However, stepping into the sitting room and seeing it prepared struck her with another reality: when faced with an imminent punishment, knowing she’d done something more painful really didn’t matter. She took deep breaths, told herself she was strong enough for this, and walked toward the waiting chair.
Cole would be in the room in about five minutes. When she first read that, she thought it would be much too long of a wait. Now she thought it wasn’t long enough. The absolute worst thing she could do was not be in position when he entered.
She wiped her palms on the dress. “Screw my nerves. I can do this.”
Shutting out any thought to the contrary, she bent over the chair, flipped her skirt up, and placed her forearms on the bottom seat cushion. Fuck, this is embarrassing.
Then her eyes fell on the cane, displayed so she couldn’t miss seeing it, and suddenly she wasn’t embarrassed anymore, but acutely aware of what was going to happen. Her fingers gripped the chair’s edge, fingernails scratching the wood
He came into the room quietly. Loud enough so she would know he was there, but not loud enough to startle her. Odd, but his presence somehow calmed her down. His footsteps echoed as he walked to stand in her line of sight and then he stripped his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves.
There was nothing said as he took the cane and moved behind her. But she jerked when he placed an unexpected hand on the small of her back.
“You’re doing great,” he said in a low voice. “You can take the rest.”
She felt more like she could when he said it.
His hand slipped to lightly stroke her backside once and then he commanded, “Count.”
The first stroke hurt just as bad as she imagined it would, and she had to take several deep breaths before she choked out, “One.”
The second landed right above the first and felt just as painful. His protocol required her silence outside of counting as well as her stillness. She bit the inside of her cheek to hold back the yelp desperate to get out, instead saying only, “Two.”
His statement that not being bound would reinforce her submissiveness was the absolute truth. It was only the strength of his will and her desire to obey him that kept her from reaching back to block the third stroke.
Her cheeks were wet after the fourth, though she wasn’t aware of crying. Her backside felt like it was on fire and she gave serious thought to safewording. The two remaining strokes might as well have been two hundred, as she couldn’t imagine them landing on her sensitive flesh.
There was a ragged intake of breath from behind her and she realized Cole was fighting his own battle. She wanted to prove him right about being ready, so she forced herself to relax as much as possible and willed him to continue.
The only thing that kept her from shouting “red” after the fifth stroke was knowing there would only be one more. She panted, sobs clawing frantically to escape from her throat, and hot tears flowed freely down her cheeks.
The last stroke was the hardest, landing diagonally across the first five. She managed to get out, “Six,” in what sounded to her like a mixture of a hiccup and a sob, and then she held her breath, squeezing her eyes tight as the pain seeped into her body. But unlike the previous five, this time she was swept up by two strong arms and carried to the couch.
He pressed her against his chest and lightly stroked her hair. “Let it out, Sasha. It’s okay. Let it out.”
It was as if a dam burst inside her and, at his words, she cried harder than she’d ever cried before. She buried her face against the scratchy wool of his vest and soaked the white shirt underneath. The entire time, he simply held her, stroked her hair, and murmured tenderly.
She cried longer than she thought possible and when she finally calmed down to quiet sniffles, she realized her hands were clutching him in a death grip.
She let go of his shirt. “Sorry, Sir.”
“Nothing to apologize for. Do you feel better?” He took a tissue and wiped her eyes and nose.
“Much.” She hiccupped. “I needed that.”
“When was the last time you cried?”
“Like that?” She shook her head. “Never.”
“Even after Peter?”
“I wept a little, but nothing major.” Her breathing was coming easier; her heart rate slowed. A feeling of cleansing peace came over her and filled her. She lifted her head to meet his gaze and the reason why she’d wept so little hit her. “Before today, I never felt safe enough to cry.”
• • •
Her softly spoken words were both his dearest dream and his worst nightmare. For while he wanted her to feel safe with him, he’d never given any thought to how emotionally attached he would be once she got to that point. It shook him how attached he was to the woman in his arms.
“Nothing pleases me more than to hear that.” He stroked her cheek and smiled. “I am honored you trust me enough to gift me with your tears.”
She felt so soft and inviting in his lap. How easy it would be to lower his head and taste her. But not only could he not afford to kiss her, she’d also been through an emotionally intense scene. He reached behind the couch and took the waiting orange juice.
“Drink for me, little one,” he said, holding the straw up to her lips.
When half the juice was gone, he fed her chocolate. Then she finished the juice and snuggled deeper into his embrace. He ground his teeth together, hoping she didn’t feel his hardening cock. He’d planned on her being sassy and insolent, but the affectionate side of her surprised him. And the combination drew him in.
He held her for a long time before shifting her a bit. “I need to care for the welts, little one. Can I put you on your stomach here on the couch?
She nodded lazily against his chest and he moved her as gently as possible so she was positioned on her belly with a pillow under her head.
“I’m going to massage you,” he said. She already appeared calm and relaxed, but he massaged her back and shoulders, moving slowly toward her waist, skipping over her backside and easing any possible tension from her legs.
Only when he was assured that she was as relaxed as possible did he take ointment and ease it over the marks he’d made. She flinched at the start, so when he finished, he went back to massaging her.
He loved the way she felt under his hands. Soft and pliable, sighing when he touched certain places. He wanted to feel her skin on skin, nothing in between him and her body. But she was so self-conscious about her back, and he’d promised her he would wait for her to tell him when she was ready for him to see. He placed a hand on either side of her waist and started to pull the dress down.
“Please stop,” she whispered.
“I’m just pulling your dress down, little one, nothing more.” Surely she didn’t think he’d take the dress off.
“I know.” She took a long breath. “Please take it off instead.”
“Sasha . . .” he started, but didn’t know how to finish.
“I want you to. I don’t want to hide anything from you anymore.” Her voice was pained. “Please, Sir. Touch me.”
Calling himself every bad name he could think of, he slowly inched the dress up. He shouldn’t be doing this. She was too emotional at the moment. But she’d said please and he wanted to see her so badly. And when she’d said, “Touch me,” he was done for.
Leaning over, he whispered in her ear, “I’ve wanted to touch you for so long. Feel you. See you.” He took the zipper pull at the top of the dress and lowered it. “Thank you, little one.”
She pushed up on her arms, slightly lifting her chest to help and he dragged the zipper completely down and pulled the dress over her head.
He froze when he saw her back. Covering her beautiful skin was a web of scars. His chest constricted and his breath caught in his throat. Thinking of how the scars got there—the force of the whip, the inexperience of the wielder—he shook his head.
“Sasha, I . . . I . . .” He tentatively touched one of the larger lines.
“Don’t tell me you’re sorry.” Her voice was pained. “Everybody says that and I hate it. Like they could have done something. Like they could have stopped it.”