Page 55 of Snow Bound

Her body jerked, making her breasts bounce. She groaned as the movement jostled her pinched nipples and sent a rush of pain flooding through her system, her mind going fuzzy for a moment. When she could think again, see again, he was smiling at her with such wicked intent that for a moment, she felt real fear.

Watching her, he lifted his finger, slick from her pussy, and licked it. “Delicious. I could eat this pussy all day.”

Yes, please, she thought, and wiggled her hips enticingly.

“But that’ll have to wait,” he continued, and the sadistic gleam in his bright blue eyes had alarm bells clanging. Then he brought his hand out from behind his back and she stared at the object he held. It was orange, about ten inches long, and very familiar.

“Is that…a spatula?”

“Yep.” He waved it, watching her face. “Got it from the kitchen.”

“I made the crepes with that this morning,” she said faintly.

“Well, now, that’s poetic, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully and slapped it lightly on the tender skin of her inner thigh.

She let out a cry, legs jerking closed in self-defense at the sting, and the resulting bounce of her breasts sent spikes of pain dancing through her nipples.

“Open,” he demanded, the order coming through the roaring in her ears. Thighs trembling, she obeyed.

“Very nice,” he said appreciatively and smacked her other thigh. She jerked again, nipples screaming. “How does that feel, sugar?”

She fought to make her throat work, to push the word out. “Nipples,” she gasped. “Ow.”

“Aw.” He chuckled. “Well, let’s see if I can find something to distract you.”

The alarm bells got louder, but there was nothing she could do to stop him from applying the spatula to her thighs again, harder this time, the sting sharp and bright and still not enough to override the agony in her bouncing breasts.

“You know, if you tried harder to keep still,” he commented, slap, slap, slapping away at her thighs. “It probably wouldn’t hurt so much.”

“You…keep…still,” she groaned.

He paused as though he was considering that. “Nah,” he finally said. “But maybe…”

He set the spatula down, and while one part of her rejoiced, another despaired. And with good reason, she realized a second later when she recognized the gleaming metal instrument he held in his hand.

“Did you whisk the crepe batter with this?” he wondered, turning the stainless steel whisk so it caught the light.

She wanted to laugh, but was afraid it would come out in sobs. “Yes.”

“Good,” he said with satisfaction and applied it to her thigh with gusto.

“I fucking hate you,” she wailed.

“That’s my girl,” he cheered and whisked the shit out of her thighs.

The already tenderized skin sang with pain, bright and bold and somehow enthusiastic, as though it took on the personality of its deliverer. And she could do nothing but lie there and take it, her eyes locked desperately on his face as though he was an anchor in the storm, a light in the darkness. Which was ridiculous—he was the storm and the darkness! But that didn’t seem to matter.

The blows kept coming and her boobs kept bouncing and the pain kept building on itself, hot and fast, and it was so much more that she’d ever felt before. It wasn’t even like pain, not in the same sense that a scraped knee or a cut finger was painful. It was rich and deep, thick like molasses and somehow just as sweet. It was overwhelming and all-encompassing and somehow, not enough. She was nowhere near orgasm, but something was building inside her. Something huge and scary and suddenly as necessary as breathing.

Caught somewhere between pleasure and pain, agony and bliss, she became untethered. Free-floating. The only thing that mattered was sensation, the waves of it that rolled over her, unceasing, were all that existed.

And Grant. Grant was there. Stroking her face, calling her name. She should answer him. He wanted her to answer him.

Her voice, when she managed to use it, was nearly soundless. “What?”

She saw him smile through blurry eyes. “There you are. Where’d you go, sugar?”

“Nowhere,” she croaked, though she knew that wasn’t entirely true. “I’m right here where you left me, the Thanksgiving turkey no one is eating.”

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