I smile against her lips, a dark, triumphant smile.
She wants this. She wants me.
I feel her hands in my hair, over my shoulders, and I freeze all movement.
“Hands on the headboard, Erica,” I command, pulling back to look at her.
Her eyes are half-lidded, her lips parted. She’s lost in a haze of pleasure. But my command cuts through the fog. Her eyes widen, and she snatches her hands back, her fingers curling around the wood spindles again.
A surge of satisfaction, hot and potent, courses through me.
“Good girl,” I murmur, my lips brushing against her ear.
Chapter Seven
Erica
“Good girl.”
The words are a branding iron against my ear. My body trembles, a confusing mix of shame and a thrill I hate myself for feeling.
I’m a good girl. I’ve always been a good girl. I do what I’m told. I go to work, I pay my bills, I try not to cause trouble.
Look where that got me.
He shifts above me, the hard heat of him pressing against my most sensitive place. My hips lift off the bed, a silent, traitorous plea for more.
My body is a stranger to me, a thing of slick heat and desperate need that has no connection to the fear churning in my stomach.
"That was your only warning. Disobey me again, and you'll earn yourself a punishment," he says.
Punishment. The word is a cold shock, but my body doesn't seem to care. A fresh wave of slickness coats my folds, a shameful, undeniable proof of my own degradation.
He feels it.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. "Even the idea turns you on, doesn't it?"
I don't answer. I can't. My throat is tight, my lips pressed together to keep the whimpers inside.
His hips press down on mine, pinning me to the bed and stilling my movements. "I asked you a question, Erica."
My breath catches. The silence stretches, a taut wire of tension. I can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and demanding.
"Yes, sir," I whisper, the word a confession that hangs in the air between us.
His smile is sharp, predatory. He’s not going to just get it over with the way I'd hoped. He’s going to make me feel it. He’s going to make me want it. He’s going to make me beg for it.
God help me, I already am. I just won't give him the satisfaction of hearing it.
He shifts again, and the thick head of him slides down, nudging against my entrance.
I tense, my entire body bracing for the inevitable.
His hands grip my hips, holding me in place. "Relax," he commands, his voice a low growl.
Easy for him to say.
His grip tightens, a clear warning. I force myself to take a deep breath, to consciously unclench my muscles. To yield.
