Page 358 of Hell Hath No Fury
"Fuck." His hands fumbled with the collar of my dress. "I need—"
My breasts spilled out and into his waiting palms, the freckle-dotted skin pale in the moonlight.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Pope cursed, running thumbs over my erect nipples. "Look at you, Little Red. Look at how fucking gorgeous you are right now. That's it, babe. You take my cock like a good girl. Suck me, baby. Fuck me with your throat."
Cupping his balls, I took another inch, eager to please this man who'd done nothing to deserve my worship.
With a growl, he held my head still, fucking into my mouth until tears dripped down my cheeks. I choked, but he kept going, brutally taking what he wanted.
Perhaps I'd have protested if I'd been a better woman. I'd have tapped his thigh or asked for pause. But I wasn't a lady tonight. I was a creature desperate to be punished. Anxious to feel physically the pain that writhed inside me.
Abruptly, Pope pulled back, holding me away from him.
I panted, staring up at this man who held me captive.
"Take off your underwear."
As I followed his direction, a deep ache began to pulse between my thighs.
With breasts still exposed to the night air, I forced my shaking legs to stand before bending over to slide my soaked panties down my legs.
"Give them to me." Pope held his hand out, accepting the saturated material. He made a sound of approval as it slapped into his palm. "Bend over the table."
Sucking in a deep breath, I turned, giving him my back as I bent to place my hands on the wooden tabletop.
He lay a hand between my shoulders, guiding me forward until the table supported my upper body and my arse lifted to the sky. Pope’s erection ground into my arse, his breath hot against my ear. "You need me to hurt you, Little Red?"
I whimpered, nodding.
Pope eased back, his hands falling to my arse. "Good girl."
He gently lifted my skirt, dragging the fabric along the curve of my juicy arse.
I had realistic expectations of my attractiveness and my body. I had cellulite, stretch marks and dimples. When one stood me next to the paragon of manly perfection that Pope represented, I paled significantly in comparison.
Yet Pope wanted me. His arousal pressed against my thigh, his hands greedy on my skin. He seemed to glory in the fullness of my arse cheeks, gripping and stroking.
"You ready?" he asked.
I nodded, unable to find the words to answer him.
"Good girl." He withdrew his touch. "Now count."
His hand smacked down on my arse, the slap of palm to skin like a crack in the quiet night.
I gasped, rising only for Pope to grip my neck, forcing me back down. Giving over, I closed my eyes, counting the sting.
"One."
He spanked me again, the intense heat blooming across my cheeks.
"Two."
Over and over, Pope alternated his punishment, changing tempo, speed and intensity—his actions a chaotic seduction.
"Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two."
My voice faltered, my body humming with the ecstasy of a different kind of release—one drenched in pain and pleasure.
