But when I ask for the pain, he hesitates. It is his way of protecting me, but right then, it isn’t protection I want. It’s the sensual thrill of his palm against my ass.
“Nikki,” he says. That’s it. Just my name. But I hear the question in his voice.
I start to answer, but the words don’t come as easily as I had hoped. Because the truth is that I know now that I haven’t left the cutting as far behind as I had thought. True, I’ve done nothing but dig my own nails into my flesh tonight. But it’s barely been a week since I tossed a knife across my kitchen, angry and scared by how much I wanted to press the blade against my skin and erase my fears and doubts in the consuming rapture of the pain. I’d won that battle, but I hadn’t won the war, and my now-short hair is a scar upon my soul as much as the raised ridges on my thighs are scars upon my flesh.
Is that why I want this? Do I crave the sting of his palm because I need the pain? Does the pleasure I feel when I give myself over so completely to Damien flow from the same place that has fomented my compulsion to cut?
The thought twists inside me, dark and unpleasant, and I force it away. It’s not true. And even if it is, I am safe with Damien no matter what the source of my desire. He’s proven that much to me so many times.
Suddenly I’m no longer bent over the bed. He has me by the arms and he’s pulling me up to stand in front of him. “Dammit, Nikki,” he says. “Talk to me.”
I press my palms against his cheeks and take his mouth with mine, letting the kiss deepen as he pulls me tight against him. I feel his body relax, and the fear that must have been growing in him as my silence lingered now seems to seep out from his pores.
“I need you,” I tell him when I break the kiss. “You. I don’t need that.” His eyes are intent, and they seem to see so far inside me that I know I can’t keep even the slightest of secrets. I take a deep breath and lay out my heart for him. “I don’t need it,” I say, “but I want it.”
I see the slightest twitch of the muscle in his jaw, as if he’s fighting for control.
“Do you?” he says.
I nod, then swallow. My cheeks are warm, which irritates me. I’ve been more intimate with Damien than with any person in my life, and yet I’m blushing? It’s a ridiculous girly-girl reaction, probably instilled by my mother, and that in and of itself pisses me off—and that gives me strength.
“I want it,” I repeat. “And not because I need the pain. But because I need you.”
I need him even more than I can say. I want his hands on me. I want to be the object of his pleasure, and I want to lose myself in the knowledge that there is nothing Damien wants more than to please me, and nothing I want more than to surrender to him.
He swallows, looking humbled by my words. “I need you, too, Nikki. God, how I need you.”
I breathe in deep, cherishing those words more than he can possibly know. “Then touch me.”
He does—oh, how he does—and though I expect the caresses, the passion, the immediate sensual assault, I am jarred off-center by the fervency I see in his eyes, and by the firm line of his mouth. There is nothing else in the world to him except me, and I can see it with every glimpse of him. I taste it in his hard, lingering kiss.
“Bed,” he says, once he breaks the kiss. “Bend over. Legs apart.”
I raise my brows in question. “Bossy much?”
He slaps me lightly on the bottom, and I gasp, both surprised and excited. “What do you say?”
“Yes, sir,” I say obediently, forcing myself not to smile. I turn back to the bed and bend over, my hands firmly on the mattress, my excitement so raw I’m certain that it clings to me like perfume. I no longer question my motives; I am not in an analytical mind-set. All I want is Damien setting my body on fire. Damien thrusting himself deep inside of me.
His hand cups my rear, moving in slow, sensual circles. I feel a momentary wash of cool air on my skin as he breaks contact, and then I cry out in both pleasure and pain as his palm smacks hard against my ass, then presses against the point of impact, the sweet pressure soothing the sting.
Slowly, he slides his hand down between my legs. “Oh, baby,” he says as his fingers slide over me. I’m desperately wet, and I tremble from his touch, so close that I have to fight the temptation to take one hand off the bed and touch myself where Damien is so carefully avoiding.
Then again …
I keep my weight on my left hand, and dip my right hand between my legs. A shiver runs through me as I brush my fingertip over my clit. I’m swollen and sensitive and so very, very close.
“Oh, you have been naughty,” Damien says, as his fingers brush against mine.
I swallow, anticipating another spank, but it doesn’t come. Instead he bends me over more, so that I have no choice but to move my hand back onto the bed if I don’t want to fall over on my face.
