Page 60 of The Sadist and the Brat

“Are they okay?”

“Perfect.”

Testing, he drew her feet into his lap. After an initial jerk of surprise, she didn’t resist. “Feeling okay?”

“A little loopy.” She shifted, twisting her torso so she faced him more squarely while still lying on her hip.

“That’s normal.” He reached out and patted her butt, smiling when she jerked and hissed. “How’s your ass?

“It hurts.” She said it with a scowl, but her eyes were shining.

“Yeah?” He grinned. “How much?”

“On a scale of one to ten?” She grabbed a throw pillow and wedged it under her head. “Seven and a half.”

“I went too easy on you.”

“Believe me,” she said fervently, “you did not.”

“Are you going to tell me you didn’t like it?”

“I’d like to tell you that.” She shifted, wincing when her butt hit the back cushions. “But aside from the part where you were gumming my nipples like a dying goldfish—”

“Like awhat?”

“—I really liked it,” she finished, and her eyes drifted closed on a sigh. “I don’t think I’ve come that hard in…ever.”

“Well.” He sat back, surprised. “That sounds suspiciously like a compliment.”

Her eyes stayed closed. “I assume that squeaking I hear is the sound of your ego expanding.”

That surprised a laugh out of him. “Does your mouth ever quit?”

“Not really,” she said, and yawned.

She looked so small bundled up in his bathrobe, her hair tangled on the pillow and her lashes casting faint shadows on her flushed cheeks. Stripped of mascara, they were the same strawberry-blonde as her hair, and for some reason he found that fascinating. Her mouth was soft and swollen, the lips parted to give just a glimpse of strong white teeth. He smiled when he remembered her snapping at him, and wondered, if given the chance, she’d actually bite him.

The robe covered her from neck to ankle, her hands pulled inside the sleeves. She shifted her feet, one of them bumping up against his crotch. Her eyes popped open, and she pulled them back an inch. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he assured her. “Are you cold?”

“No, but…”

“What?” he prompted.

“Can I put my toes under your leg?”

He raised an eyebrow, curious at the sudden shyness in her gaze. “Sure, if you want.”

“They’re not cold,” she assured him, wedging her toes under his thigh. “I just like sleeping with something on my feet.”

“The socks don’t do the trick?”

“I need something heavy. I usually put a pillow over them,” she admitted, the pink on her cheeks deepening. “I know, it’s weird.”

“I’ve seen weirder.” Her toes wiggled against his leg, more of a poke than a caress, but he nonetheless felt the beginning stirrings of arousal. “You sure you’re not cold? I can get a blanket.”

She shook her head, her eyes drifting closed again. “I’m fine.”

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