Queen of Hawthorne Prep

My muscles lock as I wait for the contact to turn punishing. It’s only a matter of time before he lashes out, wanting to inflict as much damage as possible. Which is exactly why his gentleness confounds me. The way he caresses me, playing with my flesh, stoking the need that has been rioting dangerously beneath the surface, feels nothing short of amazing.

Kingsley once told me that he could be tender or punishing. He accused me of enjoying both, and he wasn’t wrong. I like the pleasure-infused-pain more than I should. It’s almost as if he’s trying to lull me into a false sense of security. I have to fight the natural inclination of my body to give in and enjoy the way he’s stroking me.

Even knowing the game he’s playing at, it doesn’t take long before my muscles are loosening beneath his fingers, surrendering to the masterful way he touches me. It takes a moment to realize that his hands have disappeared. As I question the coolness that now surrounds me, Kingsley grips the elastic band of my panties and in one swift motion, tears the material from my body.

A thick coil of tension settles in my core as his palm cracks one cheek before giving the same treatment to the other side. I press my lips together to stop the moan from escaping.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Enjoying this is all kinds of wrong. And yet, that knowledge doesn’t make a difference. No matter how he torments me, I enjoy it.

Would beg for it.

There’s no point in lying to myself about how easily he’s able to arouse me. As if to drive home the fact that he understands it as well, Kingsley smacks my backside a few more times with the flat of his palm until my cheeks feel like they’re on fire. Only then does his hand flatten over me. The coolness of his skin dulls the fire radiating from within. Almost gently he massages the twin globes and once again, my body surrenders to him.

He could do anything, and you would still fall apart beneath his fingertips.

It’s a disturbing realization.

As he kneads my flesh, the thumbs of each hand graze the outer lips of my pussy. The touch grows closer until I can’t stop from straining toward him. Somehow, he’s able to break down all of my resistance until there is nothing left. Until I am nothing more than a quivering mass of hormones greedy for his every caress. My brain is too clouded with pleasure to dwell on the ramifications of my actions.

On the next slow pass, his fingers sink deep inside me.

“I’ve missed this,” he mutters.

For the first time in nearly a week, my mind clicks off and I allow myself to soak up all the delicious sensations that ricochet through my body. It doesn’t take long for an orgasm to build like a storm. When his fingers disappear, a whimper of protest escapes.

His hand migrates from my pussy to circle around the tightly puckered ring of muscle bared for his scrutiny. “I’ve missed this as well.”

I’ve missed it, too.

Unwilling to give voice to those private thoughts, I keep them trapped inside where they can’t do any further damage.

The thick finger buried inside my sheath now presses insistently against my anus. There’s a slight burn as he breeches the barrier, pushing inside the tight space. When I whimper, he makes a soothing noise, rubbing soft circles across my lower back with his other hand.

The finger buried inside stills, giving me time to adjust to the intrusion. It doesn’t take long for me to grow impatient. Only then does he surge forward. Nerve endings spark to life and my eyes roll up inside my head as a throaty moan spills unwantedly from my lips.

“You like that, don’t you?” Satisfaction brims in his voice. He knows what he does to me, how his touch affects me, how it teases out all the indecency within me before dragging it into the light.

“Yes.” I don’t bother to lie.

When he attempts to withdraw, my muscles clench around him, desperate to keep him locked inside me. Instead of pulling all the way out, he presses forward, sliding in deeper this time. It takes everything I have inside not to moan with ecstasy. He repeats the process, driving his finger further with each new thrust. The rhythmic motion lulls my body into a contented state of bliss as he stretches the muscles with his finger. Once his thick digit is seated deep inside, his other hand wraps possessively around the curve of my ass as if to hold me in place.

“This is mine,” he growls, squeezing my backside as if to claim ownership.

I hate that those words settle something deep inside me.

When I remain silent, his fingers bite into my flesh. “Did you hear me?”