I don’t know.
All I know is that I’m not going back to Adam.
Maybe this will be the last night I have like this, peaceful and happy with Ilya. If it is, I need to take advantage of it. I need one more memory to tuck away and use to fuel me, to remind me that for a little while, I did have something good.
“Will you…” I trail off, unsure of how to ask for what I need. “I need a distraction, Ilya.”
Ilya nods and sits up. He pulls me into his lap and kisses me gently, like he does care, like this isn’t just for show.
“Do you want gentle, Mishka? Or you want I should use the flogger?” Ilya asks.
I search his expression, looking for signs of frustration or impatience, but all I can see is a strange earnestness. He wants to help me.
I think, for the first time, that this is real.
I blew it.
“The flogger,” I whisper.
Ilya nods. He kisses me again, more dominant than before. It reminds me of our first kiss in the bar, the kiss Adam had told me to take—the kiss I’d wanted, even before I truly knew Ilya.
“Undress,” Ilya orders as he releases me.
I reluctantly pull away from him to obey, slipping out of my pajama pants and underwear and setting them aside. I lick my lips, watching him as he gets out of bed.
If this is the last thing I have with Ilya, I want it to be something that leaves marks on my skin.
Maybe he won’t abandon you.Maybe he’ll understand.
The hopeful thought breaks through the haze, and I can’t help the abrupt, desperate need for it to be true.
Ilya turns on both bedside lamps, then picks up the flogger. He’d never packed it away, so it’s been on the dresser, promising the lovely sting, every single time I entered the room.
“How many?” Ilya asks as he trails the tails of the flogger over my ass.
I take in a deep breath, lifting my ass to invite more of the sensation. “Twenty?” I venture. It seems like a reasonable number, enough for me tofeelit and remember, but not too many. Ilya doesn’t hit particularly hard, and he takes his time. “Maybe more.”
“All right. Twenty.” Ilya bends down to kiss the small of my back. “Count for me, Mishka.”
I nod, resting my forehead against the pillows and relaxing my body.
The first blow is barely a brush against my skin. “One,” I say.
I’m embarrassed by how much I appreciate it, because Adam always talked about thefakekinksters, the ones who like the show but not the actual pain.
But this isn’t about the pain or even discomfort. For all that I want Ilya to mark me, I want to feelgood, too.
“Two,” I say as the second one lands on my ass with more force. Not much, but enough to get my attention, and the third is the same.
He alternates where the tails land on my ass, but he starts to criss-cross them by the time he reaches the fifth. I groan, my body lax between each strike.
“You look good, Mishka,” Ilya says. “Your skin is turning red. Very pretty.”
I don’t deserve his praise. I don’t deserve his kindness.
I’m selfish enough to take it anyway.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking several deep breaths in between strokes. The leather feels so good against my skin, the sting of it leaving lasting pleasure.
