Page 15 of Candy Cane Chains

I swallow hard, my heart pounding against my ribs. His eyes hold mine captive, those icy blues darkening like a storm rolling in. He steps closer, his hand sliding down to encircle my throat. Not squeezing, just...claiming.

"Julian-" My voice is barely a whisper. I'm not sure what I'm asking for. Mercy? Or…for what his eyes are promising?

Maybe a chance to make it up to him because his disappointment slices through me like a physical pain.

His grip tightens slightly, cutting off my words. "You wanted to run. Now, you'll face the consequences."

His other hand dives into my hair, gripping tight and tugging my head back. His mouth descends on mine, harsh and demanding. I gasp, and he takes advantage, his tongue invading, plundering. I can't breathe, can't think. All I can do is feel.

Suddenly, he spins me around, my back to his front. His arm wraps around my waist, lifting me off the ground as he carries me into the living room. He deposits me on the plush rug, his body covering mine instantly.

"Julian, please-" I try again, but his fingers are already sliding up my thigh, pushing aside the lingerie I'm wearing. It's the only thing he lets me wear, lacy things that give him plenty of access. His fingers delve into my folds, finding me wet despite my fear.

"You see, Ivy," he murmurs against my ear, his fingers circling my clit. "Your body knows who it belongs to. Even if your mind hasn't caught up yet."

He thrusts two fingers inside me, hard and deep. I arch off the floor, crying out. But he doesn't relent. His fingers pump in and out, his thumb rubbing tight circles on my clit. Pleasure builds, sharp and intense. And then it crashes over me, my body convulsing as I come.

"You said you would give me everything. And I intend on taking it." I groan as his hand keeps moving.

But he doesn't stop. His fingers keep moving, wringing another orgasm from me, his mouth joining in a mix of pain and pleasure. He sucks and bites until I'm overwhelmed and somehow coming again.

And again. And again. Until it's too much. Too intense. I'm writhing, begging him to stop. Begging him for more. Confusion and desire war within me, tears streaming down my cheeks.

He licks them away, his tongue hot against my skin. "That's it, sweet girl," he growls. "Cry for me. Let it out."

He forces another orgasm from me, his fingers relentless. I'm sobbing now, my body shaking uncontrollably. It's too much pleasure. Too much pain. I can't take it anymore.

"Please, Julian," I beg, my voice hoarse. "Please stop."

His fingers slow, his touch gentling. He strokes me softly, coaxing me down from the edge. His mouth finds mine again, kissing me gently this time. Tasting my tears, my pleasure, my pain.

He shifts me so that I'm not longer bent before him, instead cradled in his arms. I curl against his chest, trembling, as my breathing slowly steadies. His fingers trace gentle patterns on my back, a stark contrast to his earlier intensity.

"You took your punishment so well, sweet girl." His voice rumbles through his chest where my head rests. "I'm so proud of how you handled that."

The words sink into me like honey, warm and sweet. I hate how much I need to hear them, how my chest swells with pride at his approval. It's wrong. All of this is wrong. But I can't stop the flutter in my stomach when he strokes my hair.

"And now that you have been punished, I need to hear you say it, Ivy." His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet those ice-blue eyes. "Ask for my forgiveness."

I swallow hard. "I'm sorry for trying to leave. Please forgive me."

"Good girl." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "I'll always forgive you, sweet girl. But don't disobey me again. You understand?"

I nod weakly against his chest, a small whimper escaping my lips. The world spins as he lifts me into his arms, cradling me against him as he carries me toward his bedroom.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he murmurs, his footsteps echoing through the hallway.

The master bath is all marble and chrome, clinical in its luxury. He sets me on the counter while he runs a warm bath, adding oils that fill the air with lavender.

My eyes drift closed as he tends to me with careful hands, his touch impossibly gentle now. Water laps at my skin as he lowers me into the tub, and I try not to think about how natural this feels - how right - when it should feel anything but.

I didn't realize how exhausted I was until Julian's arms slide beneath me, lifting me from the cooling bath water. I had almost fallen asleep in the tub.

Droplets cascade down my skin as he wraps me in a plush towel, dabbing me dry with methodical care. His touch is reverent, possessive - so different from the punishing grip of earlier.

He carries me to our bed - his bed, I correct myself, though the distinction feels hollow now. The sheets whisper against my skin as he tucks me in, the Egyptian cotton soft as silk. He's dressed me in one of his shirts, the fabric drowning my small frame, saturated with his scent.

"Sleep now, sweet girl." His fingers card through my damp hair, and I don't even have it in me to internally protest how much I love the touch.

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