A click sounds in the air, and I tilt my head toward the sound and see him snapping a pic of my ass. Well, let’s give him a show, needing to be the woman he can’t take his eyes off.
I place my palms on my ass cheeks, baring myself to him, and he whips his head to me. Eyes locked, everything else vanishes. My soul, my body, everything in me responds to all of him.
He snaps another pic and throws the phone on the couch by the window before he grips my chin.
“You’re so fucking beautiful. My damnation. My salvation. A breath of fresh air in my polluted world.”
Softness threads through the hunger in his eyes as he glides his palm over my ass and between my thighs. Any moment he will discover how much my body savors his touch. He groans when he finds how wet I am.
I clench my thighs, wanting more of his ministrations. I don’t need much to come. And I need to come.
He smirks, the asshole knowing, but he won’t give it to me.
“So wet, Dahlia. But an orgasm is a reward, malishka.”
“It’s your fault. I wouldn’t even entertain looking at another man,” I whine.
Three slaps unfold in rapid succession, one after the other, cutting my rant short. My fingers claw at his desk, and I flop on the hard surface, not able to hold myself upright anymore.
Between the smacks and the soft caresses, I am a crying, trembling mess.
With my cheek resting on the cold surface, he delivers the rest of the slaps. Along the scintillating way, I drift somewhere else entirely. There is no pressure, no troubles, like I am floating, riding a cloud unicorn. What a surreal feeling.
A sound of deep satisfaction vibrates in his throat. “That’s my good girl.”
His praise only makes me want to take everything he can offer me.
Done, he lowers my dress over my sensitive flesh. I doubt I can stand, but he helps me up by pulling my back against his chest, wrapping his arms around me. My ass burns as it rubs against his groin, causing a whimper.
I hold on to his arms, feeling so damn vulnerable.
“You did so well, baby girl,” he murmurs.
I bit my lip. “It hurts.”
He chuckles. “It’s supposed to.”
“I still liked it.” I sass.
“I know,” he says, sounding calmer.
If this isn’t a stake of possession, then I don’t know what is.
He kisses the top of my head, and for a few peaceful moments, we savor the silence, all the possibilities laid between us.
I tilt my face to him. “Are you feeling better now?”
A sound of approval rumbles in his throat.
I turn to him, placing my palms on his chest. “I deserved the punishment. Tristan doesn’t.”
“The asshole knows exactly what he’s doing,” he grumbles. “And the violinist?”
He’s about to say something more when I cut him off by putting a finger on his lips. “No innocents. He is unaware of who I am behind the pianist.”
Grabbing my wrists, he kisses the inside of my palm, looking me dead in the eyes. “Don’t give him hope, or I will cut off his precious hand. Let’s see how he’ll play with one hand.”
I shake my head at him. “Are you actually jealous of him?”