Damien takes his hand away and I whimper at the break in contact. He’s not touching me at all, and that’s the most keen punishment he can deliver. I wonder for a moment if that’s what he has planned. To leave me like this, bent over, naked, my ass in the air, waiting and wanting. He might, I know, and I can’t help but smile at the thought. It would piss me off and drive me crazy, but I know that when the punishment is over and he finally does fuck me, it will be all the sweeter for it.
That, however, isn’t what he has planned. I hear the tug of his zipper, followed by the brush of denim against skin as he quickly strips off his jeans. I bite my lip, then exhale in sweet triumph as his cock presses against my rear, my body opening to him in sweet anticipation. Please, Damien. Take me. Please take me now. I want to cry the words, but I stay silent. I don’t, however, stay still. I can’t help it. My body is demanding and antsy, and my hips gyrate against his cock, and his low moan of pleasure only makes me more frenzied.
His hands close on my hips and hold me still, and I can’t help my whimper of protest. He laughs, and I want to cry out in frustration because he is very thoroughly, very meanly teasing me.
Then I feel the tip of his cock on the slick folds of my vulva and I want to cry with relief. He teases me at first, barely entering, and I bite my lower lip so hard I fear I will taste blood. The anticipation is brutal, but sweet. He is so hard, so ready, and he is tormenting both of us as he controls his thrusts, using my hips to steady himself.
I have none of his control. Every inch of me is desperate and demanding, and my muscles tighten greedily around him with every tantalizing thrust. Deeper. Harder. Oh, dear God, please.
“As you wish,” he says, and I don’t even have time to be surprised that I’ve spoken the words aloud, because he’s inside me now, his cock filling me, his body pressed over me as I keep both hands on the bed to steady myself. One of his hands snakes around my waist, and I am grateful for the support. My rear is arched up, I am on my toes, it is as if my body is doing everything it can to draw him in deeper and deeper. I want to take all of him. To consume and be consumed.
And when he pulls gently out and then thrusts back into me with a single, powerful movement, I am certain that the world will explode around me.
“You’re close,” he whispers, and I can tell from the tightness in his voice that he is close, too.
“Yes,” I say, but my voice is so raw I doubt the word is coherent.
“Nikki,” he says. That’s it. Just my name. But I hear the question in his voice.
I start to answer, but the words don’t come as easily as I had hoped. Because the truth is that I know now that I haven’t left the cutting as far behind as I had thought. True, I’ve done nothing but dig my own nails into my flesh tonight. But it’s barely been a week since I tossed a knife across my kitchen, angry and scared by how much I wanted to press the blade against my skin and erase my fears and doubts in the consuming rapture of the pain. I’d won that battle, but I hadn’t won the war, and my now-short hair is a scar upon my soul as much as the raised ridges on my thighs are scars upon my flesh.
Is that why I want this? Do I crave the sting of his palm because I need the pain? Does the pleasure I feel when I give myself over so completely to Damien flow from the same place that has fomented my compulsion to cut?
The thought twists inside me, dark and unpleasant, and I force it away. It’s not true. And even if it is, I am safe with Damien no matter what the source of my desire. He’s proven that much to me so many times.
Suddenly I’m no longer bent over the bed. He has me by the arms and he’s pulling me up to stand in front of him. “Dammit, Nikki,” he says. “Talk to me.”
I press my palms against his cheeks and take his mouth with mine, letting the kiss deepen as he pulls me tight against him. I feel his body relax, and the fear that must have been growing in him as my silence lingered now seems to seep out from his pores.
“I need you,” I tell him when I break the kiss. “You. I don’t need that.” His eyes are intent, and they seem to see so far inside me that I know I can’t keep even the slightest of secrets. I take a deep breath and lay out my heart for him. “I don’t need it,” I say, “but I want it.”
I see the slightest twitch of the muscle in his jaw, as if he’s fighting for control.
“Do you?” he says.
I nod, then swallow. My cheeks are warm, which irritates me. I’ve been more intimate with Damien than with any person in my life, and yet I’m blushing? It’s a ridiculous girly-girl reaction, probably instilled by my mother, and that in and of itself pisses me off—and that gives me strength.
“I want it,” I repeat. “And not because I need the pain. But because I need you.”
