Page 22 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
I pinch the flesh. She hisses through her nostrils.
Such a lovely arse, Belle Holloway.
She shrugs. “I was always told I had pancake butt.”
I pause, unable to help the amusement I feel at the term, but a heated indignation flares more.I care not if your bottom does not curve like the ripe shape of apples. Your cheeks fit well in my hand.I squeeze her arse, giving her my reassurance.And your flesh is firm, bearing the signs of the hard work you’ve dedicated to giving others the gift of literature, comfort, baked delights, and validation.
Her breath leaves in shallow gasps. No words are necessary. Her body gives way, utterly composed, upon the saddle bench.
I leave the stockings where they are and take a moment toenvision the beauty of her arse. With that vision sealing itself in my mind, I collect one crop hooked to a nearby wall. As I draw it along the base of her cheeks, Belle shivers. Her fingers clench in preparation. Those muscles flex, but the rest of her is serene to my touch. Fuck, what I’d give to see her, but I know I would rut her if I did. Her rosy, slick petals would be too irresistible to resist.
Maintaining a firm and controlled grip on the handle, I remove my other glove in preparation before touching the crop to the side of her bare neck. Her breath hitches. I draw the edge along the curvature of her spine, but she continues to soften, to melt against the saddle stand.
The crop is to be used thoughtfully—I tell her.The master must respect the horse’s sensitivity and temperament. It is meant as a guide, not a punishment. But when it comes to a beautiful woman, I prefer to call itdiscipline.
A flick of my wrist, and the crop strikes her bottom. The slap echoes off the carriage house walls. Her whimper is my melodic reward. At some point, I will use my hand. But I must maintain a safe distance, a controlled distance.
I swing the crop again. No whimper this time, but I take hold of her braid, ensuring I feel her stretching with the vibration humming through her. Then, she turns blessedly still. Her arse is warm to the touch, and I trace my bare finger along a pink striation. I cup her shoulder, and her breath heaves while I roam my palm along the side of her arm. Curse me, her muscles—despite how I bound her to the hook—are soft, responding but molding to my touch. I’ve never experienced one woman who was not tense.
Belle’s submission undoes me. If I possessed a heart, she would unravel its strings. And I would bind them around her wrists and throat to show her how much I must possess her.
I flick the crop again, harder.
My chest swells with my breath, and I command her,Be my eyes, Belladonna. Tell me what you are doing with every strike of my instrument.
I bring it down again. She hisses and releases a soft moan. If the whimper was a melodic reward, her moans are the harmony. “Um…I’m on my tiptoes. Sir. But I wish I weren’t wearing shoes so my toes could curl up more.”
After a pause of hearing my heavy breath in my mind, wondering if she may hear it, too, I sweep a hand along the backs of her calves. A tremor shudders through her, but with ease, she lifts the heel of her ankle boot in offering. I don’t need to untie the tight laces. I give the boots a quick jerk, removing each one, then draw a finger along the curve of her stocking-clad sole. I thrill in her toes curling up for me.
Rising, I whip the crop against her bottom without warning. This time, I let it linger—enough to sense her thrusting her ass toward me.
My. Belle.Mine.
How rough does she want it? I demand to know.
I rain down strikes upon her. My actions extend beyond guidance, beyond discipline. I punish her. For my sins, I unleash the deepest and most depraved hell. I disappear. Back to that goddamn night. The ruthlessness, the black-hearted vengeance that stained my soul, I rear back the crop, then throw it up on her plump flesh.
Intermittently touching her with my bare hand, I find she is no longer warm. She is hot as a steady flame.
Another aggressive strike. Her body lurches. I touch her arms. She tries to hide it, to soften and relax for me, but the muscle is coiled all the same. Her hands clench. For the first time, I press myself against her, smirk internally at her gasp. Through the layers of her bunched-up skirt, she can feel my manhood like iron against her.
Sliding my hand around her pelvis, I lower my fingers to her folds, pleased but unsurprised to find her wet. So very wet. Sopping.
Yes, Belle, my precious girl. You love this, don’t you? The forbiddenness, the sin of it all?
I touch her pearl. “Jack!” she gasps, bucking for the first time. I rub two fingers along her pubic lips while capturing her plump little nodule, working it back and forth. “Umm, fuck, Jack!”
I pinch her clit, reveling in her squeal. “Sir! Sir!” she corrects herself.
Dirty girl. I should wash your mouth out with soap. No.I correctmyself.I have something far better in mind to fill your mouth…and your throat.
She trembles with another moan. I should not slide my other fingers along her slick flesh to the divine opening, but I do. Her scent must be so fragrant and intoxicating. The moment I sink two fingers inside her slit, she clenches, sucking them into her wet heat. Thunderation!—how she would suck my member.
Do you want more, my Belle?
“Yes,” she whispers.
How much more?I stab another finger in her, and those inner muscles squeeze so beautifully. My wife was responsive, but not nearly to this degree.
