Better When It Hurts (Stripped 2)

“Do you need me to help?” he asks almost gently.

It’s his hands I focus on, the way they clasp the back of his chair, how large and strong they are. Something about them makes me feel secure, even knowing how much they can hurt me. Even knowing how much they will.

A jerk of my head. Yes.

I need his help with so much more than this task. I need him to forgive me, to redeem me. I need him to hurt me at the same time as I fear it. That’s why I’m here—as much for me as for him. I shake with wanting it, with needing him, with longing for release.

I watch his hands clear the table, steady and competent. Gentle enough on fine china not to break it. Hard as iron when he turns them into fists. He even takes a dish towel and runs it over the wood, leaving a shine in its place.

“How do you want me?” I ask.

“On your back.”

My throat feels tight when I swallow. On my back is how he wants me. It’s the only way he wants me. So why shouldn’t I give it to him? Why shouldn’t I be what he wants? It feels good, even twisted and perverted and wrong.

I push the skirt down my waist. My panties follow.

Lola would have a sexy striptease. Hannah can only shove them rough and fast, keeping her eyes averted from his. He’s seen all of Lola’s moves anyway. He’s never seen this.

I stumble and almost fall onto the table. He doesn’t catch me. Just watches, arms folded, muscles straining at his T-shirt, jaw set in hard square lines. Then I’m awkwardly sitting on the table, legs dangling off, feet not touching the ground. Small like a child.

The only sign that I’m not is the bulge in his pants.

He steps close and runs his hands along the outsides of my thighs, so light my skin pebbles. “Lie back,” he says softly.

And I do.

The table is cool against my back, smooth and hard. His hands are hot on my thighs as he spreads them wide. Air rushes over my tender flesh, making my private muscles clench. A small sound of protest escapes me. “What are you—”

“Shh,” he says, his large hands smoothing over my inner thighs. “This part isn’t going to hurt.”

His eyes hold a promise, and I know what he means to do. Heat pulses in my clit, anticipating what’s to come. At the same time, I’m afraid. Being pleasured by him is almost scarier than being hurt, like the dinner and candles in the form of sex. Being licked by him might damn near kill me.

He doesn’t lick me—not at first. His head dips low, just his warm breath kissing my skin. I try to hold myself still, to let him direct me. I don’t want to be eager, not for the pleasure I don’t deserve. Not for the pleasure that will only draw me closer to him, bind me harder. But my body shakes, almost vibrates with tension and arousal, like a tuning fork humming his song.

“Blue,” I whisper.

“Gorgeous?”

The word makes my breath catch. I know it’s only skin-deep. He doesn’t think I’m gorgeous on the inside. No one thinks that. No one cares. Even so, this is different than before. Not as hateful. More like I imagined regular sex would be, if I had ever let myself have it.

“I’m afraid.” The admission is about more than oral sex, and he seems to know that. His lids are low, eyes a million years wise.

“No one’s ever licked you here?” He doesn’t give me time to answer before he shows me exactly where, a long and slow lick from the base of my slit to the very top.

Heat courses through me, and I stifle the groan I would have made. “No.”

“Or sucked your pretty little clit?” he asks.

And just like before, he shows me exactly what he means, his lips warm against my most sensitive skin, his suck hard enough to bring my hips off the table.

“God.”

His voice has gone low and husky, thick with something like hunger. “No one’s ever fucked you with their tongue? No one’s tasted your cream?”

My inner muscles clench at his words, already anticipating, already pulsing and slick with cream for him to taste. His eyes close as he shoves his tongue against me, as if he’s doing something incredibly pleasurable, as if he’s getting off as much as me.

His tongue feels foreign and impossibly good, my whole body suspended between ache and orgasm. Between pain and what comes after, the precipice razor thin.