Page 84 of Betrayed
“I won’t need it.”
“I’ll give you time to think about one. You use it, and we stop. Doesn’t matter if you think it’s nothing. You say it, I listen.”
“Okay.” The tension in her shoulders relaxes, and I haven’t even touched her yet.
“Good girl.” Those two words ignite her like a match.
Her breath stutters. “Lucian.”
Gregory isn’t here. The place is guarded. We’re the only two in the cottage, and for now, we are safe.
I lift the hem of the flannel and peel it up. She pulls her arms out of the sleeves with my help. She wears a soft black shirt and leggings, hugging her body. My hands move over her.
She is warm, alive, and mine.
Outside, the wind claws at the eaves.
“Over the arm of the couch,” I tell her. “Hands on the cushion, feet planted. You keep them there until I say otherwise.”
She moves obediently and quietly, heat emanating from her. The couch faces the ever-burning fire in the fireplace. I stand behind her and take a moment to observe. The curve of her ass in black spandex makes my mouth go dry. I know she wears no panties under her leggings; she never does.
I run my palm over one cheek, lightly testing. She presses into my touch, stretching like a cat.
Her voice is unsteady but yearning. “How many?”
“Ten you count. Then whatever I want after that.” Her exhale is shaky. I lower, mouth to her ear. “You count for me. You lose count to ten, we start over.”
A shiver ripples through her. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re out of time.” I rest my hand on her lower back, anchoring her. “What is your safe word?”
“Green.”
I laugh. Green means go—her attempt at stubbornness without disobedience.
I raise my hand and let the first slap land on a sweet spot high on her right cheek. The sound is sharp, and the heat is instant. She jolts, then softens under my hand.
“One,” she gasps, surprise bright.
The second, on the left, echoes through the room. “Two.”
“Now, let’s lose those leggings.”
I hook my fingertips into the waistband of her pants. She shimmies her hips to help as I pull them down over her curves, resting the band of clothing at her mid-thigh.
She shivers as the cold air brushes over her bare skin. I bring my palm down on her naked ass, the sound of skin meeting louder than before. She inhales. “Three.”
“Good girl.”
I keep my cadence steady and unhurried. I want her with me, her mind settling into the ritual—the rise and fall, the count, the breath. Her skin warms beneath my hand, pink blossoming. I watch how her fingers curl into the cushion, how her spine stretches out.
The world narrows to her and me. And I bring my hand down again.
“Three.” Her voice steadies.
“Four.” It’s lower.
By “Seven,” her breaths are coming in soft, needy pulls.
