Page 133 of Wicked Sin

“Harder,” she begs. Tears cling to her lashes as she squeezes her eyes shut.

“What do you need?”

“You.”

“I’m here.”

“Don’t ever let me go.”

“I won’t.” I flex my hand, then squeeze again. Harder, as requested. I trace the line of her neck with my other hand. “Are you sure you want me to be rough tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Why, darling?”

I need to know. The reason doesn’t matter. Whatever she wants, I’ll give her. But if I know what’s driving her here, I can make it even better.

She shakes her head from side to side. “I don’t know,” she sobs. “I just need you to hurt me. And then hold me.”

My heart cracks, and I fall on her. “I’ll hold you forever,” I growl. “Always. You can come to me and curl up in my lap and ask me—tell me—to do bad things to you, and I will. And then I will always—always—make it right afterward.”

“Sometimes I’m so scared that I’m bad to the bone.”

“You’re not.”

“Sometimes I want to be punished.” It’s the tiniest of whispers. Hotter than anything.

“You need to be shown a lesson?”

She nods jerkily.

I rear up above her and roughly turn her onto her front, baring her ass for me. “What are your words, baby?”

“Red, yellow, green. I’m totally green,” she pants. “Spank me, Luke.”

I laugh. “Not that easy.” I climb off her, leaving her on the bed. She squirms, and I grab her foot. “Stay like that. Or you won’t like what I do when I come back.”

I step into her closet and go my tiny section of suits in the corner. I need one of my ties. No, two of them.

Back at the bed, she hasn’t moved.

“Good girl,” I say, running my fingers up her leg, from her ankle to the delectable curve at the bottom of her ass. I raise my hand and bring it down in a sharp, stinging slap.

She cries out.

“Is that green?”

“Yes,” she pants.

“Good.” I go to her hands and bind them tightly with one of the ties, checking her circulation before I move back down her body—pausing to give her another rough spank—to do the same at her ankles.

Once she’s trussed up, I climb back onto the bed and haul her over my lap.

She squeaks at the rough movement.

“Still green?”

“Yes.”

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