Page 92 of A Secret and a Lie
I swing again, and this time, the blow is harder. She squirms, rubbing against my cock, ensuring that it’s more solid than a brick. “Two.”
The next strike is the most intense, and she cries out, tightening her grip on my ankle. “Three.”
“You trust me,” I state firmly. “You wouldn’t be here, bent over my lap, living in my house if you didn’t. You don’t have to admit that for it to be true.”
She whimpers, refusing to acknowledge my statement, but that doesn’t matter. We both know I’m right.
When I smack her again, her breathing is ragged, and she wriggles against me. “Four.”
I rub her ass through her pants. “Are you enjoying this? If I yank your pants down, will I find you wet?”
She moans softly in response when I tell her, “I think I’d like to find out.”
A gasp flies from her mouth as I reach between us and unfasten her pants, then roughly yank them down to her thighs. As she attempts to grind against my leg, her thighs part just enough to see the large dark spot in the center of her red lace panties.
“Such a slut,” I declare, knowing she has a thing for being degraded, which is more than fine by me, considering I have a thing for saying and doing whatever turns her on. “A mere spanking is soaking your panties.”
Without thinking better of it, I drag a finger down her center, and she groans, shoving her ass higher into the air before I abandon her pussy. I bring my other hand down, cracking across her ass harder than before, the sound of the crispsmackreverberating through the penthouse, joining her mewls.
As I continue my assault, I find a rhythm intertwining both harder and softer slaps and notice the way the wet spot on her thong darkens.
“Twenty,” she says finally, her voice raspy, and I trail my index finger down her lace-covered pussy once more. “Thank you, Sir.”
Finding her clit, I rub her through the lace until she’s moaning incoherently, her words a jumbled mess, just like her brain. “Have you learned your lesson? Should you get to come?”
“Pl—Please, Sir. Ineedit.”
“You’re dripping at the thought of being my slutty little cum doll, aren’t you?” I continue making circles over her clit through the fabric. “Go ahead, you can come. Make a mess all over my suit pants.”
She cries out, shrieking my name as she comes with a shudder, her fingers digging into my ankle and one of her shoes clattering to the floor. Everything she does is perfect, even the way she comes. I could observe her unravel a million times and never tire of it.
When she slumps in my lap, her body going boneless, I gather her in my arms and pull her to a sitting position. Cupping her cheek, I stare into her hazel eyes. They’re tender now, no longer holding the mutinous spark from earlier.
“Everything you saw from me was real. You brought the Dominant side of me to life, that wasn’t an act, just as your desire to submit to me was authentic.” I stroke her face with my thumb. Her eyes have gone glassy, but she doesn’t cry. “You were made to be mine, Genevieve. I’ll wait as long as it takes for you to admit that.”
She doesn’t reply, just curls into my chest, making my heart squeeze as I breathe in her cherry blossom scent. Pushing to my feet, I carry her to bed,my bed,where she belongs.
Genevieve
My sleep is serene, restful in a way I haven’t experienced in ages, months before I went to prison even. It’s not until I wake that things take a turn. I roll over, hit with the smoky, spicy scent of Ford, and I realize I’m not in my bed.
The last thing I remember was being scooped into Ford’s arms after coming on his lap from the most erotic spanking. I must’ve fallen asleep, but he shouldn’t have brought me in here. I’m not his.
You trust me. You wouldn’t be here, bent over my lap, living in my house if you didn’t. You don’t have to admit that for it to be true.
Even if it’s possible he’s right on some molecular level, I’m not interested in entertaining that. He proved his point, that he’s a Dom, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t let what happened last night happen again.
I fell for this man twice; I can’t risk it a third time.
My well of frustration rises as I shower and dress. By the time I’m striding for the elevator, still well before six, a lethal cocktail of lust and rage are all that fuel me, threatening to bubble over.
“Was this you?”
I turn, finding Ford. His bare torso is slicked with sweat, his chest heaving like he just got off the treadmill, the gritty yet smooth sound of Five Finger Death Punch’s “Bad Company” now floating from the direction of the gym. He’s holding out his phone for me, and I glance at the screen, a bellicose smile sweeping across my mouth.
Gratification slithers contentedly in my gut like a snake that’s just ingested a prize meal.
Batting my lashes, I reply simply, “According to the headline, it seems Donna Hensley got herself in a bind. She probably shouldn’t have taken those bribes.”
