Page 118 of Off-Limits
Painting and Damon are the only things that quiet my mind. For that much I’m grateful, because when I’m not doing either of those things, my mind is a giant clusterfuck, spinning around and around, with my mother playing the lead role.
Every single memory I can recall plays on a loop, even the horrible and painful ones. Those memories I struggle with the most. As if sensing my discomfort, a pair of warm, strong arms wrap around my middle, his scent grounding me.
Damon.
The memories fade into the background with his embrace, and I close my eyes, welcoming the serenity. Resting his chin on the top of head, he hums in approval before swaying us both.
“Did you miss me, Blossom?”
“Mhmm.”
I feel his smile, even though I can’t see it. Opening my eyes, I spin around in his arms, linking mine around his neck. He smirks at me, his dark eyes sparkling.
“What can I do for you, Mr Woods?”
“Oh, do you have a teacher or boss kink, Miss Wilmott?”
“Perhaps. And maybe I’ve been a bad girl.”
“Really?”
I feel him harden between us.
I know I’m using sex as a coping mechanism, but Damon makes it so easy. He’s so damn sexy, attentive, and he understands me in a way not even I understand myself. He’s not naïve, he knows what I’m doing, and the only reason he lets me get away with it, is because we are both safe and consenting.
With everything Damon told me about the BDSM lifestyle, trust and communication is what we must have in order to sustain our Dominant/Submissive relationship. I am only grateful I am with a man that adheres to those values seriously, because after we began our relationship, I researched a hell of a lot, and some women aren’t so lucky.
“What are you thinking about, Miss Wilmott?”
“Oh, nothing, Sir.”
I watch his eyes darken as his grip on my hips tighten.
“So how bad have you been, Miss Wilmott?”
“I didn’t finish the mural, Sir, and I may have touched myself…”
The growl that leaves his throat sounds like crunching gravel, and in the blink of an eye, I’m up against the wall, his hand encircling my throat, pushing the cold metal of the collar into the hollow of my neck, but it’s not enough to stop my oxygen.
“Did you now? What are the rules, Miss Wilmott?”
“I’m not to touch myself without your permission.” I rasp.
“Exactly. So do you think you should be punished for disobeying me?”
“Whatever pleases you, Sir.”
His eyebrows hit his hairline.
“Very well then, Blossom. I need you to lift up your skirt, pull down your thong and bend over that desk.”
“But I’m not wearing a thong, Sir.” I sass, batting my eyelashes.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
“You’d die happy.”
“Minx,” he says, smirking. “Desk. Skirt up.”
