Page 52 of Violent Hearts

Chapter 24

Jared

She's most beautiful when she climaxes. My Button is so strong and self-contained, always on top of things, always in control. It's hard to break through that tough shell she has so carefully built around herself, and the only time she's truly able to let go is during those magic seconds when her mind is shut off and her body takes over in a savage outburst.

But boy, does she make these moments her own. She craves them just as much as I do, and to get there, she's willing to go a step further every time we play. Her orgasms all belong to me, but she makes sure to earn them and get as much out of them as she possibly can. By now, she has felt more than just the belt on her impeccable skin. I've left marks on her with thin leather floggers, canes, and even a paddle, one that left an unmistakable imprint on her ass spelling out the word SLUT. She didn't like that one and hated the degrading mark she was forced to carry for a couple of days. But she craves the feeling of leather strings on her skin, and the belt still appears to be her favorite.

I couldn't wait to rip the deep red dress off of her after we got home from the Rotary Club. It was hard enough not to attack her on our drive home, especially since she looked at me with those big, expectant eyes, her breathing deep and heavy, a telltale sign of her ignited anticipation. She teased me by pulling up the hem of her dress just the slightest bit every time my eyes wandered over to her.

We barely made it through the front door before I started tearing at her dress. She mewled and tried to stop me from ruining her dress, which only egged me on further. I was between her legs within seconds, switching the button that shuts off her public self to make room for the slut I need her to be for me behind closed doors.

"The belt," she breathes as I pleasure her with my fingers. "I want the belt, Sir."

So I gave it to her. She squealed in my arms as I carried her over to the bedroom, naked and hungry for pain. Her expressions of joy quickly changed into groans of agony, desperate yelps, and heated, ecstatic cries when I let her taste the leather. Her perky ass is painted in red stripes by the time I'm done with her, and she's in the midst of cathartic wailing when I turn her over to fuck her. I need to see her face every time she comes, I need to be a part of it, witness every moment of victory as I see her shattering beneath me.

Right now, one of those magic moments is about to come to an end, right before I decided it was time to join her. She's still clenching around my cock, my hand at her throat, but not choking her, when I explode in that same delirious bliss she just experienced a few moments before me. I always come so hard with her, harder than I ever have with anyone before. The intensity is blinding and emotionally painful, because I can no longer fuck without being haunted by doubts.

Doubts about her honesty.

Doubts about my decision to let her in.

Doubts about her loyalty.

She's still breathing heavily, her foggy eyes seeking mine as a soft smile plays around the corners of her mouth. Her make-up is smeared from crying, and her ash blond strands of hair are sticking to her sweaty face or tangled in a hot mess. She has never looked more beautiful to me.

How can she fucking dare...

"Thank you."

The smile on her face widens after she says those words. She always thanks me when we're done because I told her to. And while she's following all of the rules, I can't even trust those simple words because she speaks them in a way that makes me believe she may actually mean them.

I can't let this happen. She's being paid to do this, or she will be. I have to remember her place in all of this.

"You did very well today," I tell her, caressing the side of her face and moving a sticky strand of hair out of the way. I’m acting like a fucking little boy in love. "You earned this."

She grins. "I really did, didn't I? Man, those guys were boring! I hear you on the draining part. It really is draining."

"You didn't look exhausted at all," I say. "In fact, you actually looked like you were having a good time, making good conversation."

I notice the accusing tone in my voice, and so does she. Her eyebrows furrow and she slowly shakes her head.

"Heck, no. I was bored out of my mind. But I can't let them know that, can I?"

"No, of course not."

"See? I'm just doing my job."

I don't know why, but her voice leaves a fucking bruise on my heart

I'm just doing my job.

Why did she have to say it like that? Why does it matter? Why does it bother me this much?

"I'm hungry," she complains. "Feed me, Sir."

She cuddles up to me, burying her face in my chest, and my heart almost bursts. This is not how I'm supposed to feel, this is not how she's supposed to be, how it’s supposed to be.

"I'm starving, too," I say. "They never serve proper food at these events; it's pathetic."

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