Page 26 of Judge's Mercy

“Do it,” I say, not recognizing my own voice. It’s too breathy, too desperate. I should be embarrassed by how fast he’s brought me to the edge, but it feels too good to care. “Oh, god.”

“Not until I tell you to,” he says, removing his fingers. “Do you understand?”

“Judge,” I whine.

“If you come before I say you can, I’ll punish you, and then we’ll start all over.”

Fear surges through me as I push up to my elbows and clamp my legs shut. It wasn’t that long ago the client at the ranch tried to take a ruler to my ass and I broke his nose. My mind isn’t strong enough to play this game, and I don’t want to be responsible for one of us getting hurt.

“No. No punishments,” I grit out.

Reading my anxiety, he takes a step back, giving me space. “If you want me to do this, you need to give me a safe word. Something easy for you to remember so that if things get too intense or you feel triggered in any way, you can say it, and everything stops, no questions asked.”

I look around the room and spot one of my plants in the corner. “Pothos.”

He glances over at where I’m looking, spotting the plant in a macrame hanger. The lush, variegated leaves that cover the long vines have almost reached the floor. He turns back to me with a slight upward turn of his lips. “Okay, pothos it is.”

Gripping my thighs, he tugs me to the edge of the mattress and pulls my panties down my legs. I help him by lifting my hips and then spreading my legs once again. This time, he can see all of me, and my eyes dart to his throat, knowing what’s coming. With fascination, I watch that prominent lump move up and then back down. Is there such a thing as an Adam’s apple kink? If there is, I have it.

“Fuck, it was difficult enough not to have a hard-on every time I was in a room with you, but now that I know what you look like without your clothes, it’ll be impossible. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, his gaze locked on my center, which only turns me on more. I keep things bare down there except for a trim, blonde tuft of hair right above my slit. Since my quarter-life crisis included a box of black dye, the curtains don’t match the drapes, but Judge doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

I suddenly feel a little underdressed. While I’m lying naked, the only skin he has exposed is a sliver of tatted skin at the base of his throat. It doesn’t surprise me that he has tattoos on his chest because he has others: arrows pointing up both index fingers, a small butterfly on the inside of his right wrist, and what I think is an angel on his left arm, but I’m not certain. He doesn’t roll his sleeves up often, but when he has, I’ve seen what looks like the tips of angel wings.

“I want to see you too,” I say, hoping it encourages him to level the playing field.

Something in his expression changes. Uncertainty? Or maybe even something worse. Panic? It confuses me because it’s not a strange request; this isn’t a quickie, so nudity is implied. If I was a better person, his hesitation would put an end to this. If I was even a good friend, I’d be concerned about what he’s hiding.

I’m neither of those things, though, and I’m in my selfish era.

CHAPTER NINE

JUDGE

My fingers toy with the next button on my shirt, unsure if I can give her what she wants. I want more. I want to be seen, and I want something real. However, now that I have her right in front of me, asking to see all of me, I’m choking.

“It’s okay. I’ll take whatever you give me,” she says, her voice dripping with desire rather than worry at my obvious distress.

A wave of self-loathing crashes over me as I realize I’m delusional to think this could be something more. She’s just asking for a temporary fix, not a future. As long as I can satisfy her body, she doesn’t care about the turmoil raging inside of me. I’m a fool to believe she would want anything more from someone as damaged as me, but I said I’d give her this, and I won’t be another disappointment in her life.

It’s not like it’s a hardship. This gloriously naked and willing woman wants me. What does it matter if this is all it’ll ever be? I’d kick my own ass if I turned her down now.

I step between her legs and lean over her body, holding myself up on my elbows and coming nose-to-nose with her. Her eyes widen and her arms pull up to her chest, a defensive move so she can push me away if she needs to. I’m sure it’s pure instinct for her these days, and even though she says she trusts me, she must have her limits.

“Breathe with me,” I say, unclenching one of her fists and placing her flattened palm over my heart before placing my own over hers.

“What?” she croaks.

“You heard me. I want you to breathe with me.” I demonstrate a deep inhale and exhale. “In and then out.”

“Judge, I don’t?—”

“Trust me, angel.” I’ve called her many things, from sweetheart to darlin’, but angel feels right in this moment. Abdu’l-Baha says angels are a confirmation of God. Looking down at this woman with a dark past, a damaged soul, and a broken heart still fighting to survive, I’ve never believed in God more.

Her forehead wrinkles, but she mimics my breaths until we’re in sync. I let my affection for her shine through my eyes, even though the only thing reflected back at me is skepticism. Her heart, which was pounding hard when I first laid my hand on her chest, slows until even our heartbeats are synced.

“Good girl.” I run my fingertips along the soft skin of her throat, down between the valley of her breasts, all the way to her belly button and back up again. “Remember not to come until I tell you.”

She nods, and I push off her, sliding to my knees. With one hand, I apply gentle pressure on her lower abdomen while a finger on the other slips between her glistening folds, gliding up and down. The plan for tonight is to go slow and keep her on edge in order to shut down her logical brain, something she desperately needs. Controlling her orgasms is about so much more than building tension. It’s about relinquishing control and learning to trust again.

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