Oh, Jesus.
Once I’m secured, he finishes the bloody job, just yanks my dress off like a child unwrapping a Christmas present. He gently pushes me to my feet, slithers the fabric right down the length of my body until it hits my ankles, then he wads it into a ball and tosses it to the corner of his room.
I’m so exposed. So vulnerable. I begin to tremble a little.
Now my thighs, those aren’t as bad as the belly. They’re full alright, again dimpled and… well, thick, but there’s a little birthmark in the upper left corner of one, which might be kind of sexy if you squint. And… well, I do have nice ankles.
But my appraisal of my body is short-lived, because then I realize with absolute horror that he’s going to draw me over his lap again. He pats his knees.
“Up you go.”
And then I’m sitting in his lap, my arse grazing his thighs, and I’m wearing nothing but a bra and knickers.
With the lights on.
And this is a first of mammoth proportions.
But before I can think… before I can protest… before I can make a plan that will shelter me from the rejection that’s sure to come… he begins.
First, my shoulders. His large, warm, calloused palms glide to my shoulders, holding me, his eyes roaming hungrily over my body. I can’t mistake that look for approval. I know better. But maybe he’s as drunk as I am and doesn’t see the truth.
He brings his mouth to my right shoulder, leaving warm, erotic, fluttering kisses along my naked skin. He drags his mouth from my shoulder across my chest, pausing to lap at my collarbone, before he brings his mouth to the left and worships the other side.
Worships. Legitimately, truly worships my body.
He turns me on his lap so I’m facing him, removes my bra, then kisses and licks and nibbles at my breasts, as he weighs them in his hands. When his mouth travels lower to my belly, he pinches my nipples, keeping me fully heightened and aware. I move my hands to stop him when he reaches my belly, and even squirm my body to try to get away from him. It’s uncomfortable. I feel so exposed, like someone’s shining a spotlight on my flaws. But it isn’t until I try to move that I remember my wrists are tied and I can’t get away.
I bite my lip.
I’m not going to ruin this. I’m not.
Maybe he’s drunk enough he’ll forget my body’s imperfections later. Maybe he’ll have such an amazing, earth-shattering orgasm that he’ll forgive my flaws. Maybe he’ll… oooohhh.
My internal protests come to a stuttering halt at the feel of his hands moving up and down the length of my body.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “Jesus, Megan, you’re bloody fucking perfect.”
“And you’re bloody fucking drunk,” I say before I can stop myself.
His dark gaze returns to mine, and his jaw firms. “I warned you.”
“Warned me about what?” I ask in futile protest as he lifts me—lifts me—and easily arranges me over his lap as if I weigh nothing at all.
Maybe he gets superhuman strength when he drinks. That could be a good thing.
His knees are pressed into my belly and this is—this is strangely nice. Soothing. There’s something about being draped over his lap like this that makes me feel… dare I say it? Sexy.
My bound wrists dangle in front of me and my legs are flush against the fabric of his trousers. I close my eyes, drawing deeper into myself. This is one night that I don’t want to forget in the morning.
Before he does anything, I feel his hands all over my body again, as if he wants to remember every curve and valley and dip. Over my shoulders, down the slope to the small of my back, over my arse, then to my upper thighs, my calves, and even to my feet.
“Fucking gorgeous,” he says. “Damn, woman.”
I want to protest. I want to tell him no, I’m not, he’s crazy. I dated a man once who told me I’d be perfect if I could only lose twenty pounds and damn him, I’ve replayed that comment so many times it’s part of my mantra. I’m pretty, but…
But I can’t tell Carson that. He’s already made it clear how he feels, and… well, I’m about to get spanked. So it might not be the smartest time for me to push him.
I feel him draw the edge of my panties down. I shiver at the touch of his fingers on my naked back. I squeeze my eyes tight. I’ve got tits and arse for days, but… well, maybe too much. What if he doesn’t like my arse?
He freezes. “Why did you just tense right now?”
“Because I’m about to get spanked?”
“That isn’t why. Tell me the truth.”