These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

Until he moved against it.

Until he told me with his body.

Until he gave me what I wanted.

Like he always does.

And he knows that too. He knows that he hurt me and so now this is his apology. Because he shifts again, hitting that spot which he accompanies with another slap on my ass and rasps, “Yeah. And I’m about to get meaner.”

God, he’s wonderful, isn’t he?

Even when he’s being mean.

There is no way I’m going to stop now.

No. Way.

“Conrad, I… Please…”

He squeezes my ass and growls, “Repeat after me: I will not write inappropriate letters to Coach Thorne.”

And Jesus Christ even that goes straight to my core.

It hits me in my pussy.

His rough, authoritative words. And all I can do is moan and squirm.

Which obviously doesn’t satisfy him because he smacks my ass again. “Say it, Bronwyn. Say the fucking words. Say, ‘I will not write inappropriate letters to Coach Thorne.’”

I’m not sure how this will get his message across.

Making me writhe against his body like this. Making me hump his stomach like a slutty, horny girl.

But writhing against him, I do give him what he wants. “I will not write inappropriate letters to Coach Thorne.”

My submission makes him breathe deep and he smacks my ass again. “I won’t tell Coach Thorne about my dreams.”

It makes me leave his t-shirt and go for his hair. “I won’t tell Coach Thorne about my dreams.”

“Coach Thorne doesn’t want my letters,” he says, smacking me again, making me rub up and down his stomach even more.

“Coach Thorne doesn’t want my letters.”

He shudders, his chest scraping against mine as he issues his next command. “I won’t tell him that I tossed and turned in my bed.”

Fisting his hair, I increase my rhythm. “I won’t tell him that I tossed and turned in my bed.”

“I won’t toss and turn in my bed, period.”

“I-I won’t toss and turn in m-my bed, period.”

He leans into me then. As if he can’t hold himself up anymore. His fingers massage my ass, both giving and soothing the pain, his nose landing somewhere below my ear.

And then he smells me.

He smells my skin and growls.

And I tilt my head to the side, twisting in his arms, giving him more access.

“I won’t let my nightie ride up my stomach when I sleep,” he growls in my skin.

Whimpering, I try to repeat what he said, “I won’t… I won’t let my…”

But I can’t.

Because now that his nose is there, on my throat, he’s rubbing it.

So softly. So gently.

So in contrast to what his fingers are doing. So in contrast to what his lips are saying to me.

It makes me feel like I’m really his flower.

That my skin is velvet and he can’t get enough of it.

Of me.

“Say it, Bronwyn,” he reminds me as he noses the column of my throat. “Say, ‘I won’t let my nightie ride up my tight rosy stomach when I sleep.’”

“I won’t…” I swallow, pressing the back of his head to bring him even closer. “I won’t let my nightie ride up my t-tight rosy stomach when I sleep.”

“I’ll keep it pulled down and tucked around my little body.”

“I-I’ll keep it pulled down and tucked around my little body.”

“Yes,” he says, at the center of my throat now, his mouth open and breathing. “So it hides my pussy, that tight rose between my legs.”

My pussy — my tight rose — spasms and I swear I almost come.

I almost lose it.

“So it… it hides my pussy, that tight rose between my legs.”

His chest shudders again. “Was it pink? Your nightie.”

I roll my head back and forth on the wall as I answer him in a daze, “Yes. M-my favorite.”

“Did it have flowers on it?”

“Yeah.”

“You paint them yourself?”

“Uh-huh. Roses.”

Another shudder, a spasm, this one more violent than the previous ones as he says, “I’ll stop wearing my favorite rosy nightie to bed.”

I wind my arms around his neck, still undulating in his arms. “I’ll stop wearing my favorite rosy nightie to bed.”

His fingers that are still on my ass but have stopped doling out punishment for quite a while now go to my thighs. They massage my thighs over my skirt, right where his name is, and I moan.

I moan and bury my own nose in his hair.

“I’ll throw my favorite nightie away,” he says, his lips on my braid now.

“I’ll… I’ll throw my favorite nightie away.”

Rubbing his lips in my hair, he growls, “I won’t cream my panties thinking about Coach Thorne.”

“I won’t,” I hiccup, “cream my panties thinking about Coach Thorne.”

“Were they pink too?” he asks, rubbing my skirt up and down, nosing my braid.

“W-white. But with pink lace.”

A puff of breath on my hair and I squeeze my arms around him. “Tell me how wet they were. Your white but with pink lace panties.”

“So wet.”

“Yeah? Were they stuck to your pussy?”