I frowned. There was nothing to look at but my pale skin.
Despite the pain of his spanking, there was no lingering mark or redness.
I should be happy. And yet… I was oddly disappointed.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I shouldn’t be disappointed that my brute of an unwanted bodyguard hadn’t left marks on my body.
Turning, I slumped down onto the emerald green with gold piping chaise.
The way he’d manhandled me, the way he’d snapped my underwear from my body. I covered my face at the reminder. Why did he still have my underwear? What was he going to do with it?
Images of him hovering over me, with my lace panties in one of his hands and his other hand on me flashed through my brain. The way he’d touched me, not only in reward but even the punishment.
How he was solely focused on me.
Every time he touched me, I hated it… and liked it.
What did that say about me?
What did it mean that I liked it when a man, specifically this man, grabbed me without thought, exposed my most sensitive flesh, and then had the audacity to touch me in anger?
What did it mean that as he spanked me, I experience more than just pain?
The pain was there absolutely, and it had hurt enough to make me cry, but there had been something else there every time his hand slapped my bottom.
It had reverberated through my body, tightening my core and making my blood heat as my heart raced. My body had responded to his touch with need.
That couldn’t have been normal. That couldn’t have been right.
Something had to be wrong with me. There really was something in me that was wrong, fundamentally less than the lady I was meant to be.
Why didn’t I tell him no?
Why didn’t I try to stop him?
What if someone with a key had entered the room?
Everyone had cameras now. If someone had walked in, there would have been pictures of my bare ass on Page Six.
It didn’t even occur to me what scandal my actions could have caused until I was back home and safe.
Instead, in the moment, all I could think about was the way his hot tongue felt inside me. The way his dark hair was silky and soft between my fingers, the scrape of his scruff against my inner thigh and the shameful way my body responded to him, demanding more friction.
This was not the way I was raised, but I couldn’t even deny it to myself. I liked it, and despite all common sense, I wanted more.
I didn’t know when my hand had moved down my body and between my legs, but I pressed my fingers to my clit, where he had pressed his thumb.
The pressure he applied was so much harder than what I could manage. Instead, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it would have felt like if his tongue had lapped at my clit instead of penetrating me.
Would he have flicked his tongue over the nerves or sucked them into his hot mouth, pulling at me until I shattered for him?
The faster my fingers moved, the more I thought about Reid and the way he’d touched me. How he so easily demanded pleasure for my body. Pleasure I didn’t even know I could feel so intensely.
Then my mind went further, imagining what would have happened if I had let him kiss me. If I hadn’t slapped him. If, instead, I let him turn me around and bend me over that desk. Or maybe he would have lifted me in his strong arms and braced me against the wall while he took my innocence.
Would it have hurt the first time he thrust into me? Probably.