‘Turn around,’ he instructs gently, helping me on my way by holding my waist. When he comes into view, his obvious awe as he steps back rockets my confidence. I wouldn’t dream of wearing a dress this short, but the look on his face is worth it alone. His eyes are drifting up and down my scantily clad body as his jaw ticks. It’s a sign of him gathering strength. ‘You look too fuckable for your own good.’
I smile as I take a look for myself, my eyes dropping down my front. It’s super tight, but the blood-red fabric has some give, making movement easy. It’s surprisingly comfortable for something that’s clinging to every curve I have.
Becker looks like he’s fighting off the urge to pounce on me, and just when I decide to make my move, tempt him into losing that fight, a sharp crack from outside pulls both of our attention to the door that leads into the courtyard.
‘Dorothy,’ Becker mutters, pacing over. My arms instinctively wrap around my body, trying in vain to conceal the minuscule dress. And the scene from Becker’s office comes flooding back to me the instant I hear the rush of water from the outside tap. She’s filling up her watering can. I haven’t told Becker about my mortifying moment. An arse-spanking session got in the way. Oh God, help me. After torturing the old lady with a special screening of the Becker and Eleanor show, the last thing I want to do is expose her old eyes to what else we get up to in private. ‘Becker—’
‘Shhhh.’ He puts his finger to his mouth as he pulls the door open a fraction and peeks outside. Not even the glorious sight of Becker’s back can keep my eyes from scanning the floor for my floral sundress, my hands going to the hem of the red number currently gracing my body, ready to peel it off, but I’m grabbed before I can see through my plan to restore my respectable state. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he asks.
My eyes are wide and wary. ‘Getting dressed.’
‘We’re not done yet.’ He whirls me around and takes me back to the wall.
He can’t be serious. ‘Not when Mrs Potts is outside,’ I whisper-shout, glancing back to the door, checking for any signs of bolts or padlocks. There’s nothing. My panic is ignored and my hands taken and placed on the wall. ‘Becker, we can’t.’ My hips are claimed and tugged back. ‘Please, not when . . . ohhhh . . .’ My head drops back, the feel of expert lips dotting kisses across my neck. The fact that Mrs Potts is lurking outside is forgotten in a moment, my mind now centred on my sinful boyfriend and the sinful things he does to me.
‘Feel good, princess?’ he asks cockily. I nod my head for fear of yelping my pleasure, and Becker chuckles, the gorgeous sweet sound resonating deeply. When his fingers toy with the hem of the red dress, I hold my breath, waiting for the movement that will jolt me. But it doesn’t happen. I look down, finding the dress still in place. What is he waiting for? ‘Your arse looks amazing in this dress.’ He’s having a moment, admiring my backside. Then his arms fly up, taking the dress with it. Not that I feel it. My body doesn’t move an inch, but the dress is now around my waist. ‘And, fuck me, if it doesn’t slide like silk across your skin.’ An apple appears in my field of vision. ‘Open.’
My eyes bug as I stare at the shiny green fruit, and I hear Mrs Potts only metres away, nothing but a single unlocked door between us. This feels so wrong, yet my mouth still drops open and Becker pushes the apple between my lips.
‘Bite.’
I sink my teeth in and close my eyes. In my darkness, I hear what sounds like scratching at the door, followed swiftly by a gruff bark.
‘In a minute, Winston,’ Becker mutters under his breath. ‘I’m nearly done.’
I tense, suddenly registering that each of my cheeks has taken a solid slap from my previous ‘fittings’. So which one gets double-whammy? Both are still lightly pulsing from the aftermath of Becker’s punishing palm. Given the choice, I can’t say which one I’d prefer to take another blow.
Not that there’s a hope of me being given the choice.
Or the time to prepare.
The flesh of my right cheek erupts into an angry inferno of flames on the loudest thwack, and it’s his most brutal delivery yet. My scream is muffled by the apple in my mouth, and tears spring into my eyes. Holy shit! My body flies forward and begins to convulse in shock. It’s too much . . . until those talented fingers find their way to my core again. Then I’m faced with the conflicting sensations of pleasure and pain. I start to sweat, feeling his lips creeping over the top of my exposed shoulders. I can’t cope with the heady mixture.