Page 22 of The Real Mason
Muscles tense under my touch, but she opens fractionally.
I smile at her attempt to obey while doing the bare minimum. “More.”
Those fantastic thighs spread another inch.
“Farther.”
She gives a long, exaggerated sigh before moving her knees apart as far as the bench will allow.
I’d laugh if it wouldn’t ruin my whole stern-dictator routine. I’m so hard my cock presses painfully against the zipper of my jeans. I can’t afford to be impatient. I need to make it through the next couple of hours, but all I want at the moment is to take her right up against the first available surface.
But there’ll be other times for that. I hope.
Now, I focus.
I move to stand by her feet, nearly salivating at the sight of her lush, naked ass propped up, all ready for use. There are so many ways to mark her pretty skin, I barely know where to start.
The first time I saw her naked, I got preoccupied imagining what her pale skin would look like after a good paddling. I repressed the urge, but as the months passed, it became an almost overwhelming need. Toward the end, I had to clench my hands around the bedposts to keep from smacking her delicate flesh.
There’ll be no fighting the urge tonight.
I palm her plump, rounded cheeks, and she flinches.
I lean down and brush my lips over the curve of her ass. “I’m glad you’re here. Thank you for trusting me.”
There was a moment earlier when I was sure she’d walk. One suspended minute when the desire to flee gleamed bright in her eyes. It was pure hell. All I wanted was to go to her, cuddle her close, and promise I’d do whatever was necessary to keep her. But I couldn’t do that, so I forced myself to stay still.
Any other action would be a lie. And I stopped lying that night at her house when I confessed the truth.
“I’m scared,” she says, her voice nothing but a soft rasp.
“I know you are.” I study the pretty pink staining her cheekbones, those full, parted lips, the way her curls fan across the black leather. The perfect picture of submission. If she wasn’t new to this, I’d get my camera and capture her expression so she could see it for herself. But she is new, and I don’t want her any more anxious.
I rub my hands in circles over her soft, pale skin, increasing my pressure in incremental amounts.
Her expression is closed— eyes pinched tightly shut, lips pursed. She wiggles her hips, tenses her shoulders, knits her brows. She’s sending all sorts of signals that she’s not happy.
I ignore them in favor of the best test of her inner feelings about her helplessness. My fingers slide, effortlessly, through her wet folds. She’s slippery as hell.
I place my free hand on her back and swirl over her clit. Her hips jerk, and a muffled, strangled sound comes from the top of the bench.
I suppose that answers that question.
Since she’s not watching me, I grin, becoming transfixed by her spread legs. She’s so open to me right now—like an invitation, even while she squirms.
Betraying none of my almost savage lust, I ask casually, “Tell me, are you unhappy lying here spread out, waiting to have your ass smacked?”
“Yes,” she squeaks, twisting as though to get away.
I thrust first one, then two fingers inside her tight pussy. “Then why do you think you’re excited?”
Her hands clench where they rest by her head. She attempts to close her legs to hide her arousal.
“Legs apart.” I slap her thigh—not hard, but enough to reinforce my point.
Instantly she goes still. Her nails scrape across the leather.
That ass, pushed high in the air, taunts me. I want nothing more than to fuck her ruthlessly, just to get it out of my system so I can concentrate. But we’re in the thick of it now, and I have a lesson to teach—a lesson she’s apparently enjoying as much as I am. A rush of pleasure and hope threatens to consume me, but I contain it.
