I Belong to You (Inside Out #5)(65)

“Don’t hesitate. I say. You do. I reward you with pleasure. Understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper, aroused by the erotic tug of my hair in a way that the me I know would never feel.

“Yes, Master,” he corrects.

My reply is instant. “No. I’m not—”

“Ms. Smith—”

“No,” I repeat, my tone sharper this time. “I am not calling you Master. And don’t you dare force me to say it in some moment of near orgasm, or I swear I will punish you.”

He stares down at me, his face hard, unreadable, and my heart is beating so fast it might explode from my chest. Suddenly, he smiles and shocks me by kissing me, deeply, passionately, intensely. “Did you know,” he says when he lifts his mouth, leaving me gasping for more, “that when I’m playing dominant, I never kiss in a scene?”

Surprised at this admission, I want to ask why he kissed me, but he’s already moving on. “And ‘no’ is no. I told you that. You don’t have to call me Master.” His lips curve. “Just as long as you know I am Master.”

My brow furrows. “That’s—”

He kisses me again. “Nonnegotiable. You belong to me tonight. Remember?”

The words do funny things to my belly, and though I’m still confused by the kiss and his confession, my reply is immediate. “Yes. I remember.”

“Say it.”

“I belong to you,” I willingly say, leaving off the “tonight” without intentional thought.

His mouth lingers near mine, his breath a warm, sweet promise I can almost taste, and I know he’s noticed my admission.

I know he’s waiting for me to correct it, and so am I. But I don’t. I can’t. He is more to me than just tonight.

Slowly, his hand slides from my face, his palms settling on my knees, his eyes meeting mine. “Open your legs, Crystal. I want to see and taste you.”

“Yes,” I say softly, and then, remembering that he never kisses in a scene, I surprise us both by adding, “Master,” and opening my legs.

His eyes darken, his expression pure possessive heat that sends a shiver down my spine. His hands begin a slow path from my knees upward, his thumbs caressing my inner thighs. Goose bumps lift on my skin and my nipples are still so oversensitized from all the hours wearing the tips over them that they burn from the distant touch. His path feels eternal, as if he’ll never reach the place I need him to be—but finally his thumbs stroke over my clit, then caress the slick, wet heat beyond. I bite my lip at the long strokes of his finger, back and forth, until he’s pressing inside me, and it kills me that I can’t arch into his touch without falling.

His tongue teases me with a quick flick of my nub and I whimper shamelessly. He looks at me with primal, white-hot desire. “I want to taste you, Crystal. And I want it badly enough that I’m not even going to make you ask for more. This is for me.”

If the eroticism of his words isn’t enough to undo me, his mouth is. He closes it over my sex and sucks deeply. My head falls backward, resting on the heavy leather of the cuffs, as I feel the wicked play of his tongue in intimate, perfect places.

And even as it tortures me, his fingers are still inside me, pumping, stroking. His tongue begins this swirling motion, around and around and then up and down, and . . . Oh God. He’s right there where I need him—and then he moves. Then he’s back. The cuffs are a heavy weight on my arms, reminding me not to move, but then he moves, and I’m going insane. This time when he’s back where I need him, my hands come down on his head.

His mouth is gone instantly and he’s on his feet, pulling me with him. Shocked, I lift my eyes to meet his, and in that instant, I know he’s teased me on purpose. This was a battle of his will over my control, and his will has won.

“You disobeyed,” he states. “You’ll now wait to come.” He loosens his tie and pulls it free of his collar. “It’s my turn now.” He wraps the red silk around my neck. “You keep it. We might need it.”

A shadowy place in the back of my mind stirs but I reject it, focusing on him unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging out of it, his broad chest expanding with the movement, the light blond hair dusting his muscular torso. My mouth is dry, and I’m all about fully appreciating his body—but he doesn’t remove his pants. He walks behind me, and as I turn, he sits down on the bed.

He grabs my wrists and pulls me close, my knees against his right thigh. “I’m going to spank you. Then I’m going to f*ck you until you come. Understand?”

Adrenaline surges through me, and in shock I automatically answer, “Yes,” forgetting the “Master.” I think I’ve forgotten my own name.

I have a second of realizing the impact of my “yes” before he pulls me across his lap, my cuffed wrists dangling toward the floor. His hand comes down on my backside and he starts to rub and rub. I squeeze my eyes shut and I grab the silk tie, holding on for dear life. He keeps rubbing and in my mind I start saying, His hand, his hand, his hand. I don’t know why I’m repeating it. And then there’s the first smack—the sting, the arousing, painful bite of his palm. Then another. And another.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My heart is doing that wild fluttering thing again. Everything spins and burns, and I don’t exist outside the here and now and him.