The blush she gives me is everything. As if she isn’t completely aware of what she does to me.
It’s been days of this. I thought I could fuck my interest in this out of her, but every day I want more. Testing her, playing with her, fucking her until I’m spent.
Nipple clamps lay heavy on my desk. Snapping them off during her climax left bright pink marks on either side of her breasts, and more importantly, had her screaming my name in pleasure. She came harder with those than she has anything else.
Even the vibrator didn’t do it for her like the clamps did. Although, a bit of edging may have helped.
As I stand, opening the top drawer of my desk to put the clamps back, she moves. Lifting her upper body before I told her she could is going to get her in trouble.
Her obedience doesn’t end once we’ve both come. She damn well knows that.
Tossing the clamps in without looking, I chastise her with the ease of being her Dominant.
“Did I tell you …” I start and my hand raises to come down against her ass. I don’t get to finish, though. The words are silenced as Braelynn cowers back. Notably, her arms raise as if I was going to strike her across her face.
What the fuck? Everything drops. It’s like everything falls in that moment. That's the only way to describe her split-second reaction.
Collapsing onto her back, she nearly falls off the desk and I have to brace her torso to keep that from happening. Hissing, I barely catch her. “The fuck are you doing?”
Tension pulls at every muscle as Braelynn stiffens. She swallows, and only then does she look up at me.
What the hell just happened?
“Braelynn.” I say her name gentler before telling her to get back into position. My heart hammers in my chest.
Nodding she does so, eagerly, but fear is prominent in her gaze. My pulse doesn’t stop pounding in my ears, though. She lays her head down with the other cheek resting against the desktop. Back to position like a good girl.
I take my time, zipping up my suit pants and buttoning my dress shirt after wiping her down and cleaning up the mess she made.
All the while she’s silent, occasionally looking back at me, questions staring back at me.
Oh, my little pet, there are certainly questions coming.
Rolling up my sleeves, one by one, I stalk around the desk. “You thought I was going to hit you,” I speak, focusing on my shirt.
She only moves to turn her head.
“I just …” she trails off and swallows audibly.
“Yes. You did, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
There’s a numbness that crawls over my skin. It’s sick and cold, two things I’ve been dubbed more than a time or two.
I thought she was enjoying this. My mind travels back to the thought I choose to silence: she could be doing this for ulterior motives.
“Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know,” she murmurs, and refuses to look at me. I have to bend to grip her chin, my other hand bracing myself. Her wide, dark eyes peer back at me, begging me for something and I don’t know what. “Is it because of that first night? When I hit that fucker who tried to sleep with you?” The cords in my neck tense. It was a fucking stupid thing to do. “I don’t—”
“It’s not you.” She rushes out the words, cutting me off.
Letting go of her, she lies back the way she’s meant to, and I take a guess. “Someone else hit you?”
She only nods and then sniffles like she may cry.
There’s not a damn thing I like about any of this. Every alarm is ringing, my body tense.
“Like this? Like I punish you by—”
“No. Not like this.”
“Do you not enjoy this? Do you want to stop?”
Her words are rushed, “I don’t know why I—” Tears brim at her eyes and I fucking hate it. “I don't know why I reacted like that.”
“Are you going to cry?” I don’t know what compels me to ask her. Of course she is. She’s already crying.
My hand moves to the back of my head and I rake my hand up as she shakes her head as much as she can before saying, “I’m just embarrassed.”
Her face reddens further as she attempts to hold back her tears.
Settling on what I have to do, my strides are purposeful as I wrap my arm around her waist. “Come here. You can get up. Come here.”
With her small frame cradled in my arms, I move her to the chair. She does what she always does, clings to me, buries her head so I can’t see her. And I do what I do, I hold her.
I prepare for her to cry, but she doesn’t.
“Tell me what happened.” I give her the command in a low murmur. Patience does not come easy. All the while we sit, I kiss her hair, and I stare ahead at the bookshelf, lined with a number of heavy trinkets I could so very easily bash against a man’s skull.