Mirror of My Soul, Joey Hill [ereader iphone .txt] 📗

in his hand, tugged it back so he could see her face. The desperate arousal, the need. And it was that which gentled his touch at last, made him ease his hold into a stroke.

“I won’t do this rough.” Pressing her head back down to her arms, he let his

fingertips drift along the nape of her neck, back over the scars and her reddened cheeks.

Welts were already rising on the pale, delicate skin. She wouldn’t sit easily for a week.

While that gave him lustful satisfaction, the idea of rubbing healing salve into them stirred him as well.

He straightened, guided himself into the lubricated passage and went deep as the muscle released, letting him in. She moaned as he dropped to all fours over her, covering her. Her cheek pressed against his forearm, her lips to his hand. “Everywhere he’s been, I’m there now, driving him out. I won’t let him come back. I’m inside you, in every part of you.” He started to move his hips, slow, incremental friction that made his cock even harder and thicker, made his desire to thrust more violently grow.

“This is still a punishment, so I’m not going to let you come. You’re just going to have to walk around all day today with your ass too sore to sit, your cunt swollen and wet, your nipples hard and pressed against your dress, knowing that tonight, I’ll come back to your bed. I’ll make you come then, hard and often, until you’re so exhausted you’ll beg me to stop, but I won’t. Not until you call me Master over and over and I know you’ll never forget it.”

When she shuddered, he kissed her between her shoulder blades. Pressed his hard thighs against the back of her lovely ones and the rise of her pale buttocks to drive into her more deeply. Balancing his weight with one arm, he collared her throat, lifted her so her back was against his chest, her head against his shoulder. “By my hand only. By my cock and mouth only, unless I command otherwise. Say it and mean it.”

“By your hand only,” she whispered hoarsely around the pressure of that grip. “By your cock and mouth only, unless you command it. Master. I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes, pressed his temple to hers and began to thrust home. Harder, as she needed, as he needed. Holding her throat, her life pulsing strong under his touch, he accepted responsibility for it. She was so strong the only thing that could shatter her was the thing she’d never been offered, that had never nourished her long enough to count.

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Love.

He felt his testicles draw up, snarled low in her ear and let himself go, flooding her, feeling the slap of their bodies together, his thighs against her striped buttocks, his cock stroking that tight passage over and over. He didn’t want to stop, groaning his release hard and fierce as she whispered his name in frantic arousal.

Oh, hell. He couldn’t bear to make her wait. His hand moved down between that

perfect meshing of their hips and found her clit. It was as much for him as for her. He wanted to hear her full-throated cries as she came at his touch. Two, maybe three adamant manipulations and she went over, rolling hard against him, her head turning into his shoulder, even with the collaring of his hand. He used the movement to dip his head and fasten his teeth in her flesh, holding her as he continued to smack against her ass with his body, play with her swollen folds, feeling her juices in his palm, her cunt against his fingers.

His.

They shuddered into quiet, becoming aware of the turn of her ceiling fan, the dim light of her room with the sheer panels at the windows. The world outside continued going by, oblivious to their struggle, their passion, the moment of fulfillment and change.

He eased out of her as she remained still, obeying his Will by staying in the same position, her ass raised high in the air. It made his drained cock stir, telling him she could well nigh kill him with lust. He eased her to her side so he could lean over her, stroke the hair from her face.

“Where is it, Marguerite?”

He knew, but he wanted her to actively participate. Shifting her head, she looked toward the nightstand. He reached across the mattress, pulled open the drawer and removed the dark scarf, the ropes, the belt itself. His hand traced the smooth interior of the strap. A long blonde hair was caught in the buckle. “Have you ever lost

consciousness from doing this?”

Her answer was slow in coming and he shifted his gaze back to her. “Once,” she said. “Only once.”

He nodded. “It was this week, wasn’t it?”

She began to rise from the bed.

“You leave that bed and I won’t hesitate to beat your ass ten times worse than I just did.”

She froze in the act of sitting up, but after a moment, she nodded. “Yes. I was angry.

I wasn’t careful. I didn’t use the scarf. I thought I was trying to drive you out of my head and I tugged harder than I intended.” Her eyes shifted away. “When I woke, I was off the bed. It broke free because I guess I hadn’t hooked it around the post as securely as usual. When I lost consciousness my body weight went left, pulled it loose, I think.

Tumbled me to the floor.”

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He rose, his expression such that Marguerite wanted to sink her backside a little lower into the mattress to protect her more recently aching parts. The man had an arm, and she was sure he’d held back. She’d seen him put a mugger through auto glass, after all.

“And how did you feel when you woke up?”

She swallowed. Trust him to dig right to the most difficult point. “I was… I can’t.”

Unexpectedly, his tone softened. “Tell me, angel. I need to