Page 146 of Fallen Omega

It’s all designed to be breezy, and it feels like glossing over the ugly parts of his life.

It’s designed to be hot and controlling and benevolent.

“Stand up, Liz.”

I do, my legs wobbling. He stands too, and takes my drink, setting it down with his. He walks around me and unzips the dress the rest of the way. It falls to the floor in a heap.

“Even without the dress, you’re fucking beyond stunning.”

He touches me softly, all over, never resting. He tastes my pussy that’s covered in lace, the small of my back, my nipples, nape of my neck, my waist. He then tastes my lips and cheeks. His fingers move all over, touching me everywhere.

It’s the only way I can explain it.Tasting. Because each touch is a lick. Each touch is a bite, a mark on me.

“Fuck, Liz. You’re a vision, and I think I’m back to the idea of the bedroom. But first…”

Knight strips off his jacket and undoes hiswaistcoat, then he pulls off his belt. He sits. Pats his lap. “Lay down, stomach to the floor, ass up.”

My heart beats wild and I do just that.

He snicks the leather strap, the sound reverberating through my every cell.

“You’ve been bad. You doubted me. You talked back, you talked yourself into shame of your own making. You don’t think you’re beautiful. So, I’m going to punish you. Ten, I think…”

Without warning, he brings the belt down on my ass and I scream, more from shock than the sting that turns to a pleasant throb.

“That’s one,” he says.

It comes down again. And it hurts a little more, the pleasure aftermath a little more intense.

“Two.” He rubs a hand over my ass. Then he brings the belt down again. And again. “Three. Four.”

I moan.

He does it again. “Five.” Then he leans in. “I bet you’re wet. I bet you’re aching and in need of alpha cock to ride. Missionary? I don’t think so. You’re not a missionary girl unless it’s legs up and back. Unless you’re spread open for the taking.” He hits me again and again and again. “Six. Seven. Eight.”

I’m hot, squirming, throbbing with need, my pussy wet, dripping. And I want to come, his blows holding the promise of an orgasm in with the deliverance of pain.

He hits me again, and I shriek and moan. “Nine. Usually, I like to follow up the wine and dine with drinks and kinks, I sprinkle on a little seduction and I’m there.”

He holds off on the final blow.

“Please!”

“But this is you, Liz, and we’ve already done the wine and dine and I think I know your kinks,” he says, rubbing my hotass. “You’re a versatile girl, and I like that. But I’m never, ever going to be Dante.”

“I don’t want you to be.”

“Or Reaper.”

I try and picture this man chasing me down with deadly, erotic intent. But I can’t. He likes the chase, he likes his kinks, but he’s Daddy over his domain. He’s the master and he’ll care for me.

Praise me.

Watch me squirm.

And he’ll dole out measured of punishment aimed to please, and then…

I swallow. “Never, and that’s a good thing.”

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