“Good.” She lifted her head and smiled. “Let’s do this, Andrews.”
Chapter 8
Gibson should’ve ended this. That would be the right thing to do. Tonight had proven how easily he could fuck this up, how easily he could hurt Sam. He’d agreed to be her sub this week but then had shamed her in public, acted embarrassed to be with her in that way. The girl had gone through her life with families turning her away and then he’d done the same to her, separating himself from her, like he was above it all—above her. A cardinal fucking sin in his book.
Then there’d been that haunted look in her eye when she’d talked about being someone’s secret. A foster brother. It made his stomach turn to think what she might’ve been through. Someone had already hurt her, and he was poking at that wound with his own stupid insecurities. He didn’t deserve to be here. He didn’t deserve her.
But when Sam had declared with that trademark attitude that she was holding him to his weeklong agreement, he hadn’t been able to say no. Knowing she’d gone out and bought toys to use on him only amped things up higher—anxiety twining with bone-deep desire. He’d only played the pain game with women. Never had he left his mind or his body open to any more than that. He wasn’t sure he was capable. But that little piece at the very heart of him wanted to prove to Sam that when he said he had no limits with her, he meant it. He couldn’t give her what she most wanted, couldn’t be the kind of sub she could have by her side at the Ranch, but maybe he could at least give her this. His body was hers to use however she wanted tonight.
He wouldn’t call that safe word again. Sam had been mad that he was so adamant about not using one and about having only one hard limit. But what he couldn’t admit to her was that this was a first for him. He never called his safe word, but that’s because he’d always had very clear hard limits. He had a long-ass list of them that he’d give the paid dommes at the Ranch. He gave them leave only to beat the hell out of him. Nothing else.
But with Sam, he didn’t want that restriction. He craved the edge from her because it was underpinned with trust. He wanted to give her absolutely anything she wanted from him. That’s where his darkest fantasies drifted to when he didn’t hold back—no safe words, no outs, that sense that it was almost against his will. Force. Without those things in place, he couldn’t use them as a crutch. He had to go in all or nothing. Base jump into the abyss.
He wanted that with Sam tonight.
So after he toweled off from his shower and replaced the small bandage on his head, he tried to put himself in that game-day mind-set. He would not break. She could do what she wanted to him and he would handle it. Then he would make her come as many times as she’d let him as amends for being a jackass today. He only got to be with her for a week, so he was going to make it count.
He checked the time, dropped his towel, and walked to the end of the bed to kneel down. Just the feel of the hard floor beneath his kneecaps and the supplicant position had his dick taking notice. Here we go. He lowered his head and waited.
Time ticked by for what seemed like an eternity, but when he snuck a peek at the clock, it showed only seven minutes had passed. Torture. Finally, the soft click of the door opening sounded behind him. He pulled in a steadying breath.
“Oh, my.” Heels tapped on the hardwoods, slow and steady, and he had to force himself not to look behind him to see her. “Aren’t you a sight?”
He rubbed his lips together, anticipation a living beast huffing hot breaths inside him.
Hands touched his shoulders, making him startle after holding still for those long minutes. Sam leaned her weight on him as she peered down his body. “And already hard and straining, huh? Gonna be a long night, sugar.”
He smiled at her accent. When Sam’s Southern came out, that meant she was in evil-bitch mode. He loved that. Loved that sharp edge. “I’m patient, mistress.”
“Mmm, I bet you are.” She ran her nails over his shoulders, scouring his skin and raising goose bumps. “And I’m so glad my Ranch bag was still in my car. It’s as if the universe knew you were due a good, hard beating.”
“I’ve done lots of bad things, mistress.”
“Yes, you have. And I didn’t give you permission to talk. Put your hands behind your back. Seeing them cuff you earlier made me jealous.”
His mouth quirked up and he put his wrists at the small of his back. Sam’s nimble fingers grasped him and wrapped leather cuffs around his wrists. She hooked them together, leaving no give. He flexed his fingers, his heartbeat ticking up another notch.
The heels or boots or whatever she’d changed into were loud as she took a slow, measured walk behind him. She sized him up. Back and forth. Back and forth. The steady sound was almost hypnotic until it was broken by a rough scraping sound. She shoved a short bench in front of him. It looked to be something she’d made herself. A rustic wood slab that had been varnished but otherwise kept natural with its pits and wormholes and steel pipe legs attached. She turned it perpendicular to him and then clamped a hand on his neck, squeezing hard. “Bend down, rest your chest on it, and spread your knees wider. I want to see all of you.”
It was a crude version of a spanking bench. He’d been on one before, but never nude. That’d been a hard limit in his sessions. The pain aroused him, but he always fought his body’s reaction. That was part of the game for him, proof that he was stronger than his instincts. And that little layer of protection with his boxers had given him comfort. If he failed, it wouldn’t be so obvious. But as the wood pressed into his chest when he draped himself across it, he knew there was no hiding from Sam this time. His cock was hard and heavy between his thighs.
“Look how shy you are. Sweet.” Sam tapped his knee with the side of what felt like a boot, firm and quick. “But not what I want. Spread, Gib.”
He adjusted his knees on the floor, closing his eyes as cool air kissed his most private areas. God, what must he look like? This was the image those guys in the store had probably been imagining. Him bent over and begging for it.
That bitter shame moved through him, but he fought it back. He was here for Sam. If this pleased her, he’d do it. He could let her see him this way. These secrets were safe with her. And despite the twist in his gut, he couldn’t deny the heat that surged downward, shame a double-edged sword for him.
“Very nice.” Sam’s voice was soothing as she ran a hand down his right flank then grabbed his ankle. “Now hold still.”
His lips parted, ready to ask what she was doing, but then he clamped them shut. He would try to be good. Sam wrapped cuffs around his ankles and checked the tightness. When he tried to adjust his legs, he couldn’t. Not just cuffs—a spreader bar. His ankles were now locked into a device that wouldn’t allow him to bring his legs together.
Nerves bubbled through his blood. He was in position for a beating. That he’d been expecting. But he was also in a convenient position for something else. Something he’d never done before with anyone. He’d known it was a possibility when he’d seen what Sam had in her basket, but now the thought of it actually happening made his muscles tense, his fight or flight simmering to the surface.
Sam laughed from behind him, the sound breezy and melodious, the devious witch offering Snow White an apple. “Oh, honey, don’t panic yet. We’re just getting started.” She trailed her finger down his crease, brushing ever so lightly over his hole and making him clench harder. “But I will say, you do look mighty tempting right now. As pretty as a picture.”
“Been trolling porn sites again, mistress?” he asked, trying for levity but failing when his voice came out like taut wire.
“Always. Gotta get ideas somewhere, right?” She gripped his ass cheek in her hand, digging her nails into his flesh and sending a bolt of need straight to his cock. “But tonight, I was thinking of making my own.”