily put his hand on her shoulder, steadying her as orgasm slammed into her like a tidal wave. She keened, losing herself for several seconds, lost in the grip of an explosive climax. Distantly, she was aware that Ian held her against him as she quaked, one hip pressed against his body, the other held by his hand, his fingers moving busily between her legs, making her cry out sharply in sustained ecstasy.
Ian was now urging her with his hands, guiding her several feet, as the shudders waned.
“Bend over and put your forearms on the seat of the chair,” he said tautly from behind her. She dazedly leaned down over the wide, plush cushion of the Louis XV chair. She felt Ian moving behind her, his pants brushing her ass, then the tip of his erection. Fresh excitement pierced through her satiated befuddlement.
* * *
He had suspected she was going to kill him, but he hadn’t expected her to do it so precisely . . . so cruelly. He wildly sought and found a condom and rolled it on.
It would please me if you slapped me . . . between my thighs.
He’d almost had a heart attack when she’d said it. He’d been trying to tease her into begging him to slap her gorgeous nipples, which she’d clearly been enjoying as much as he had.
Then she’d opened her pink lips and said that. And he’d said he was punishing her for the sin of impulsivity. Who the fuck did he think he was kidding?
He put one hand on her hip, steadying her, and took his cock in his hand.
“I’m going to fuck you now. Hard,” he said, staring down at the erotic contrast of her reddened bottom and her pale back and white thighs. “I won’t wait for you to come, lovely. You’ve done this to me, and you have to accept the consequences.”
He used his hand to peel back an ass cheek and open her vagina, pushing the head of his cock into her tiny slit. He felt himself stretching her. Her heat penetrated the condom. He grasped her hips to steady her as he thrust into her to his balls, but she jolted forward nevertheless. Her hands scrambled to find a hold. He waited until she’d grabbed the wooden sides of the back of the chair, his mouth twisted in a grimace of restraint.
He began to fuck her, drawing his cock back until only the head was submerged, and then driving back into her until their skin smacked together and a little cry popped out of her throat. His world narrowed down to the vision of her naked, submissive beauty, the sharp, nearly unbearable friction of her squeezing, hot channel taunting him, milking him . . . killing him.
Through the haze of his rabid need, he became aware that his powerful thrusts into her soft, warm body were causing the chair to hop and scoot slightly on the Oriental carpet. It wasn’t Francesca’s fault—he was completely to blame—but he growled like a deprived animal, anyway.
“Stay right there,” he grated out, lifting her hips more firmly in his grasp and serving her pussy to his raging cock, slapping her ass against his pelvis and thighs, too far gone to care if he was making her spanked bottom burn in discomfort. God, it felt so good. He slammed her against his pelvis, his cock jerking viciously at her farthest reaches.
His roar of release scored his throat as orgasm tore through him.
* * *
Francesca just lay there with her hot cheek pressed against the soft fabric of the chair, her mouth gaping open in wonder at the sensation of him coming inside her. All that power, rocketing into her, detonating inside her. She thought she’d remember the first time she felt Ian succumbing to pleasure while harbored deep inside her body for the rest of her life.
His grunt sounded like it tore at his throat. It felt like something vital was being ripped out of her when he withdrew abruptly.
“Francesca,” he said at the same moment he lifted her into a standing position, her back against his front, and turned her toward the couch. They walked—staggered more like it—their bodies not breaking contact while they crossed the short distance to the sofa. Ian fell onto the cushions, bringing her with him. He lay on his left hip, her back pressed against his tie and the buttons of his dress shirt. His warm, sticky, still-formidable cock pressed against her lower spine.
They both just panted and gasped for a minute. She became transfixed by the sensation of his warm breath striking her neck and shoulder.
“Ian?” she asked after his breath had grown more even and he began to languorously stroke her waist and hip.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice low and rough.
“Are you really angry with me?”
“No. Not anymore.”
“But you were before?” she persisted.