Page 42 of Whips and Chains
“That thing you were wearing…it left marks all over your body.”
“It was a bit tight.”
His thumbs traced over an indent the corset bones had left on the back of my hip. It wasn’t really sore, I hadn’t been wearing it long enough for it to do any real damage, but I could feel the marks he saw.
His voice was deep and possessive when he said, “You’re not putting that back on. Your clothing isn’t supposed to hurt you.”
“You’ve clearly never been a woman,” I said quietly. “I’d never have clothes on if I never wore things that hurt.”
Ninety percent of my clothes hurt. From underwire bras that jabbed beneath my arms, to boots that rubbed at my calves, and dresses that were too tight around my belly… Finding anything that fit properly when you were bigger than a size ten was nearly impossible.
Clothes were often just not made with bigger women in mind. We were always an afterthought, never the main target for fashion.
He dipped his head to kiss the back of my neck and then worked his way down my spine, his lips delivering soft kisses over every lump and bump and angry red mark until he was on his knees.
His hands found my ass cheeks, still clad in a pair of panties way skimpier than I normally wore. His fingers slid beneath the elastic, until he had two full handfuls. His thumbs stroked me there, kneading and massaging, inching closer and closer with every pass to the crease between my thighs.
My heart beat with anticipation.
He didn’t leave me waiting for long.
He dragged my panties down over my ample ass, then lower, over my cellulite-dimpled thighs until I was standing in nothing but the low heels I’d decided to try to wear tonight since the corset outfit hadn’t looked very good with a pair of sneakers or dowdy, though more functional, orthopedic work shoes.
X groaned. “Fuck, Violet. This is what you wear whenever we’re together. Not those fucking clothes that hurt you. You wear nothing but those heels. God, you’re beautiful.”
A smile played across my lips. “Actually, the heels hurt a bit too.”
His playful side came out. “Then give them to me.”
I laughed. “You gonna wear them?”
He grinned as he rose to his feet and then leaned in, whispering in my ear so only I would hear, “No, but I can always use an extra murder weapon. And the spike on those heels will look better in the jugular of the man who scared you tonight than it does in your closet.”
A shiver ran over me.
“You’re going to tell me his name and I’m going to take care of it.”
It was sick I found that hot.
And later, I would set him straight on what had really happened because I didn’t want my poor Uber driver, who had done nothing wrong other than getting me to my destination quicker, to pay the ultimate price for good service.
But I didn’t want to talk about that now.
Not when his hands were all over me.
He pressed his body against me again from behind, this time reaching around, his arm resting on my belly, his fingers skating over my mound and then lower, until he found the nub of my clit.
One touch brought it to life with a pulsing pleasure that had me gasping.
He rubbed it slowly, in circles that got smaller and faster with each pass.
I held on to the wall, bracing myself with my fingertips so I wasn’t smushed by his weight.
I got wetter and wetter with every stroke he made of my clit. He sucked the side of my neck while he worked me up, and I twisted my head so I could kiss him.
He tasted of salt and lime and tequila, and it was as delicious as the way he touched me.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the people watching us though. “Do you think there’s a lot of them?”
