He dragged her legs over the edge, yanked out the plug, kicking her legs wide apart, and once more began to surge into her like a madman. Every wild hammering drive into her sent her body skidding across the bed, so the material rubbed over the whip marks. It was her mound, with those terrible roses, that added to the coiling heat that wouldn’t let up in her body. It was as if she had caught fire with him and they were burning together, a firestorm out of control. It went on and on, with Savage smacking those whip marks, or raking them, but that only seemed to drive her higher. Then they were both shattering, exploding, coming apart together in a way she didn’t think they’d ever be able to come back from.
She floated for a long time, barely aware of Savage taking care of her, washing her carefully, applying the numbing lotion, whispering to her, soothing her, turning her gently to do the same to her front. She drifted off, only to have Savage wake her so many times she lost count. Most of the time, she couldn’t move, but her body exploded every single time. He always did the same thing afterward. Holding her close, rubbing the lotion gently on her. Whispering to her, rocking her tenderly, sometimes showering or bathing her. Telling her to sleep. Then waking her again to repeat the savage fucking.
During the day he wanted her to wear a see-through shirt and nothing else. He cooked for her, waited on her, took care of her, but out of the blue, he would set her on a counter, shove her over a couch or a chair, take her on the floor, up against a wall. Outside on the porch. It didn’t matter. He was insatiable. The moment he looked at her with those patterns on her skin, he was as hard as a rock and all over her. It hurt and yet, she had to admit, he always made certain her orgasms—and they were always multiple—were explosive and amazing.
He was rough and demanding. Attentive and even loving outside of the sex. The sex was just that: sex. It wasn’t loving, and it didn’t feel loving to her. But she did begin to feel in control. She did begin to understand his cycle. She could look in the mirror and admire his ability to put the patterns on her skin and never once break her skin. There wasn’t one single spot where he’d struck so hard that she’d bled. It might have felt that way, but she hadn’t.
As the days passed, he began to ease up, and she caught more and more glimpses of Savage. Her Savage. She began to make an effort to converse with him. Just a little. Tease him. Make him laugh. She asked to see his whips. She really was interested in the way he’d braided the leather. She wanted to see the floggers and understand why some he considered “toys” and some were too intense and even dangerous in the wrong hands. She asked lots of questions and tried to get as much information as possible.
By the second week, Savage had come back to her. He still loved to see the fading welts on her body, but when he rubbed his hands over them, he wasn’t trying to hurt her. She could tell the difference. She didn’t want him to feel shame, not when she had insisted they were partners and she felt like his partner. She reiterated that he had stopped the moment she had given him the word.
They laughed hysterically together when she tried her hand at just cracking one of the whips, but it was fun practicing, with Savage showing her how. She knew it gave him a sense of companionship. She wanted him to know she was with him 100 percent. All in. Committed. She did her best to show him.
“Babe. Want to talk to you about something important before you head out.” Savage watched his woman as she stepped out onto the front porch. He was always fascinated by the way she moved. She was wholly feminine, her hips swaying in the dark lavender yoga pants she wore to minimize the discomfort of those remaining stripes on her rounded bottom.
She arched her left eyebrow, calling attention to the small scar that bisected that eyebrow, the one she’d gotten saving his life. The moment he noticed it, he was hot all over, just as he was thinking about the way she took his whip for him. She looked so damn innocent and young, with her thick, wild hair falling in waves around her face and down her back. He loved it the most when she just let it be instead of trying to tame it.
“Sit down with me, baby.” He indicated a low-slung Adirondack chair made from redwood slats. No cushions. There was a small table made of the same redwood. His chair was across from hers so he could look at her face, see every expression. Ordinarily, he would have talked things out with her right after they had wild sex, but not when he was so out of control. He had to work it completely out of his system first.
Seychelle sank gingerly into the chair, keeping her legs a little apart. She wore soft gray boots to match the sweet little dark lavender sweater with the thick gray lines zigzagging through it. The sweater didn’t cling to her generous tits like most of her clothes. She was wearing a bra, but it was one that was lacy around her breasts, so that the mesh caged the weight but didn’t press against her nipples.
“I don’t want to make you late for your meeting, Savage.” She looked a little worried, brushing back a strand of hair that was persistent in falling across her face.
“There are things that need to be said.” He was decisive. “I have plenty of time.” There was no way he could be away from her without clearing things up. He leaned toward her, his eyes meeting hers. “I’m not saying there’s a hope in hell of this happening, but I gotta know, Seychelle, if you want out.”
Her brows drew together. “Out of what, honey?”
She wasn’t playing him. There was honest puzzlement in her voice. On her face. She spread her hands out in front of her.
“Us. Me and you. Do you want out?” He could feel the familiar panic rising. His chest hurt. His heart beat too fast. Sweat was beading on his forehead. She couldn’t love him because he was a fucking sadistic monster.
Her blue eyes drifted over his face with that same expression she’d been giving him consistently. No holding back. Stark, raw love. She didn’t try to contain it. Or hide it from him. She just gave it to him, whether he deserved it or not. All of him. Every bit of him. A slow smile made her look even more angelic.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Savage. Just because I make you pick up wet towels and throw them in the laundry basket isn’t a good enough excuse to try to shove me out.”
He pushed his palm hard against his chest. “You think it’s the wet towels?”
She shrugged casually. “Probably not. You caught me studying the patterns on your mannequins and you know my evil plan, don’t you?”
It was his turn to raise an eyebrow, because she had been in the courtyard with the mannequins. She’d been there for some time, studying them, tilting her head from side to side, walking around them and looking from every angle.
“You weren’t just admiring my skills?”
“I was, actually, but I was also going to match the whips with the patterns. That way, I could kind of build up to the harder ones. I thought the one you did on me was beautiful, but it hurt like hell. When I say hurt like hell, I really mean that. Those whips were the very devil.”
“I was careful with you,” he pointed out. “Didn’t break your skin.”
“You didn’t. I was impressed,” she admitted. “But I still thought we’d talk about working up to the harder patterns.” Matter-of-fact. Easy. As if they were discussing the weather. Interested, even.