Page 227 of Reign

“Spoiled too?”

Of course he’s enjoying this.

“Yes. A spoiled slut. Fuck, please—”

“Go ahead. Come for me and say my name when you do.”

I whimper. The order is humiliating. Ridiculous. He already made me beg for the spanking, and apparently that wasn’t enough. The man intends to collect every remaining scrap of my dignity, but his fingers never stop, curling and stroking that same devastating place, his thumb keeps circling my clit and another sharp slap lands across my ass and I can’t—

“Luciano!”

His name breaks out of me on a sob as the orgasm rips through me. My pussy clamps down hard around his fingers, pulsing, wet, completely shameless. I hate the sounds coming out of my mouth. I can’t stop them. The pleasure is too much, too sharp, too good, and his hand is still rubbing the heat into my skin like he’s soothing me through it even while he ruins me.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs once the worst of the shaking starts to ease. “Such a pretty girl when you listen.”

Luciano keeps his fingers buried deep through every pulse, drawing it out until I’m a trembling, dripping mess.

When the last hard pulses finally ease, he slows his movements. “Thank me, pretty girl.”

The word sinks into me again, warm and filthy. My voice comes out small and hoarse. “Thank you, Luciano.”

He spanks me again—lighter this time, but still enough to make me gasp. His fingers keep sliding slowly inside me, lazy and possessive.

“For what?”

My brain is mush. I have to fight for the words. “For letting me come.”

“That’s my good pretty girl.”

He pulls his fingers out slowly, leaving me clenching around nothing. I whimper at the loss. My thighs are trembling, my ass is burning.

He shifts behind me without a word. A second later I feel the heat of his breath against my oversensitive flesh. His tongue drags in one long, unhurried stroke through my pussy, tasting what he just pulled from me. A low, rough groan rumbles from his chest straight into my pussy.

It isn’t for me. It’s for him. The sound of a man taking something he wants and savoring it.

My face flames. The intimacy of it—the way he’s using my body for his own quiet pleasure, makes me tremble harder than the orgasm did.

After several heartbeats, he pulls back and moves alongside the bench. Then his fingers, still warm and slick, press against my lips.

“Open.”

My face burns with fresh embarrassment, but I obey. My lips part and he slides his fingers onto my tongue.

“Suck them clean.”

I do. The taste of myself mixed with his skin is filthy and intimate and somehow perfect. I suck obediently, cheeks hollowing, eyes fluttering half-closed.

It’s embarrassing, but beneath the humiliation, something deep and peaceful settles through me. This surrender is mine because I chose it. And right now, I’m choosing him.

My body seems to understand that before the rest of me does.

I feel impossibly safe.

I hate this. I love how safe it feels.

Luciano watches me the entire time, dark eyes tracking every flicker of emotion across my face. When he’s satisfied, he pulls his fingers from my mouth and begins unbuckling me. First my ankles, then my wrists. His hands are careful on my skin, rubbing the places the leather pressed in, checking for any irritation.

He doesn’t say anything yet.