Page 194 of Carrick
And I wanted to catch her. I wanted to pull every ounce of ache from her bones. I wanted to be the storm she unraveled inside, and the silence that wrapped around her after. I wanted—I didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t. It twisted too sharply in my chest.
Instead, I stepped away and reached for the crop. Slender. Black. Flexible. Just long enough to deliver a precise sting to soft flesh. When I turned back, she’d stilled—head down, back rising slow and shallow, breath caught somewhere between fear and need. She knew this one. The crop was less forgivingthan the paddle. It didn’t thud. It bit. And it required precision. Focus.
I dragged the tip down the curve of her spine first, letting her feel the anticipation. She shivered. Her breath hitched. Then I brought it down. One sharp flick to the inside of her left thigh. She yelped, hips jerking. Another, high on her right cheek, just under where the paddle had left its mark. Again, across the dip of her lower back.
I worked in patterns, building heat in unexpected places. Behind her knees. The underside of her ass. Just below her shoulder blades. She gasped and whimpered and twisted in her restraints, but she didn’t safeword. Didn’t stop. She took it. And God, I could barely fucking breathe, watching her do it.
I leaned over her, voice dark and low against her ear. “You’re soaking the fucking bench.”
She whimpered.
“Dripping down your thighs while I beat you,” I murmured. “How does that make you feel, kitten?”
She couldn’t answer—her voice lost somewhere in the wreckage of pleasure and pain. So I slid two fingers between her legs and showed her. Slick. Hot. Pulsing. Her body opened for me like a flower’s bloom, desperate and raw.
“Filthy,” I growled. “So fucking needy. You want to cum again, don’t you?”
A breathless moan—barely a nod.
“You’ll take my cock first,” I said. “And you’ll hold back until I say.”
I undid the straps binding her wrists and ankles and caught her as she sagged forward. Her legs were shaking. I turned her in my arms and kissed her hard. Not sweet. Not soft. A claiming kiss. Bruising. Deep. Wet with sweat and tears and the taste of everything we hadn’t said.
Then I lifted her—hands under her thighs, my mouth still on hers—and laid her on the edge of the bed. She was pliant in my hands, hair wild, cheeks stained with tears, lips kiss-bruised and parted.
I stripped, rough and fast, my cock already aching, already leaking for her. When I moved between her legs, she reached for me like a lifeline.
“Please,” she whispered, eyes half-lidded. “I need to feel you. Need you inside me.”
I pressed the head of my cock to her entrance and slid in slow. So fucking slow. Her mouth fell open in a silent cry, her nails digging into my arms. I groaned as I bottomed out, hips flush to hers, my body pressed to her trembling frame.
“Goddamn,” I rasped. “You feel like you were made for this. Made for me.” I didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep, forehead pressed to hers, letting her body adjust. Letting myself feel every inch of her around me. Every pulse. Every sob.
And then I fucked her. Slow. Deep. Grinding. Not to dominate. To possess. To fill. Her hips rolled to meet every thrust, her thighs spreading wider, her moans growing louder. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and held on like I was the only thing tethering her to earth.
“You’re gonna cum again,” I whispered. “But not because I let you. Because you can’t help it. Your body needs it. Because you’re fucking mine.”
She shattered. The orgasm ripped through her like a storm—her legs locked around my waist, her cries breaking apart around my name. Her body convulsed, tightened, sobbed around me. And I let her have it. Because she’d earned it. Because it was the only thing I could give her when the world had taken so fucking much. I didn’t stop moving. Didn’t stop praising her.
“That’s it, Bellamy. Let go. Cry. Come. Fucking break if you have to.”
When I felt myself getting close, I pulled out, stroking myself once, twice—and came hard across her pussy, groaning her name, her name, her fucking name. My cum spilled over her folds, a hot, messy mark of possession.
And for a long moment, I just stared at her. Flushed. Fucked. Breathless. Tears still on her cheeks. And all I could think was—no one else gets this version of her. Only me.
I cleaned her gently, kissed her, then helped her stand again. She swayed. But she didn’t collapse. Not yet. I walked her across the room to the St. Andrew’s Cross, half-carrying her, half-guiding her, her body pliant and trembling.
I strapped her in again, slow and precise. Wrists first. Then ankles. Her arms stretched above her head. Her body open to me, bearing the marks of everything we’d already done.And when I stepped back to admire her—bruised, dripping, wrecked—I felt the growl rise again in my chest. I could see the remnants of my release between her legs. Glimmering. Sliding down her thighs.
Goddamn.
“Look at you,” I said, voice thick and dark. “Covered in my cum. Arms bound. Legs shaking. And you still want more.”
A soft, shattered noise escaped her, and my heart throbbed so hard it felt like grief. But I didn’t let it show. Instead, I walked to the wall, took down the flogger, and turned back to her with one purpose—To finish what we started. The flogger lay in my hand like it knew what came next. Not just pain. Not just submission. But something holy. Something final.
Bellamy hung from the cross, her body already trembling, her skin lit in shades of red and bruise. Her breath came in shallow waves, lips parted. Her hands curled around the cuffs,holding on like they were the only thing keeping her tethered. And maybe they were. Maybe I was.
I dragged the tails of the flogger across her back, soft and slow, letting the touch whisper against welts already earned. Her body shivered, hips twitching slightly. I heard the sound she made—small, choked—and felt it punch through my ribs.
