Slowly, he turns me around and slides his hands up the backs of my thighs, pushing my nightgown over my hips. The fabric bunches at my waist. He hooks his index fingers into the waistband of my underwear and pulls them down to my ankles. I step free.
“Over my lap.” He guides me forward with his palm flat against my stomach, and I lower myself across his thighs. The denim of his jeans is rough against my bare skin. His left hand settles between my shoulder blades to steady me.
“You good?” He asks.
“Yes.”
The first strike lands on my right side, firm enough to sting but controlled enough to promise more. I suck in a breath at the declaration of intimate control.
“Count,” he reminds me.
“One,” I moan.
He rubs warmth back into the spot with his palm, smoothing circles over the skin until the sting melts into heat. Then he lifts his hand. The second strike falls on my left side, matching the first in force and placement.
“Two,” I announce with pleasure.
Again, he presses his palm against the impact, rubbing warmth into the sting. He brushes his thumb along the curve where my thigh meets my backside, and my hips push toward his hand before I can stop myself.
“Good girl. Breathe.”
The third lands harder. I gasp, and my fingers clutch the bedsheet.
“Three.”
He traces the shape of the mark he just left, gliding his fingertips across my heated skin until goosebumps race down both legs. “Still good?”
“Yes,” I assure him, breathless.
Four. Five. Six. Each one cracks through me and sends heat flooding between my thighs. He alternates sides, never striking the same spot twice in a row, and after every impact, his hand returns to soothe and praise. His voice stays low and steady, never above a whisper.
“Eyes on me,” he reminds me when I announce the seventh slap.
I crane my neck to look over my shoulder. His face is focused and serious, every ounce of his attention devoted to reading my body. When our eyes connect, his grip tightens on my shoulder blade, possessive and protective.
“One more?” he asks, and I nod vigorously.
“One more,” I plead.
Eight lands with a crack that rips a cry from my throat, and he catches the sound by pulling me upright into his lap. I’m straddling him before I register the movement, with his arms locked around my waist and my stinging backside against his thighs.
He palms the back of my neck and brings my forehead to his. “Breathe with me.”
I match his breathing. Slow inhale. Slow exhale. The sting pulses and fades into a deep, spreading heat that rolls through me.
“You did so good.” He presses his mouth to my temple. My cheek. The corner of my jaw. “So good, golubka.”
With shaking hands, I pull his shirt over his head. He lets me. I run my hands over his chest, his stomach, the scars that map every mission and every fight and every promise he’s kept. He watches me touch him with a patience that borders on reverence, like he’d sit here all night and let me trace every mark on his body without asking for anything in return.
But patience isn’t what I want. I want him.
I snatch his belt and yank it open, and he lifts his hips enough for me to push his jeans down. Then I’m sinking onto him, taking him in one slow drop that punches the breath from both of us.
“Look at me.” His massive hands encircle my hips, anchoring me rather than guiding.
Our gazes lock, and I roll my hips. I set the pace—slow, grinding, and deep enough that I feel him everywhere from my clit to my ass. His forehead drops against my collarbone, and his breath comes hot and ragged against my sternum.
“You’re safe.” He says it into my skin like a vow. “You’re with me.”
