“Bitch mode! I did not. I was just—”
“And that requires a punishment,” he said, firmly enough to shut me up.
“Oh.” I squirmed a bit, which had some rather delicious results from the way I rubbed against his hand.
“Have you ever been spanked?”
“No.” I meant it literally. I’d never even been spanked as a child.
“Turn around,” he said as he withdrew his fingers. “Over my knee.”
My first reaction was to ask him if he’d lost his marbles. But I knew he hadn’t. As far as sex went, my experience had been pretty vanilla, but I read books and magazines, and I knew spanking was reasonably common and, if the articles were any indication, highly arousing.
I also knew that it was very low on the serious BDSM totem pole, and I could only wonder what I’d graduate to once Cole decided it was time to remove the kid gloves.
The thought—and the possibilities—made me shiver.
“I like that,” Cole said, running a finger over my skin. “I like seeing you anticipating. Nervous. Excited.”
“I am,” I said.
“Too much for you?”
“Not even close,” I assured him, then almost melted in the long, slow burn of his smile.
I thought he would say something else, but all he did was tell me to bend over his knee. I felt a little silly, but that soon faded under the sting of his palm against my bare ass. I cried out, then sucked in air through my teeth as a warm tingly sensation spread through me, helped along by the soothing circles he stroked with his hand.
“I thought you would use a paddle or something.”
“And deny myself the pleasure of striking such beautiful flesh?” he asked, even as he landed another blow. Then another and then another. By the time he had given me eight solid smacks on the ass, I was so close I was certain that one more paddle would push me over the edge and send me tumbling into a chasm that I hadn’t entered in over a decade.
He stopped, though, leaving me turned on and bereft and confused.
He chuckled, obviously reading my expression. “You like it,” he said. It was a statement, not a question, but I nodded agreement anyway.
“Here,” he said, then drew me down to the floor and onto a soft, plush area rug. “I have to taste you.”
I expected him to have me lay down, then spread my legs. Instead, he was the one with his back on the floor. I straddled his face, spreading my legs so wide that the stretch almost hurt. Pain, he’d said, and he was right. But there was something about this position. About the pain in my inner thighs. About the angle with which his tongue flicked at my clit. About the way his left hand caressed my ass, soothing the still-stinging skin, and occasionally pressing me forward so that he could suck hard on my clit or fuck me deeply with his tongue.
And there was the way he reached up, found my breast, and twisted my nipple in time with the way his tongue teased my sex.
All in all he was a one-man symphony, giving pleasure with the licks and strokes. Giving pain with the twists to my nipples, the small spanks, and even the sharp nips of teeth against my overly sensitive clit.
Like a symphony, the pain and the pleasure rose, dark and light, swirling and spinning. Building to a sensational climax.
Unlike a symphony, I didn’t know if we would ever reach those ultimate heights. After all, I never had before with a guy, and despite everything that had happened tonight—all the new sensations, and all these glorious new experiences—at the end of the day, an orgasm was still an orgasm, and I couldn’t escape the memories and shame that were tied up with letting that sorry bastard take me there.
But Cole wasn’t him. And he never could be. Cole wasn’t a sneak or a worm. Cole demanded what he wanted; he didn’t steal it like a thief in the night.
When Cole touched me, it didn’t make me want to hide. Instead, it lifted me up.
I thought of Cole. Of his mouth on my clit. Of his fingers on my nipple. Of the pleasure he was shooting through me.
I thought of him and I flew a little bit higher and wondered if, really, this could be possible.
And when I heard his voice—that demand-filled, no-nonsense voice—telling me to “come, come now, Catalina,” I reached out with all my might, thrust my hand into the nearest star, and knew that it was a day for miracles.
Because even as my mind tried to fathom this inconceivable truth—even as Cole cried out my name and urged me to go over now, now, now—my body shattered into a billion points of light that shimmered and burst and sparkled and shimmied. And then, finally, were still and satisfied.
And, most of all, content.
eleven
Cole’s arms were tight around me, my back pressed to his front, my ass nestled tight against him. I felt warm and safe and satisfied, but something wasn’t quite right.
It took me a moment to realize that I was hearing Cole’s voice. Low and worried, telling me that it was okay, that I was fine.
The concern in his voice confused me—until I realized that slow tears were rolling down my cheeks, and when I drew in a startled breath, I tasted salt water.
“No,” I whispered. He’d untied my hands, and now I shifted so that I could lift a hand and wipe away the tears. “No, I’m fine. I’m more than fine.” I rolled over in his arms, saw the unease in his eyes, and wanted to cry for real. “They’re not bad tears,” I promised, then pressed my lips gently to his. “I feel wonderful. You’re wonderful.”
His brow furrowed, as if he was debating whether or not to believe me, and the raw emotion I saw there was so sweet and genuine it made me smile. More than that, it made me laugh, then lean in and press a wet, salty kiss to his lips.