I frown. “No.”
He slams his palm on my arse, spanking me. I buck and squirm.
“Hey!”
“Tell me the truth,” he repeats.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t like what you see,” I say truthfully.
“Not like what I see?” he says in dismay.
And then a memory surfaces unbidden, making me choke on my reply. Another ex-boyfriend of mine, shaking his head when he grabbed my arse. “You’ve got more than a handful there, haven’t you? More than cushion for the pushin’.”
And then I’m angry, because I hate that an unpleasant memory’s come to assault me now, when I’m doing my damndest to enjoy this moment.
Carson’s speaking again, his voice both stern and compassionate. Not quite sure how he manages that. My stern professor.
“You’re the stuff of dreams, lass,” he says, running his palm along the swell of my backside. “Fucking dreams.” I know he isn’t lying because his hardened length beneath me presses into my belly. He squeezes my arse, making me hiss. “But I’ll not have you making these comments again. Do you understand me?”
He punctuates his command with a sharp, searing smack of his palm. I gasp and nod mutely.
“You’ve earned this spanking,” he says. “Now behave yourself, or you’ll feel my belt as well.”
I shiver. Bloody hell, I want that, too. I think.
Do I?
I open my mouth to speak, to protest, to give him a smart retort or laugh this all off, but my tongue is frozen. I don’t know how to speak or what to say when he reaches for my hair, weaves his fingers through it, and yanks it. I arch my back but can’t fight this, my wrists are restrained, my breath freezes in my lungs when he tugs my hair.
He slams his palm on my arse, fiery pain erupting on my naked skin. With my hair held firmly in his grasp, I can’t get away from him when he spanks me a second time, then a third, and soon my mind begins to clear. I don’t protest. There’s nothing in the world but me, Carson, and the throbbing need between my legs that flames with each smack of his palm.
His words are clipped and stern, but he isn’t angry, this much I know.
He’s in control.
I gasp when his hand strikes me again, hard and punishing. He said he’d spank me, and he isn’t letting up. My skin burns, but my need flames even higher. I want to fight this, just a little, just to see what he’ll do. I don’t know why. I don’t even question it. But I wriggle and squirm in protest, maybe needing to see how he reacts. Without missing a beat, he traps me legs with his and he spanks me even harder.
“You really do need this, don’t you?” he says, almost as if to himself. “You’ve earned a good, hard spanking.”
My sex clenches, and I feel slick arousal painting my thighs. Jesus, this is so hot. It hurts, but I can’t question how or why rampant arousal gallops through me with every hard, uncompromising smack of his palm. I’m moaning and squirming, dying to alleviate the pressure between my thighs. And still, he spanks on.
Something shifts. He hasn’t lessened the intensity. I can tell by the feel of his palm crashing down, the way I buck and squirm. The way he holds me and administers every stroke of his palm. But the pain is mitigated, fading into heated, throbbing need. I’m engulfed in flames, and desperate for release.
In between strokes of his palm, he runs his warm, rough hand over my scorching skin. I wriggle and squirm, it’s so intimate, when he squeezes my abused flesh.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “You took your spanking so well. I’d love to see how you handle the cane, my strap, or my belt.”
I open my mouth to respond and find I can’t speak. I’m somehow still in the muted bubble of arousal and pain and drunken headiness. I murmur something but the words are incoherent. Still massaging my throbbing skin, he bends down and nips at my neck. I shiver, while he parts my legs and strokes his fingers between my legs.
“Fucking soaked,” he says with a guttural growl. “You’re fucking soaked.”
I am. Bloody hell, he’s right. But before I can respond, he sits me upright on his lap. Intuitively, my legs wrap around him, my knees pressed to his torso, and I stare into his eyes. The effects of the alcohol have dissipated under the onslaught of the spanking he gave me, but now I’m dizzy for another reason altogether.
He’s still fully clothed, though his tie’s wrapped around my wrists and his shirt’s unfastened. I let my eyes roam over his body, drinking him in. I’ve never done this before, stared at him with such unabashed arousal and need. I let my gaze roam from the top of his head, from his slightly-curly, almost boyish dark hair to his dark brown eyes, boring into me from behind glasses perched on his nose. Down to his full lips turned down in a stern frown that makes my heart thump faster. He’s got the traces of a five o’clock shadow. With my wrists still tied, I reach one finger to the scruff on his firm chin.