Page 76 of Dr. Attending

“It’s a spreader bar,” he corrects. “A spreader bar that’s now soaked, thanks to you.”

His golden eyes flash darker as he reaches forward and brings it to my lips. “Clean it.”

I’d love to continue to fight back, to play along. But every nerve in my body is currently vibrating on a new stratosphere of need, and I want to see what it feels like to fully submit to him.

I hold his gaze as my mouth parts. My tongue connects with the tangy metal as he slides the bar through my lips, forcing me to taste myself.

“That’s my girl,” he praises as he drags the bar over my cheek, coating me in a combination of spit and cum. “You love being messy for me, don’t you? But only for me, right?”

His tone is filled with cool indifference despite the depth behind his words.

“Only for you,” I whisper, confirming his unspoken question.

It’s not much, but it’s all I’m able to give him.

There’s nobody else. There won’t be anybody else.

Weston gives me a curt nod and crawls backward, stopping at the foot of the bed.

A ripple of excitement courses through me as he leans forward to attach one end of the bar to the D ring on my left ankle cuff. He grabs my other leg and moves it into place, spreading me wide as he attaches the other side.

I try to pinch my thighs together once he finishes because the sensation of being held open catches me off guard. It’s more vulnerable than I was expecting, and I can feel my heart beating faster in anticipation of what’s going to happen next.

Weston sinks back onto his heels again, his well-defined abdominal muscles clenching with each of his steady breaths. “Tell me, princess. Do you know why I’m about to punish you?”

My eyes drop to the huge bulge trying to fight its way out of his briefs.

“Because it clearly turns you on,” I respond on instinct.

I feel my cheeks flame under his harsh glare, kicking myself for not sticking to my promise of submission.

Whoops.

“One,” he warns, his tone dropping to that delicious octave that makes my lower belly curl with need.

I squint at him. “Are you really speaking to me like I’m a child right now?”

“Two.”

I roll my eyes because Weston and I have always had a constant push and pull of banter—that’s just how we communicate.And clearly, it’s not as easy to turn off as I thought it would be.

“Three,” he counts, reaching down to unlock a lever that spreads the bar several inches wider. “I’m happy to keep going all night . . . you just might not be able to handle it.”

My breath catches because if he’s talking about what I think he’s talking about, he’s absolutely right.

“Well,” I stammer, equally terrified and aroused by the idea of him making it to five. “I’m assuming that it has to do with me walking around in your shirt all day?”

Weston’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t answer me as he climbs off the bed and bends to grab what he needs.

I can’t see what he chooses because the leather bench is lower than the mattress. When he turns back around, he’s holding his hand behind his back.

“Sit up and put your hands behind your back,” he commands as he takes slow, deliberate steps in my direction.

I give him a mock salute. “Yes, officer.”

I can’t help myself from making the joke, but I do what he says.

When I try to track his movements, he hits the bed again.

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