“You want to tell me why you’re lying over that bench with your gorgeous ass in the air and your pussy on display for me to punish, Seychelle?”
A quiet little sob escaped, and then she sniffed. “You asked me a question and I refused to answer you.”
“That’s right. Would you like to answer it now?” Deliberately, Savage continued to rub her sore bottom to keep it inflamed, but he gently circled her clit and then strummed it and flicked. When her body shuddered, he bent and used his tongue, stroking caresses and then devouring the liquid spilling from her. He wanted to keep her on edge, mix pleasure and pain until her body didn’t know one from the other, until she needed them together to get that explosive rush.
He’d promised to train her, and he used every opportunity, even their punishments. He straightened and tapped her back with the tawse to remind her to answer him immediately. He had to get control back, not necessarily of her. He had to get his control back before he got her, or a member of his club, killed.
“I had a damn nightmare, Savage. I barely remember it. It was all jumbled up. Monsters chasing me in the forest or something silly like that.” Seychelle’s voice was a barely heard whisper, her tone not matching the defiance of her statement.
Adrenaline mixed with a dark sexual need rushed through his veins like a freight train. Like a drug he was addicted to. “You are fucking lying to me, Seychelle.” He kept his tone velvet soft. Low. In total command of her. “You just fucked up big-time, and I told you what would happen.”
He peppered her ass with the tawse, this time putting more muscle into it until she was sobbing, really crying this time. He stalked over to the table, dropped the medium instrument and lifted the large one. He would have to be a little more careful—no—a lot more careful. This one could make a grown man cry. In the right hands it could deliver a blow that would go right through skin and muscle and jar the entire body with a streak of pain so severe it could incapacitate a man and leave him babbling and begging. Savage knew, because when he’d been training, he’d done that very thing multiple times. Of course, he’d been supposed to back then. He’d been thirteen years old and learning how to use all sorts of tools of the trade.
“I cannot believe you fucking lied to me.” He bent his head down to snarl the accusation in her ear as he stalked around her, tracking the end of the much longer leather down her spine, causing goose bumps to rise all over her body. Yeah, she was getting it now.
He moved behind her, taking in the sight of her, trembling, barely able to control herself but not asking him, or demanding him, to let her loose. She didn’t scream. Or curse. She tried to muffle her sobs as best she could, and he was damn proud of her for it. He ran his nails over the mottled skin of her cheeks, and his fucking cock swelled more, pushing hard at the scars.
He smacked her with the larger tawse, laying a double line of agony right across those perfect lines he’d already put there. She nearly came off the bench despite the cuffs, her cry choked off, and she forced herself back down. Immediately, he used his fingers to slide into her, stroking, letting her ride them, letting her settle, concentrate on that, lulling her. He smacked her again. Then again. Using some force, putting horizontal stripes over the vertical.
He was going to explode. Fucking explode like a teenager. She’d better give up her secrets soon. And he didn’t want to hurt her.
“Seychelle.” He stalked around to her face, caught her hair and yanked up her head so her eyes were staring into his. Tears poured down her cheeks, but he’d taught her well. Those were his tears. No screaming. She’d been silent. Held it in—for him—giving him this. He crouched down to look into her eyes. “Baby. Fucking tell me.”
She swallowed a sob. “I keep having a nightmare about a man being tortured. It was horrible. He was in a chair bolted to a floor. There were men in the room, but I couldn’t see them, only part of him, his legs, his lap. He was naked. There was blood everywhere. Someone smashed his legs over and over with a huge hammer-like thing. They did other worse things—with a drill. With bolts and then knives. I’m serious, Savage.” She hiccupped. “It was so bad, the things I could see. I was afraid it was you doing them. I was certain the man was Arnold. Look at me, Savage. Did you kill Joseph? I have to know.”
He hadn’t realized he had been holding himself rigid, but his gaze never once left hers. Relief swept through him. He leaned in and licked at her tears, taking them from her face. He kissed her eyes and then found her mouth with his. “No, baby. I wanted to do it for you, and I’m sorry it wasn’t me. I wish it were. He is dead, but I didn’t kill him. I feel like I let you down because I didn’t kill him.” He kissed her again before she could protest. Before she could ask any other questions, because he would have to tell her the truth.
He moved around her once again, taking his cock out, stroking, feeling the heavy weight, moving behind her to look at her dark purple ass and thighs. She was going to have trouble sitting, and he had so many plans for her. He dipped his finger in her liquid heat and painted between her cheeks, finding her forbidden little star.
“One of our dirty, sinful things we have yet to explore, Seychelle. You love our lessons.” He pushed the head of his cock into her hot entrance, throwing his head back and hissing at the tightness of her silky, wet sheath. “Maybe while I’ve got you helpless and you’ve been so bad, I should give you a lesson here.” But he would never do that. Never. Not as a punishment.
He smacked her ass when she tightened up and turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, fear in her eyes. “You should know better. We haven’t discussed that, and it isn’t for punishment.”
Before she could reply, he surged forward, driving deep into her sheath, burying himself to the hilt, watching himself disappear into her, watching the way her body swallowed his. The sight was sinful and dirty. Beautiful and miraculous. Fucking poetry. He was a big man and her body felt as if it was strangling him, a fist of scorching-hot, wet silk, twisting as he slammed into her with brutal force.
He wasn’t making love to her the way he did most times, even when he was going at her hard. This was fucking her, using her body for his own personal satisfaction. He’d never once done that with her. Never. Never thought of it. He tightened his hold on her hips and pumped into her fast and hard, over and over, refusing to let her move. Never once giving her inflamed clit the necessary friction to get her off. This wasn’t about her satisfaction. This was punishment, no longer for not answering him but for lying to him. That was a hard line to cross.
He let his sadistic streak roar with pleasure, let it revel in the sight of her suffering for him. Her purple, mottled ass, the glorious welts that were rising beautifully, the rakes of his fingernails, her sobs and the perfect tight, hot pussy that nearly strangled his cock drove him past all point of control, and he let it. He gave himself up to the pure ecstasy of driving in and out of her, watching her body take his. Feeling his girth swell even larger, the rigid scars scraping against the silken walls adding to the glorious friction.
Savage wanted to stay right where he was forever, giving his cock absolute freedom, giving himself permission to be who he was, but it was too good. Already, he was on fire, his entire being, blood so hot he was already a volcano, magma roiling in his balls, rocketing in brutal, jerking explosions to coat the walls of her sheath. Hot ropes of his seed that seemed a never-ending eruption, flinging him into some other place, where nothing could touch him. His fucking past was wiped out for those precious few minutes, or hours—he didn’t know how long, he only knew she took it away.