“Perfect.”
He traces a finger down my sternum, between my breasts, circling my navel, moving lower.
But instead of giving me relief, he flips me over, face down. My nipples painfully tight against the polished rock, arse in the air.
“A punishment’s in order, for skipping our arranged meeting yesterday.”
The first slap lands before I can brace for it, his palm cracking against my right cheek. The sting radiates outward,sharp and shocking. I yelp, trying to push up, but his hand plants between my shoulder blades, holding me down.
“How is that pressing pause?”
But he doesn’t provide an answer beyond another slap, left side this time. “Stay still.”
He works methodically, alternating sides. Each strike landing harder than the last.
The pain builds into a throbbing burn that makes my eyes water. But underneath the pain, something else builds too. A dark heat that makes my thighs tremble.
“Count them,” he orders, his voice still flat. “Out loud.”
“Eight,” I gasp when the next one lands.
“Start over. Count all of them.”
My hips buck against the counter at the next blow. “One.”
“Good girl.” Another slap. “Keep going.”
By the time I reach twelve, my arse throbs with heat, probably bright red, and my breath comes in strangled gasps. But my pussy is drenched, clenching around nothing, desperate for his fingers or his cock.
His hand smooths over the heated flesh, almost gentle now. “Have you learned your lesson?”
“I’ve learned that you’re a controlling bastard who gets off on denying me.”
His fingers push inside me, pumping in and out while his thumb circles my clit.
“Wrong answer,” he murmurs against my ear, body draped over my back. “The lesson is, when you’re fulfilling your contract negotiations, this body belongs to me.”
He works me ruthlessly, fingers curling to hit that perfect spot while his thumb maintains steady pressure.
And my orgasm builds faster than before, spurred by the pain, the humiliation, the sheer wrongness of being spread outon his kitchen island. The small part of my brain that licked cum off the bike shed floor lights up, glowing, eager for more.
“If you want to come,” he says, voice dropping to that gravelly purr, “beg.”
The orgasm hovers just out of reach, so close.
A plea nearly escapes, and I clench my jaw, determined to hold this one line against him. “No.”
His fingers withdraw immediately and my groan of frustration echoes through the kitchen. He steps back, leaving me bent over the island, arse burning, clit swollen and aching.
“Suit yourself.” His footsteps retreat towards the doorway. “We’ve got all weekend for you to change your mind. Now come on. Time to shower before I decide what we’re doing next.”
I push up slowly, muscles protesting. He leaves the kitchen, completely unconcerned, whistling under his breath.
My hands curl into fists against the counter, nails biting into my palms.
I won’t beg.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
