Page 143 of Nash
"New rules," I say.
She turns to face me. The defiance is still in her eyes, but the edge has shifted. Something quieter is underneath.
"In this room, you call me Sir." Her jaw tightens. Her chin lifts. "You don't come without permission." Her teeth catch her lip."You count when I tell you to count. If you lose count, we start over."
"Nash—"
"Sir."
The word sits between us. Her jaw tightens. Her shoulders pull back. Her fingers curl at her sides.
"Sir," she says. Quiet. The syllable lands heavily in the room.
The word hits me low in the gut. Hearing it in her voice, this woman who calls me Nash, Nashville, and Nasty and has never once deferred to anyone. The surrender in that single syllable sends blood rushing south so fast my head spins.
"Good girl." I cross to her. My hand finds the back of her neck. I tilt her face up. Her pulse hammers under my palm. "Colors?"
"Green." Her voice is steady. "Very green."
"If anything turns yellow, you say it. If anything turns red, everything stops. I stop. Immediately. No questions."
"I understand."
"Say it back to me."
"Yellow means slow down. Red means stop. You stop immediately."
"Good girl." I kiss her forehead. Her skin is warm against my lips. I hold there.
I reach for the hem of her top. Pull it over her head slowly. Her breasts bare, her nipples already hard. I trace my thumb across one, and her stomach clenches. I unzip the skirt. Let it fall to her ankles. She steps out of it. Naked except for the heels and the plug.
I unbutton my shirt. Her eyes track my hands, moving down each button. When I shrug it off, her gaze drops to my chest, my stomach, the line of hair below my navel. I unbuckle my belt. Unzip. Step out of my jeans. My cock is hard, straining, and her eyes fix on it. She swallows.
"Go to the bench."
She walks to the spanking bench. Her fingers trail along the leather padding. She looks back at me.
"How do I—"
"Lean over it. Stomach on the pad. Feet on the floor."
She bends over the bench, and her stomach settles on the leather. Her hands grip the front legs. Her thighs are still wet with my cum, the base of the plug visible between her cheeks.
The sight of her bent over the bench, spread open and waiting for me to touch her, nearly breaks the last clean edge of my control. My cock hangs heavy between my legs, aching.
I rest my hand on her left cheek. Let it sit there so she can feel the warmth of my palm against her skin. She tenses under the touch, anticipating, and I make her wait because the anticipation is mine too. The weight of what I'm about to do settles into my hands, my arms, my chest. The trust she's giving me by staying bent over this bench lands deeper than the sight of her body ever could.
"Ten," I say. "You count each one."
"Ten what?"
I bring my hand down. The first strike lands on her right cheek, firm, the crack sharp in the quiet room. She lurches forward on the bench. The sting registers in my palm, hot, electric, and the sound of it shoots through me.
"One," she gasps.
I rub the spot. Let the sting settle in both of us. Bring my hand down on the left cheek. Harder. The impact vibrates up my arm.
"Two." Her voice shakes.
