Page 67 of The Sinner and the Scholar
Spank the impudence out of you.
The backrest hits my stomach. The pressure on my neck intensifies. I resist... push back…
Then fuck you in the arse like the unapologetic whore you claim to be.
I’m so amped, so full of adrenaline, that I can’t hear properly. Wesley doesn’t let up until I bend at the hips. My top half falls over the backrest, and my hands slap onto the cushioned seat for balance. But he doesn’t stop controlling. Doesn’t stop bending over with me, using his body to pin me hard.
Blood rushes to my head. The protection charm slips from my collar along with the silver crucifix. They land below my face and taunt me. One is a sign of my guilt, the other of my salvation, and I don’t know which is which. I can’t breathe from the pressure of the seat against my ribs. My skin is on fire. A heavy ache blooms between my legs, and I silently pray Wesley will give me what I deserve—he’ll purge my sins.
“Is this what you want?” His growl is strained, angry. He’s not revealed how he’ll do it, but I’ll take it. I’ll take anything.
“Yes,” I whimper, squeezing my eyes shut. “Please.”
He loops the seatbelt length around my wrists, circling twice to wrap tight. Deep grunts of frustration fill my ears as he secures the belt clasp into the buckle on the other side. He pulls the extra extension cord until it all tightens and flattens my hands against the seat. He gives a tug, testing my restraints.
I’m trapped. Face down. Ass in the air.
He returns to stand behind me but collects the protection charm, leaving the crucifix. He brushes my hair to the side and then positions the charm against the back of my neck. So he can see it. That understanding unravels something inside my chest. He trails his fingers down my spine, rasping over my t-shirt until he arrives at my yoga pants.
“Yes,” I whisper, biting my lip. “Make it hurt.”
He tugs off my pants so harshly that my skin burns. But then his attention moves to my panties and gentles. This isn’t rough now. Decidedlynotrough. My lungs seize, and my heart stops.Why is he gentle?
He traces along the lace hem with his finger, dipping beneath, tickling my bare skin just enough to make my eyes flutter.
“Rip them off.” I wiggle my legs impatiently.
A deep chuckle behind me isn’t what I want to hear. I don’t want to be the object of his affection or amusement. I want pain. Punishment. Absolution. He kneads my buttocks and mumbles, “You have the most perfect arse I’ve ever seen, Thea. I should write sonnets about it. Pray to it.”
I’m losing control of the situation.
“I’d rather you spank it,” I growl.
“Mmm.” He sounds like he’s considering but then slides off my panties so I’m bare and exposed. Air tickles my wet folds, and I close my eyes, preparing for the pain I hope he’ll give me. The release of my guilt, shame, and this unending feeling of being unmoored. But it doesn’t come.
I sense him move. Hear the creak of his knees as he bends. He spreads my cheeks, exposing my most intimate parts. Hot breath shudders against my sensitive flesh and I whimper at the spark of heavy sensation. It’s like he’s savoring. He’s taking too long, getting too familiar. I yank on my restraints.
“Please,” I urge. “Give me what I deserve.”
“With pleasure.”
His tongue plunges deep into my pussy. I cry out as every nerve ending in my body seizes. Too many euphoric sensations flood my body. His tongue explores. Tastes. I buck against his mouth, unable to stop myself from reacting—from squirming at the sudden pleasure. He feasts on me with the voracity of a starving man. Like he’ll never have another meal again. Just as he kissed me with his whole body, he devours me now.
He presses against my legs, buries his face in me, makes little sounds of satisfaction.
“Wesley,” his name is a prayer on my lips. I don’t know what I’m asking for any more.
He slides a finger along my slit, gliding and teasing everywhere until I pant and sweat. “Thisis what you deserve, Thea. Pleasure. Bliss, and I’ll be the first man on this planet to give it to you.”
“Cocky,” I gasp.
“Confident.”
Some kind of release starts through me. It’s warm, heady, and turns me limp. I’m no longer floating adrift. I’m anchored to the words this man speaks, to the feelings he gives me. I’ve never had someone care about my pleasure. I know what’s happening isn’t real. It won’t last. It can’t.
“Tell me to stop,” he demands, his voice rough as he teases with his fingers.
“Bastard,” I pant, shaking my head.
