Page 57 of Ruthlessly Mated
The last thing we need is for Kita to start taking on more than she should. She has been naughty, yes. She has been hard to handle, sure. But she did not set the port on fire. And I will not have her bearing guilt for something she should not bear guilt for.
Kita
Shocks of excitement run through me as Tailor lifts me up and holds me in place as if I weigh nothing at all.
Holy fuck. This man is a dark horse. Tailor has been so very proper in almost everything since we’ve met. He’s been the gentleman who makes everything seem reasonable and safe, even when it is neither reasonable nor safe.
“Are you mad at me?” I whimper the question.
His eyes narrow at me, and I almost expect him to say yes.
“I am not mad at you, but I am determined to teach you to obey me, especially in matters like these. You will not blame yourself for this. You. Will. Not. Do you understand me?”
I feel sharp zaps of arousal and excitement. Tailor doesn’t talk like this. Conroy is the one who growls and demands with rough dominance, but Tailor is nice and refined, and he doesn’t tell me what to do. Until now, apparently. My nervousness makes me wriggle.
“Stay still,” he orders, his voice like silk.
I can’t stay still. I whimper and I squirm. I tug against his grip, half to feel it, and half to test it. I am the sort of animal that needs to move. Stillness feels like danger. This steady grip feels like force.
“Stop. Moving.”
“I can’t,” I whimper.
“You can, and you will.” His fingers slide between my legs and stroke the slick fabric there, sliding over my pussy with a touch that teases and pleases and denies me at the same time.
I do not stay still. My hips grind and my wrists turn and I disobey him with every motion of my body and breath I take.
“I can’t. And I won’t,” I moan back.
He palms my pussy and squeezes firmly enough to keep me in place, the heel of his hand against my clit.
“Maybe not right now, but you will learn.”
His hand slides away, then returns in a sharp slap.
“Ow!” I whimper. “Why would you do that?”
“Punishment is part of learning,” he growls. “If I have to punish you, I will. It is as simple as that.”
“No,” I whine, the word sharpening in the middle when his palm meets my pussy again in another one of those slaps that makes me tingle all the way through my core.
“Yes,” he says firmly, spanking me again.
“It’s not my fault. I can’t help it.”
“That’s a pity, isn’t it,” he says, so smoothly and mercilessly, now rubbing between my legs with a rhythm that once more makes my hips dance.
“Tailor, no. Fuck. Come on. It’s not fair. It’s not…”
“Stay still,” he growls.
“I can’t!” I lift my voice in frustration.
“Don’t you raise your voice at me,” he says, spanking my panty-clad clit. “You speak to me with respect.”
I am getting so wet, and I am finding it impossible to do what he wants, and it’s not fair, and he knows it, and everything I do is just getting me in more trouble, which is getting me wetter and making me need him more as he gets more and more intensely stern with me.
I abandon speaking entirely, dropping into groans and growls.
