"Don't what? Point out that you wear the exact kind of underwear you claim to hate?" The fourth strike lands directly on the lace, and the sound she makes is nothing like pain.
It's breathy. Surprised. Something else entirely.
"Four," she manages, but her voice has changed.
So has her breathing.
I smooth my hand over where I just struck, feeling the heat, feeling the way she's trembling now. Not from fear.
From arousal.
"Last one," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
The fifth strike is measured, controlled, and she arches slightly into it before she can stop herself.
"Five." It comes out barely audible.
I should let her up now. Should send her to my room with her lesson learned.
But my hand stays where it is, resting on heated skin barely covered by that ridiculous lace, and I can feel her pulse racing everywhere we're touching.
"You're not scared," I observe quietly.
"I hate you."
"That's not what I said." I trace the edge of the lace, feeling her shiver. "Your body's telling me something very different than your mouth is."
"Stop—"
"Stop what? This?" I slide my fingers beneath the lace, just barely, testing.
She makes a sound that goes straight through me.
"You want this," I say, more to myself than to her. "You've wanted this since I tore that shirt off you."
"No—"
"Yes." I push my finger further, finding heat and?—
Christ.
We both curse at the same time.
Her body clenches around my finger, and the sound she makes is desperate, needy, nothing like defiance anymore.
And I?—
I freeze.
What the hell am I doing?
This isn't the plan. This isn't maintaining control. This is losing it.
I withdraw my hand immediately, grip her hips, and set her on her feet so fast she stumbles.
"Get out," I say, my voice rough.
She stares at me, face flushed, breathing hard, looking as shaken as I feel.
