No in Between (Inside Out #4)(28)

I stretch over Chris’s lap, my elbows settling on the soft leather of the couch. My head tilts forward, allowing me the solace of my long, dark hair, though there is none for my bare backside. I am exposed in every possible way.

“Relax, baby,” Chris murmurs, his warm hand flattening on my lower back.

“I’m trying.”

“Take a deep breath and let it out.”

As I suck in air his hand begins stroking up and down my spine. Over and over, I feel the slow, gentle movements seducing me, softening my tense muscles. Time seems to stand still, and it could be seconds or minutes that pass, but the music begins to come back to me. Words meld with his touch, becoming soothingly erotic, almost hypnotic. Gradually his hand moves lower, over my backside, and still he continues the same back and forth motion. Sensations seduce me, draw me in, and I forget to think. Until his hand stills and his fingers flex against my cheek.

I jerk, trying to sit up, and Chris’s hand flattens on my back, holding me in place. “Stay, baby. I’ll warn you first.”

I pant, trying to slow my breathing. “Yes. No. I mean yes.”

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs again.

I force myself to relax, to sink against him and the couch, and close my eyes. I’m expecting the paddle any instant, but instead, he spreads my thighs and traces down the seam between my cheeks until his fingers slide into the slick, wet heat that defies my resistance and declares I am hot and aroused. And I am aroused, by how completely at his mercy I am. He reaches beneath me, his fingers stroking my clit in a deliciously, oh so right way, but one hand stays on my backside. One hand promises what is to come. But his fingers slide inside me, and the threat of that hand on my ass fades in the shameless lift of my hips, the pump of my hips against his hand.

Suddenly, though, his fingers are gone and I’m left gasping as his hand begins a gentle patting on my backside. I hold my breath, expecting this to be the warning before the sting, but his touch remains light, erotic. Over and over, he drums on me, the sensation an intoxicating vibration, and unbelievably, I’m on the edge again, my sex clenching, aching.

I feel Chris shift and reach for something, and then the music changes. “Listen to the song,” he orders. “Focus on the words.” The volume cranks to a roar and Muse’s “Hysteria” thunders around us. ’Cause I want it now. I want it nowwww. Give me your heart and your soul. And I’m not breaking down. I’m breaking out.

Adrenaline surges through me and the loud beat consumes my mind, and I know it’s my warning. I try to brace myself for what’s coming, but I can’t think beyond how loud the words are, and I jerk when the fur of the paddle becomes the soft patting on my backside. It becomes faster but not harder. The music lances my mind and every nerve ending is in overload, tingling with every touch of the paddle. A burn begins inside me, an ache for more, for whatever comes next. It’s no longer fear, it’s need, but he doesn’t give it to me.

The music punches into my mind, like it’s echoing my thoughts. I want it now. I want it now. I do. I want it. “Chris, I—”

His fingers slice into my hair and he tugs my head back. “Now, baby,” he warns. One hard blow comes down on my bottom and my back arches with the shock, but I don’t have the opportunity to process it, let alone object. Another blow comes down. And another. Four, I think. No, five. I don’t count. I can’t count. Then he stops, but he doesn’t let go of my hair or speak. He doesn’t move at all. I lie there, feeling the gentle pull of my hair, the warmth of my cheeks, but then there’s an odd sensation in my chest that I cannot escape. Suddenly, that sensation turns to a bubble of laughter. I have no idea why I’m laughing. I don’t feel amused; I feel overwhelmed and aroused, and I don’t know what else.

Without warning the paddle comes down on me again, and my laughter stops. Three more times I feel the heat of its touch, and then it’s gone, and so is Chris’s hold on my hair. I gasp and fall forward, and more laughter bubbles from some deep place inside of me, but it’s not like any laughter I’ve ever experienced. It’s as if some unidentifiable emotion is being ripped from a deep part of me.

Chris turns me to face him and, embarrassed by whatever’s happening to me, I bury my face in his chest, curling into the hard warmth of his body. “Sara, look at me.”

“No.” I choke on more stupid laughter. “I can’t.”

He strokes my hair. “Laughter is like crying. It’s a normal reaction to the endorphins. Let it happen.”

“So I’m not crazy?”

He nuzzles my cheek. “If you’re crazy, then we’ll be crazy together.”

I’m not laughing anymore, and the emotion in my chest expands into something completely different. Something only Chris makes me feel. Flattening my hands on his chest, I lean back and stare into his eyes, and where I feared I’d feel vulnerable, I don’t. “Together,” I repeat and the word feels good on my lips, the way he does.

He lowers his mouth nearer to mine and his breath is a sweet seduction, a prelude to the kiss I crave, like I crave him. For long seconds, we linger like this and I swear I can hear my own heart beat. Chris moves first, his hand splaying on my back, molding me to him, and I tangle my fingers in his blond hair, but still we don’t kiss. We just breathe together, until the band of need between us snaps. Our mouths come together and we are crazy kissing, tongues tangling, hands all over each other’s bodies.