Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
He pulls away from me only enough to elicit an involuntary whimper, then he’s back with something else harder, and though the burn fades quickly, the pain is deeper and somehow even more humbling. The loud whack echoes in the small space, and my clit throbs with the impact.
“Good girl,” he approves. “You’re doing such a great job. Let go. Release it. Feel, baby.”
And I do. I feel the touch of a man who once loved me. Who maybe loves me still. And I can’t remember what happened or where we are or even why. My thoughts are jumbled and confused, but there are tears in my eyes. It isn’t from the pain, though, but something deeper that he’s drawn to the surface with this pain, and I hate it. This was not a good idea.
His voice sounds so far away. “That’s it,” he says. He’s kneading my bruised, punished flesh with his strong hands. “Such a good girl,” he approves. Tears fall freely now, and he brushes them away with one hand. I’m still submerged in darkness behind the blindfold, but it only makes me more aware of everything around me. His heavy breathing. How strong and powerful his hands are as he kneads my bare skin. The way my core tightens and contracts when his hands brush the inside of my thighs.
His hands are at my ankles and the cuffs are undone. My ankles are free, my wrists still bound, and then I’m in his arms and his mouth is at my ear, his voice soothing and a little sad. “Time to role play a little aftercare.”
Chapter Eight
Axle
Watching Chandra stretched out on the bench, I want to lift her in my arms and tuck her into me, so deeply and securely she can’t ever flee again. She’s still blindfolded, but the blindfold is damp with her tears and they’re seeping beneath the edge. I brush them away and unfasten the cuffs at her wrists so I can draw her to me.
When I offered to show her what this was like under the thin guise of research, a warning twang in my gut told me this was a bad idea. I knew I’d get turned on dominating her. I knew I’d deal with a raging hard-on and the inability to eviscerate the memory of her from my mind tonight, tomorrow, maybe ever. But I didn’t think of how this would affect her.
She always was an emotional girl, a sweet little thing who wore her heart on her sleeve. She’s strong, though. So damn strong. I’ve seen her withstand pain that would’ve made others crumple, then rise above when others failed.
But when she cries, she undoes me.
When she’s completely unrestrained, she lays on the bench like the good girl she is, waiting for me.
“C’mere,” I say, my voice gruff in the quiet room, belying the tenderness that warms me through. She fumbles at the blindfold.
“No,” I instruct. “Leave that for me.”
Her hands obediently fall to her sides. I pull her head against my chest and unfasten the blindfold. The damp, silky fabric falls to the ground. I kick it to the side and pull her to me. She folds into my chest easily, as if she was meant to be there, and here, in this moment, I know the truth in a way I never did before: she was. She was meant for me, and I fucked that up.
Our decision to break up was mutual, but hell if it wasn’t a mistake.
I left her once. I won’t do it again. When the snow clears, and she leaves, I could let her vanish into the vastness of NYC.
I can’t let that happen.
I don’t know what it will take to bring her back to me but holding her vulnerable form against mine is a goddamn start. She fits so easily against my chest, soft and sweet and tender. I kiss her forehead and brush the hair back from her face, then take her hand and lead her to a nearby bench. I sit down and pull her onto my lap.
I half expect her to protest, but aftercare is often part of a scene, and if she doesn’t like this, she has her safeword. But she says nothing. Not a word. Even her tears have stopped, and now she just lies her head on my chest, one hand splayed gently against my shoulder, the other tucked up against her. We sit there in the quiet, while I run a hand along the back of her head.
“It’s intense, huh?” I ask her.
She nods. After a moment, she says, “Wouldn’t be as intense if it were with someone else, but yeah. Intense is a good word.”
Something in me warms at that, but at the same time my mind tells me stop. Run. Danger zone.
“Those little spankings I gave you when we were dating were nothing like that,” I say. “But boy did I want to give it to you a time or two.”