Now she understands the difference.
Her breath catches, and then she starts to cry—not the pretty tears from before, but the ugly, gasping kind that come from somewhere deep and wounded. "Why are you doing this to me?"
I lean in and kiss her mouth, tasting salt and surrender. She tastes like her own come and sweat and desperation—and I fucking love it. "Because you like it, Scarletta," I murmur against her lips. "Because you need it. Because every fantasy you've ever written was begging for someone to make you live it." I pull back just enough to look into her eyes. "Now say it."
"I don't—" she starts, but I cut off her protest with deliberate action.
I finger her harder, pumping up, curling my fingertips against that spot that makes her entire body arch. She nearly falls over from the intensity—her legs trembling, her breath coming in sharp gasps. She's so over-sensitized from the chase, from coming and squirting, from the terror and the surrender. It's phenomenal. Every nerve ending is alive, every touch amplified beyond bearing.
"I'm..." She swallows hard, fighting against her own shame even as her body clenches around my fingers. "I'm a good little slut who gets wet when she's chased."
"And?" I prompt, my thumb finding her clit and circling with exactly the right pressure to make her gasp.
"And I come harder when I'm scared," she admits, her voice breaking on the words.
"And?" I slow my movements, making her chase the friction, making her work for it.
"And I need..." Her voice drops to barely a whisper, as if saying it quietly will make it less true. "I need to be owned by someone who knows all my secrets."
"Good girl." I reward her with two fingers sliding inside her pussy, curling up to hit that spot that makes her knees buckle. "Such a good, honest girl. Now let's get you properly restrained so I can really make you scream."
