Page 2 of Coerced Wife

My inner muscles clench at the promise.

A shiver runs down my spine when he picks up the hairbrush and tests it by slapping the flat end against his palm. The sharp sound as the wood connects with his flesh sends a thrill through me that turns me wet instantly.

A second passes, heightening the anticipation. Whenhe finally brings the brush down on my left globe, I jerk as much from the surprise as from the sting. A hiss escapes my lips. It hurts more than when he uses his hand.

“I’m going to tan your ass until this pretty skin is red all over,” he says, rubbing away the burn. “Every time you sit down tonight, you’re going to think about me and how deep my cock was buried inside you.”

The dirty talk only makes me more needy. I hold my breath, waiting for the next blow, but he takes his time, dragging it out.

He slips his fingers beneath the elastic of the thong at the back and twists his wrist, pulling the triangle of fabric tight between my legs. The friction makes me whimper. The second swat falls on my right globe, heating my skin. My desire skyrockets.

“Sav.”

“I know what you need.”

He tightens the lace more and pulls at the same time. I almost come from the stimulation, but then he loosens his hold and delivers another smack on my ass that sets my nerve endings on fire.

He times the swats to maintain a steady pace. He’s keeping his strength in check, because the blows he delivers don’t hurt enough to make me want him to stop. They cover every inch of the skin on my globes and heat me on the outside as well as the inside. By the time he’s done, I’m desperate for release.

I moan when he finally drops the brush. He doesn’t bother to remove the thong. He grips the elastic in both hands and snaps it as if it’s nothing but a thin piece of thread. His gaze is fixed on my ass as he unzips and takes out his cock. He positions the crest at my opening before spreading me open with both hands. My back arches as heslowly sinks inside, stretching me until his groin is flush against my ass.

A moan slips free when he starts to move. He pumps with a slow, steady rhythm, catching my gaze in the mirror before looking back to where our bodies are joined. I watch him as he fucks me, imprinting the picture of how mesmerized he appears in my mind. Pleasure is drawn in stark, harsh lines on his face. He makes a stunning portrait as he slides in and out of me while devouring the act with his eyes.

It’s not until he wraps an arm around my waist and cups my stomach in his broad palm that he looks at my face. When he moves his free hand between my legs and rubs my clit, I come while staring into his eyes. He picks up his rhythm, chasing after his own release and making me ride the aftershocks that rack my body until I sag in his hold. He anchors me against him with his fingers splayed over my stomach and his other hand between my legs as his body goes taut and he spills his release inside me.

The kiss he plants on my naked back is tender. Reverent. In different circumstances, I would’ve seen too much into that kiss. I could’ve easily interpreted the gesture as a token of deeper feelings. But the lingering caress also holds a note of regret that warns me of his intention before he puts distance between us.

He grabs a wad of tissues from the box on the vanity and pulls out. His release leaks from my body and runs down my thighs while he watches with concentration. I don’t move. I let him take his fill, secretly enjoying this unexpected power he gives me too.

He wipes the wetness from my inner thighs and discards the tissues before zipping up. Then he grasps my hips and carefully helps me to my feet. I stand on wobbly legs, studying his reflection in the mirror.

“Don’t clean between your legs,” he says, pinning me with a smoldering look. “I want you to feel me inside you with every step you take.”

“I probably smell like sex.”

“Good.” He grabs my hair in a ponytail at the base of my neck and twists it around his fist while giving me a possessive smile. “Then everyone will know you’re mine.”

My heart pounds out an erratic beat, one that’s simultaneously hopeful and fearful. It feels as if I’m balancing on the edge of a cliff with the wind whipping around me. It can either push me over or pull me back, depending on the direction from where it comes.

“Why is that important?” I ask. “Is it part of the show you’re putting on?”

Thud, thud. Thud, thud.

Silence.

The only sound is the thumping of my heart in my ears.

When he finally speaks, his voice is flat. “Yes.”

I go over the cliff, my stomach bottoming out as I plummet to the ground where disappointment waits like sharp rocks to impale my body and to stab right through my chest.

“Because my life is yours,” I say, tasting the bitterness of that statement on my tongue.

“True.” He turns me with his hands on my shoulders to face him. “But it’s also to keep you safe.”

After quickly washing his hands in the bathroom, he gives me my wrap and my clutch bag, takes my hand, and pulls me behind him to the door.

The slickness between my legs and the lingering burn under the skin of my glutes are no longer sexy, wild, and adventurous. He eradicated everything with a few cold words, reminding me of my place in our reality.

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