Page 41 of Pucked Up

"It's okay. I'm asking for it."

Micah lifted his hand, palm open. His fingers trembled. When his hand connected with my cheek, the slap was carefully monitored—sharp enough to sting but far from his full strength.

Heat bloomed across my skin. I breathed through, locking my eyes on Micah's rugged face. He appeared slightly shaken as he curled his fingers into a fist at his side.

"Again."

"Again," I said, voice steadier than I'd expected.

The second strike was more confident—not harder, but less hesitant. The sound cracked through the quiet room, followed by the soft catch of my inhale. My nerve endings sang, sensation cascading from the point of impact down my spine, pooling low in my belly.

Micah's breathing turned ragged. "On the bed," he commanded in a firm voice.

I complied, lying back against the sheets, arms slightly spread.

"Hold me down," I instructed.

He moved over me, powerful thighs bracketing my hips as he captured my wrists in one fluid motion, pinning them above my head. His grip was firm but not crushing—a cage I could break if I genuinely wanted to. The restraint itself was what mattered. It was a deliberate exchange of power.

I tested his hold, pushing against his hands just enough to feel the resistance. Micah's fingers tightened fractionally, a silent response to my challenge.

"I trust you," I whispered.

Micah's expression softened, some of the tension draining away. That made him appear more dangerous and less restrained. He lowered his head until his mouth hovered over the pulse point in my throat.

"Tell me if I go too far."

"I will."

His teeth closed over the tendon at the junction of my neck and shoulder—not breaking the skin but leaving an impression that sent electric currents racing throughout my body. I arched into the pressure, a soft sound escaping my throat.

Micah worked his way down my body, pulling my t-shirt up and off and mapping skin and muscle with teeth and tongue. He placed each bite carefully—shoulder, collarbone, ribs, and the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. It was hard enough to leave temporary marks but never crossed into intense pain.

When he flipped me without warning, hauling me by the hips to the edge of the bed, the display of raw strength sent a rush of heat through my core. His hands spanned my waist, fingers digging into muscle with restrained hunger.

I resisted just enough—not fighting but providing a counterpoint, something for his dominance to push against.

"Like this?"

"Yes," I breathed, face half-pressed into the sheets. "Like that."

He positioned my body, guiding my hips up until my back formed a subtle arch. As he tugged off my sweatpants, he made me vulnerable in ways that transcended simple nakedness.

Micah's palm rubbed over the curve of my ass, the touch almost reverent.

"Count," he instructed.

The first strike caught me by surprise despite my anticipation. A sharp crack echoed in the small room. Heat bloomed across my ass, radiating outward from the point of impact.

"One," I counted, voice clear and steady.

The second came harder, drawing a sharp inhale through my teeth.

"Two."

By the fifth, my skin burned pleasantly, nerve endings alight with sensation. Micah's rhythm was methodical, each strike carefully placed and measured, never twice in the same spot. I counted each one, the numbers serving as a mantra.

After the ninth, he paused. His palm rested against my heated skin.

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