Page 193 of Carrick
I let my palm fall in a firm slap across her left cheek. The crack echoed off the walls. Her body jerked, and a sharp gasp tore from her throat. I waited a beat. Then brought my hand down again—right side this time.
She moaned beautifully. Low. Throaty. Needy.
Another slap. Then another. I built a rhythm, alternating sides, letting the sting settle before striking again. Each time I touched her, her body leaned into it a little more. Relaxing into the pain like it was a familiar melody she’d forgotten the words to.
“Color?” I asked, voice low and close.
“Green,” she gasped.
“Good girl.”
I rubbed the heat into her skin, massaging the sting in deep, letting her feel my hands in the aftermath. Then I leaned in, pressed a kiss to the base of her spine. “You take pain like a goddess takes prayer, Bellamy,” I whispered. “Like you’ve been waiting your whole life for someone to hurt you the right way.”
She whimpered.
I reached between her thighs and slid my fingers through the slickness there. Still soaked. Still needy. “Fuck, you’re dripping,” I muttered. “You love this. Being open. Exposed. Bruised just for me.”
Another soft moan.
I pushed two fingers inside her, slow and deep. She clenched around them, her back arching, her hips rocking into the motion. But I pulled away before she could crest. Took my hand and sucked her taste off my fingers, licking them clean while she writhed on the bench.
She sobbed. Not from the pain. From denial.
“I didn’t say you could cum again,” I murmured. “You don’t cum until I make you forget your own name.”
She let out a strangled, aching little cry that made my cock throb behind my zipper.
I reached for the paddle next. Black leather, wide enough to cover her entire cheek in a single strike. Thicker than my hand. Heavier. It would bruise.
I let her hear it first—smacked it softly into my palm. She stiffened, her fingers clenching against the straps.
“This is going to hurt,” I told her, stepping behind her again. “And you’re going to thank me for it.”
I brought the paddle down on her right cheek—a deep, resonant thud, not a crack. Her whole body jolted, then released a long, shuddering breath, like she’d been holding it for years.
She needed this. Every fucking strike.
I swung again—left side—drawing a gasp from her lips. Then center. She moaned, the sound raw and wrecked, as marks bloomed across her skin in rising bands of pink and crimson, heat radiating from every one.
“You’re taking this so well,” I said, dragging the paddle gently along the curve of her ass between hits. “I knew you would. I knew you could.”
Another strike. A sound caught in her throat—high and trembling. She was slipping. Falling deeper into that soft, dark place where everything narrowed to sensation and sound and my voice. So I gave her more.
“You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” Thud. “My brave girl.” Thud. “Taking this pain like it’s love.”
She sobbed again—louder this time. I crouched behind her and ran my tongue along the seam of her folds, claiming her as my own. She arched so sharply it almost broke my hold on her.
“Stay still,” I growled. “Or I stop.”
She froze instantly. I tasted her again. Sucked her clit between my lips once, just to hear the way she cried out. But I still didn’t let her fall over the edge. Not yet.
I stood, gripped her hip with one hand, and brought the paddle down in a final, bruising strike across both cheeks that made her whole body convulse. Then I leaned close, lips to her ear. “You’re doing so fucking good, kitten,” I whispered. “You’re mine. All mine. Every breath, every bruise, every fucking tear.”
Her head dropped. Her body trembled.
And still—she was green.
We weren’t even halfway through. And I could already see her cracking. It was glorious. She was addictive, like this. Not just because she was beautiful. Because she was fighting for release the only way she knew how—by surrendering everything she had to me. Because she trusted me to be the edge and the arms that caught her after.
