“Drop—”
“You can get them removed.” She lowers her voice to a dark whisper. “No one need ever know about your racist past.”
“—it.”
“It is past, though, isn’t it? Because being harboured by a reclusive organised crime lord is one thing but shacking up with a white supremacist is quite another.”
“I’m not a—”
“There are like deprogramming things you can go to. Like the same psychologists who talk people out of cults.”
I place a hand over her mouth and shake my head. “I’m ordering you to stop talking about it, okay? I’m not a Nazi or a member of some weird cult.” After counting to ten, I remove my hand.
Her mouth opens and I hold up my finger. “That was an order. Do you remember what happens if you disobey an order?”
“Spankings,” she says with her eyes dancing.
“No orgasms.”
She reluctantly turns her head back to face forward, wriggling her butt against me. The thick lines where my belt marked her are still an angry red. They don’t seem the kind of injury to fade quickly.
To think, I’d spent time yesterday making sure she didn’t need to fear getting hurt when that seems precisely what she wants.
“Your jacket’s scratchy.”
I peel it off and toss it onto the floor, returning to my position with my arms wrapped around Isabelle.
“Now your shirt’s scratching me.”
My forehead bumps between her shoulder blades and I plant a few kisses along her spine. “If this is your master plan, I think you’ll need a new one.”
“If you don’t want me to see you, turn the lights out.” She reaches a hand over her shoulder to cup the back of my head. “Or put your tie to work as a blindfold.”
I leave her side just long enough to collect my tie from the table where she tossed it and switch off the lights. Kneeling on the bed, I secure it around her eyes before removing the rest of my clothes, folding them, and placing them on the nearby chair.
“That’s better,” she murmurs, rolling over to bury her face in my chest, head tucked neatly under my chin. A perfect fit. “Can I touch you?”
“You’re already touching me.”
“More,” she says in a sleepy voice.
Her left palm rests against my chest and I take it in my hand, kissing it for good luck before I move it to my shoulder. From there, she slides it along my arm, then back up again, giving my biceps a squeeze along the way.
“You feel wonderful.”
I stroke along her hip, then cup her backside, able to feel the welts rising. “So do you.”
Her hand curls around my neck, dragging me forward. She steals a kiss from my lips before releasing me. I take her hand again, this time entwining our fingers so she can’t escape.
“Thank you for before.” Her breathing slows enough that I think she’s dropped off to sleep, then she gives a small jerk. “I didn’t want to freak you out.”
I’m struggling to understand which bit she thought would upset me. Marking her? Pumping into her waiting body with such eagerness I half thought she’d break? My hand can still feel the imprint from the leather belt, feel the jolt as the blows landed, juddering up my arm.
My cock stirs, checking in to see if there’ll be a round two.
Isabelle chuckles, low in her throat so the sound has more in common with a moan. She twists her hand out of mine and reaches between our bodies, gripping me and lightly squeezing until my breath hisses out between my teeth.
“I owe you one,” she murmurs, rolling so her weight eases me flat on my back. Her second hand joins the first, fingers overlapping as she encircles my girth. She arches her back, levering herself onto her knees.