I need him even more than I can say. I want his hands on me. I want to be the object of his pleasure, and I want to lose myself in the knowledge that there is nothing Damien wants more than to please me, and nothing I want more than to surrender to him.
He swallows, looking humbled by my words. “I need you, too, Nikki. God, how I need you.”
I breathe in deep, cherishing those words more than he can possibly know. “Then touch me.”
He does—oh, how he does—and though I expect the caresses, the passion, the immediate sensual assault, I am jarred off-center by the fervency I see in his eyes, and by the firm line of his mouth. There is nothing else in the world to him except me, and I can see it with every glimpse of him. I taste it in his hard, lingering kiss.
“Bed,” he says, once he breaks the kiss. “Bend over. Legs apart.”
I raise my brows in question. “Bossy much?”
He slaps me lightly on the bottom, and I gasp, both surprised and excited. “What do you say?”
“Yes, sir,” I say obediently, forcing myself not to smile. I turn back to the bed and bend over, my hands firmly on the mattress, my excitement so raw I’m certain that it clings to me like perfume. I no longer question my motives; I am not in an analytical mind-set. All I want is Damien setting my body on fire. Damien thrusting himself deep inside of me.
His hand cups my rear, moving in slow, sensual circles. I feel a momentary wash of cool air on my skin as he breaks contact, and then I cry out in both pleasure and pain as his palm smacks hard against my ass, then presses against the point of impact, the sweet pressure soothing the sting.
Slowly, he slides his hand down between my legs. “Oh, baby,” he says as his fingers slide over me. I’m desperately wet, and I tremble from his touch, so close that I have to fight the temptation to take one hand off the bed and touch myself where Damien is so carefully avoiding.
Then again …
I keep my weight on my left hand, and dip my right hand between my legs. A shiver runs through me as I brush my fingertip over my clit. I’m swollen and sensitive and so very, very close.
“Oh, you have been naughty,” Damien says, as his fingers brush against mine.
I swallow, anticipating another spank, but it doesn’t come. Instead he bends me over more, so that I have no choice but to move my hand back onto the bed if I don’t want to fall over on my face.
Damien takes his hand away and I whimper at the break in contact. He’s not touching me at all, and that’s the most keen punishment he can deliver. I wonder for a moment if that’s what he has planned. To leave me like this, bent over, naked, my ass in the air, waiting and wanting. He might, I know, and I can’t help but smile at the thought. It would piss me off and drive me crazy, but I know that when the punishment is over and he finally does fuck me, it will be all the sweeter for it.
That, however, isn’t what he has planned. I hear the tug of his zipper, followed by the brush of denim against skin as he quickly strips off his jeans. I bite my lip, then exhale in sweet triumph as his cock presses against my rear, my body opening to him in sweet anticipation. Please, Damien. Take me. Please take me now. I want to cry the words, but I stay silent. I don’t, however, stay still. I can’t help it. My body is demanding and antsy, and my hips gyrate against his cock, and his low moan of pleasure only makes me more frenzied.
His hands close on my hips and hold me still, and I can’t help my whimper of protest. He laughs, and I want to cry out in frustration because he is very thoroughly, very meanly teasing me.
Then I feel the tip of his cock on the slick folds of my vulva and I want to cry with relief. He teases me at first, barely entering, and I bite my lower lip so hard I fear I will taste blood. The anticipation is brutal, but sweet. He is so hard, so ready, and he is tormenting both of us as he controls his thrusts, using my hips to steady himself.
I have none of his control. Every inch of me is desperate and demanding, and my muscles tighten greedily around him with every tantalizing thrust. Deeper. Harder. Oh, dear God, please.
“As you wish,” he says, and I don’t even have time to be surprised that I’ve spoken the words aloud, because he’s inside me now, his cock filling me, his body pressed over me as I keep both hands on the bed to steady myself. One of his hands snakes around my waist, and I am grateful for the support. My rear is arched up, I am on my toes, it is as if my body is doing everything it can to draw him in deeper and deeper. I want to take all of him. To consume and be consumed.
And when he pulls gently out and then thrusts back into me with a single, powerful movement, I am certain that the world will explode around me.
“You’re close,” he whispers, and I can tell from the tightness in his voice that he is close, too.
“Yes,” I say, but my voice is so raw I doubt the word is coherent.
