I’m quick to land the second an inch from the first, leaving a bright red stripe across her plush ass. Her back arches, and she holds back a cry. “Two.”
I lower the next punishing blow to her upper thighs.
“Three,” she utters, her knuckles turning white as she grips the edge.
Rubbing a soothing circle against the red marks makes her wince but when I squeeze, her mouth parts with a moan. She writhes for me.
That’s what you do when you’re in pain. You take hold of the wounds and turn them into sinful pleasure.
With that thought in mind, the next lashing lands between the first two. Spreading the marks, I take care not to strike the same place twice.
Another one lands and another. I move to stand behind her, fisting the ruler and lean over her draped form. When I press against her, only the fabric of my pants separating her from me, she protests with the most beautiful sound. Kissing down her neck, I grind myself against her and it morphs like it should, twisting that pain into the only thing I ever want her to feel.
“Just imagine how this is going to feel …” I whisper down the curve of her neck before nipping her earlobe. Again she protests, pulling away as the sensations smother her. Grabbing her chin, I force her to look back at me to finish, “… when I fuck you like this and every thrust brings this with it.”
My pulse races as I release her, those dark eyes swirling with every emotion imaginable. Her chest rises and falls just as mine does.
“Please stop,” she begs just as my arm is raised, to color the other thigh with a stripe.
“You have three more, Braelynn.” I pause, offering her mercy. I keep forgetting this is new to her. She said she wanted this, but does she even know what this relationship entails? “Or do you want to apologize?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t stay still.”
“For calling me a psychopath.” The pain I felt leaks into the correction and I hate it. I hate all of this.
“You wouldn’t let me leave,” she says, turning slightly to face me. Whatever’s written on my face, she sees it and her answering expression is one of sorrow.
“You didn’t use your safe word. You never stopped it when you could have. You didn’t even fucking try,” I mutter with the disappointment evident.
She blinks, as if coming back to me from wherever the fuck she went. As if realizing the extent of what’s occurred. “I’m sorry—”
“I would never call you a name to hurt you. I would never do anything to hurt you. Not real pain.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She’s quick to apologize and for a moment it seems like she’ll turn to face me, to beg me, but her hands don’t leave, they hold her back.
She has no idea how many times I’ve been called a psychopath by men who died minutes later. Their voices shriek at me from the depths of my memory. They were right. She’s right. I’m a psychopath. I’m a murderer. I’m going to hell once I’ve finally been killed. I’ll burn for the things I’ve done.
“Get your clothes on and get out.”
I don’t know where it’s come from, but I need her to leave. With the emotion that swarms me, the realization of the power she has over me, to compel me to feel this, I can’t be around her right now. “Now.”
“Declan, I’m sorry,” she repeats, slowly standing but not reaching for her clothes just yet.
“You can go home for the rest of the night,” I add as I move away from her attempt to press her hands against my chest. Dropping the ruler to the drawer, I detach myself.
“Get dressed.”
“Please, Declan. I’m sorry—”
“How many times must you make me repeat myself?”
“I’m sorry,” she pleads as she obeys, slipping her dress over her head.
“… you would do anything to stay, wouldn’t you?” I doubt if I should be so sure that she’s not the one who’s the informant.
“I didn’t realize it would hurt you like that.” Brushing her dark hair from her face, she tells me, standing awkwardly by the desk, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“When you say that … I believe you.” A whisper at the back of my mind reminds me that this isn’t some paid service or a rendezvous with a flame. She could be working with Scarlet. Using me. Fucking me just to get close. And yet, I can’t stop the words from slipping out. “So don’t hurt me. I don’t ever want to hurt you either.”
A shuddered breath shakes her shoulders as she nods up at me. “I won’t hurt you. I promise,” she tells me in lowly spoken words. Her longing gaze reflects an eagerness to start over, to leave all of this conflict behind.