He could break me into pieces if he wanted without any effort and there’s nothing I could do.
Before I can answer, he brings his palm down hard on my ass. I gasp in a shocked breath. Did he just spank me?
“Say please or I’ll do it again, and this time I won’t hold back.”
I gape at him. “Fynn, you can’t just—”
He slaps my ass again, and this time it comes with a sharp, biting pain. I groan in shock. Is he seriously holding me in his lap right now and spanking me? This is so beyond the line, so far over the edge, and yet my core thrums with excitement and energy, and I’m practically wiggling my butt in the air wanting him to do it again, and harder this time.
But god, no, I have to get control, or at least make him stop before I lose my mind completely.
“Please,” I say meekly, disgusted with myself.
“Good girl,” he says, brushing some hair from my cheek, and releases me. I climb out of his lap quickly as he stretches out with a sigh and smiles. “You have a lovely ass, you know that?”
“You can’t do that again.” I glare at him, still on fire with that crazy want as it hums along my spine.
He only smiles. “Shall we continue?”
I’m blushing like crazy, because I swear, right as I moved away, I felt something beneath me—something stiff, thick, and long. As I facilitate the exercise, I keep glancing at his crotch, and god, I think he really is hard.
Grabbing me like that, pulling me into his lap, spanking my ass, it excited him.
He’s aroused just from yanking me around.
Which is sick, if I think about it. The bastard gets off on dominating me and jerking me all over. He’s excited after hurting me and making me say please. It’s a power trip for him, pure and simple, like it is for all these mafia assholes. There’s a reason I hate them, the selfish bastards.
And yet I keep glancing at him. At his chest, his arms. Between his legs, crying to catch a glimpse of the outline of his thick, long cock. It’s insane, right? I think he catches me once or twice looking, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t seem to mind at all.
Despite the power trip complex, he performs every stretch, every exercise, every simple mobility technique without complaint. He makes it difficult, and sometimes forces me to say please—fortunately without spanking me again—but overall, he seems to be genuinely trying. We work for an hour, and I can tell it’s agony and he’s exhausted, but he doesn’t mention his discomfort, not one time. If anything, he invites more, practically begging me to be hard on him.
After the hour’s up and I think he’s done enough for now, I get him down on the mat again. “I want to finish with some simple massage,” I say, blushing like fucking crazy, because I know what he’s going to think.
He’s going to read into this. Massage is good for the muscles—it’ll help work out some of the lactic acid and leave him less sore for the afternoon session. If this were a normal patient, I wouldn’t feel so on edge about this at all.
But Fynn isn’t normal.
“Sounds like you’re making an excuse to touch me some more, princess.” But he lies back as instructed. “You don’t need to fake a massage if you want to run your hands along my muscles. Or would you prefer if it were you lying down while I stroke your tight ass and back? Or maybe we can skip all that and go right to the spanking again.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.” I work his thigh and calf. “Since you insist on pushing yourself, we need to do everything possible to help you recover. I’d say you should rest between sessions but I know you won’t.”
“You’re right,” he says, grimacing as I hit a particularly rough knot. He’s so tight it’s like working marbles through dry mud.
The grunts he makes and the groan that follows is pure fucking sex and I have to stop. I pull away, hands shaking, and he looks at me with a smile on his lips, clearly satisfied that he found my limit. I try to pull back but he puts a hand on my waist and yanks me closer. I nearly fall into his lap again, and instead end up on all fours above him.
His palm moves up the back of my thigh and I shiver and nearly release a soft moan, terrified and excited that he’s about to spank me again. What the hell is happening right now? There’s nothing professional about the lust-filled look he’s giving me or the way his palm’s moving along my body, but the half-smile that covers his face and the intense longing in his eyes keeps me locked in place.