While he wasn’t exactly naked, he was where it counted, and it was satisfying he was nearly as vulnerable as I was. He fucked his fist with vicious need, like a man who had no other choice. I watched the head of his thick cock turn white as he thrust through his tight fingers, stoking the fire raging inside me. The throb pulsating in my flesh shifted, sliding down to the center of my legs.
And with it, the atmosphere in the room changed, like the sun outside had suddenly been blotted out by the clouds. Everything closed in around us. I sensed the reckless hunger building inside Clay, and I quivered in anticipation, my heart thundering along at breakneck speed.
The whoosh of the ruler cutting through the air announced how fast it was traveling, and I heard the smack of it before the pain registered. Agony stormed through my body, white-hot and cruel, and there was no time to consider how to react. I groaned and recoiled from his merciless ruler, using one hand to brace myself and grip the chair’s armrest, and my other hand to shield me from another blow.
There was no need to tell him to stop or utter the word no. When I’d uncrossed my wrists, it had announced that for me. Clay’s tool of punishment clattered to the floor, and as I struggled to heave air into my body, he dropped to his knees behind me.
“Oh, fuck,” I gasped.
Because he flattened his palms to my hot, irritated skin, peeled me apart, and pressed his mouth right between my legs, where I was soaking wet.
And desperate with desire.
The tip of his tongue coursed through my pussy, found my clit, and focused in, fluttered over it. I jolted from the shocking, acute pleasure. I loved it when a guy went down on me, but this? It was insanity, and it’d never felt like this before. Each lush stroke of his tongue caused static in my body. It was so good, it short-circuited my brain, and my body didn’t know how to handle the overload.
I clenched my hand on the armrest, my fingers straining. It felt like I needed to hold on to something while I endured this new type of lashing, where instead of a cold, metal ruler, the instrument of torment he used was the velvety-soft flat of his tongue.
My legs quivered, and when he increased the pressure of his strokes, moans seeped from my mouth. His lips closed around my clit and sucked gently, feeding my building pleasure until the only thought pounding in my mind was my approaching orgasm.
I was primed to explode, and I detonated when Clay’s fingers curled inward. He raked the sharp edge of his fingernails over the swollen lines his ruler had caused on my skin, and the pain mixed with my pleasure, setting me off.
My orgasm was an electric shock as it traveled up my spine and burst out through my limbs. It was icy cold and scorching hot, and my cry of ecstasy filled the room. I reached my hand back to him—either to touch him or push him away from my overly-sensitive body—I wasn’t sure. The climax swept through me violently, draining and weakening and taking until it felt like I had nothing left.
But I wasn’t allowed to touch him, or perhaps he wanted me to stay exactly as I was, because his hand closed around my wrist and pinned it to my back in the same spot it’d been when he’d used the ruler. And he climbed quickly to his feet, moving with efficiency.
His one hand on me wasn’t much of a restraint, especially since my other was free. The thing keeping me in place was the powerful sensation he’d given me, which was still making me shudder with bliss. As it began to diminish and my breathing slowed, his ramped up. He had his fingers wrapped around my wrist, but his other hand worked himself over at a frantic tempo.
Holy fuck, it was hot.
Intense concentration etched his handsome face as he stared down at his furious hand, watching himself jerk off right over my bare ass—the one he’d marked with both his ruler and his fingernails. His chest rose and fell dramatically as he pumped his fist, the tip of his cock brushing against my knuckles of the hand he held down.
When he came, Clay exhaled an enormous breath, groaned loudly, and his fist slowed to a measured tempo. Hot, thick liquid splattered onto my back in spurts, and dripped onto my fingers. His grip on me had tightened nearly to the point of pain, but tension went out of him as he recovered from his orgasm, and I wondered if his hold on me was more about connection than anything else now.
The cadence of his breathing gradually returned to its unhurried pace, and as that happened, awareness rolled through me. I’d come to his house and gotten naked in hopes of seducing him. And yeah, he’d gone down on me, but . . . we hadn’t had sex. I hadn’t touched him. In fact, he’d barely touched me in a way I was used to.
And we hadn’t kissed.
Instead of his mouth pressed to mine, he’d given me red, angry welts on my ass and his cum splashed on my skin. I wasn’t upset about what we’d done. Just disappointed we hadn’t done . . . more.
“Stay still,” he said softly when I attempted to move.
My muscles were taxed from being in the same position for so long, not to mention the amount of tension I’d had while maintaining my posture, but I did as he asked. His fingers slid away from my wrist, and I left my hand where it was, resting awkwardly on my back.
There was a box of tissues on his desk, and Clay went to it, pulling several out, and then returned to me, gently cleaning up the mess on my back and fingers.
His voice wavered, less confident than before. “How are you feeling?”
I wasn’t sure how he meant.
Physically? Emotionally?
The truth was I didn’t know. The welts on my body were still smarting, but I kind of liked it. It was an aching reminder of what he’d done, and mentally, my head was foggy. Not exactly dreamy, but sort of . . . floaty.
It was nice and made me bold.
“I’m feeling,” I said, “like I wish we had kissed before we . . .”
He let out a tight breath. “I can fix that.”
Then his hands were on my shoulders, easing me back off the chair. For the first time in ages, I tottered on my heels like they were brand new. Like I wasn’t comfortable standing or walking in them, even though I wore high heels every chance I could since I’d turned twenty.
Shit, this floaty state was distracting.
I shuffled in place, turning beneath his guiding hands to face him. Clay studied my lips with the same focused look he’d given me earlier, and it didn’t allow my racing pulse a moment to slow down. This time when he touched me, he used both hands. He slid them into my hair so he could cup my face and hold me still, then lowered his mouth to mine.
Like everything else had been, his kiss was not what I expected. It wasn’t controlled or restrained, but it wasn’t deep or passionate either. It felt . . . calculated. It gave me a strange thought that he’d drafted how he’d approach kissing me, even down to the specific angle he’d use. Had he designed it to the exact degree? If I went poking around in his papers, would I find it sketched out somewhere?
His kiss felt planned.
It wasn’t a bad thing, though—just different. It still had heat and intimacy, enough to make me feel lightheaded. There was just a hint of tongue, and as soon as I tried to reciprocate, it was gone.
The kiss was over.
He drew back, keeping my face cradled in his hands, and an emotion I couldn’t place drifted through his eyes. Regret? I hoped not.