Page 42 of Salt Kiss
Where I belong. At his feet, with my mouth open and my heart in his hands.
“Yes, sir,” I whisper, and I can’t help it—I want to touch him. Touch the taut, tan skin of his abdomen and the neat black ink of his tattoo. Press my palm to his chest and see if his heart is beating as hard as mine.
But when I reach, he catches my hand. “Touching is earned,” he says. “A prize. And we’re not done playing yet.”
With strength that astonishes me—and thrills me in a sick way—he grips my arms and hauls me to my feet. I’m only barely upright when my shirt is torn off and I’m bent summarily over the desk. My shorts are ripped down to my ankles, and instinctively, I lift up, an unthinking response to the sudden nakedness. His hand is on my neck immediately, pressing me back down. His bare foot kicks my ankles apart; the shorts are kicked somewhere off to the side.
“If you want to stop, tell me,” he says. “But if you want this, stay down.”
“I want this,” I whisper. I press my hands on either side of my head, proof I’m not planning on stopping, leaving. “But. I’ve never—”
It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed.
Mark isn’t embarrassed at all though. There’s a rough eagerness to his touch as his hands drop to the curve of my ass and he slowly spreads it apart. Cool air kisses along the delicately pleated skin of my entrance.
“Has anyone been here before?”
“No. I’ve—I’m—”
He crouches behind me, and one hand moves to stroke over the sensitive opening.
I shudder. Such a small place, and yet one short caress has me burning all over.
“Never?” he asks. I can’t tell what’s in his tone. “You’re a virgin?”
“Yes,” I say, so glad my face is pressed to the leather mat on the top of the desk. I shouldn’t be so embarrassed, it shouldn’t matter. Lots of people in their twenties are; lots of people want to be.
It’s just that I never wanted to be.
Fingers stroke over my rim again, exploring. “It’s such a pretty hole,” says Mark in a low voice. “All tight and lovely, just ready and waiting to be opened. A flower.”
He presses, testing the resistance there, and my cock, trapped against the edge of the desk and hanging rigidly down, surges miserably. I reach without thinking—I have to touch it, I have to have relief—until a sharpsmackmakes me grunt.
Pain stings my wrist and it’s put firmly back by my head. “That has to be earned too.”
I pant a little against the leather, the pain now a sparkling heat spreading up my arm to my chest. Everything is sparkling. If you cut me open, my blood would be sparkling too.
Mark bends over me, his hard member against my ass, the linen of his pants brushing against the backs of my thighs. His naked chest is hot and firm against my back, and the feeling of being pressed down onto the desk is better than I ever could have imagined.
Having someone’s weight on me—harrowing in combat—is so fucking wonderful now. I think I’ll dream of it when this is over.
“This is enough to make someone wild, Tristan,” he says in my ear. “Bent over and exposed. Letting me do whatever I want.”
“Whatever you want, sir,” I echo breathlessly, mindless with lust now. I want—I want—I can’t even name all the things I want right now.
Him inside me. Him on top of me. Him using me until he erupts and all those heavy limbs are finally, finally relaxed. “I want to make you feel good.”
“So sweet of you,” he says, and then his teeth sink into my shoulder. I jerk underneath him, the shock of the pain mingling with the arousal churning in my stomach. His weight leaves me, a hand pressed between my shoulder blades to keep me where he wants, and then I hear the drawer next to my hip roll open. There’s the sound of searching, rustling—he’s looking for something, but I don’t think even he knows what he’s looking for—and then I hear a pleased grunt. Before I even have the time to wonder what it is that he’s found, there’s a sharp, flat sound, and a stripe of fire sears along the side of my ass.
“A ruler,” Mark says. Almost cheerfully. “An old one, probably from when this was my grandfather’s office. They made them thicker back then.” He whacks me again with it and I jolt.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say into the leather mat on the desk. “But don’t stop. I—want it.”
And I do, I do want it. It hurts, but it’s the hurt that comes with laps or push-ups, with long drills or nights spent out in the cold, sleeping on the ground. It feelsrightsomehow, like it’sforsomething—except instead of it being for my country, for my fellow soldiers, for goodness and bravery and loyalty, it’s for him.
For Mark.
