Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(24)

“I would like to spank you over my knee now. It would please me a great deal to have you lie in my lap, at my mercy. But you are very tender. If the paddling was too much, I won’t insist that we continue.”

“No. I want to continue,” she whispered hoarsely. She looked into his eyes. I want to please you, Ian.

His eyelids flickered. He continued to stroke her cheeks with the pads of his thumb, studying her closely.

“All right,” he said finally, sounding resigned. “But come over to the fire first.”

She followed him, but he detoured to the bathroom.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

She waited by the fire, the heat from it combined with her body’s arousal creating a strange sense of lassitude and excitement. He returned a moment later carrying a large comb.

“Let me comb your hair and let it dry a little by the fire.”

She glanced at him in puzzlement. He gave her a small, sheepish smile.

“I have to do something to calm myself down a little.”

She returned his smile shakily and, at his urging, turned her back to him. The paradoxical sensation of relaxation and sharp anticipation grew as Ian parted her hair into portions, gathered handfuls of it and slowly, sensually drew the comb through it. Her head drooped.

“Are you sleepy?” he murmured from behind her. His voice itself seemed to make her nipples prickle in awareness. The tingling burn on her clit was amplifying. Wicked cream.

“No, not really. It just feels good.”

He drew the comb from root all the way to the drying ends that hung just above her waist. “I’ve never seen hair the likes of yours. Rose gold,” he mused gruffly. He caressed her tingling bottom, making her shiver, and exhaled as if in defeat. He set the comb on the mantel. “So much for the idea of that calming me down. Better just continue. Follow me.”

He walked to the couch and sat on the middle cushion, his thighs slightly spread. He glanced down to his lap in a silent command. Her self-consciousness returned with a fury. She was naked and he was clothed and she had no idea what she was supposed to do. She swallowed nervously when she saw his erection pressed against the crotch of his pants, the shaft of his cock running along his left thigh. Staring at the sight as if mesmerized, Francesca came down on the sofa on her hands and knees, bridging his thighs, then began to lower. He opened his hand along her ribs and hip, guiding her into the location he wanted.

When she was settled, the lower swells of her breasts were pressed against his outer left thigh, her belly was draped across his thighs, and her bottom curved over his right thigh. He swept his hand along her waist, hip, and ass, and she felt his cock move against her ribs.

“This is the exact position you will take for an over-the-knee spanking. Do you understand?” he asked, his warm hand now caressing her ass. The nerves there still prickled, not uncomfortably, from her paddling.

“Yes,” she said, nodding at the same time. Her hair fell into her face.

“There’s just one other thing,” he said. He carefully smoothed back her hair and gathered it at one shoulder. He lightly pushed with his hand at the back of her skull, and her forehead pressed into the soft fabric of the couch. “I will often blindfold you for a spanking—I want you to be totally focused on my hand, the feeling of your punishment . . . my arousal. But for now, keep your face down and close your eyes.”

She clamped her eyelids shut and squirmed in his lap. She felt him go still.

“What? Did that arouse you?”

“I . . . I guess so,” she said, confused. She supposed he was right. A stab of lust had gone through her at his words. Why would that be? “It must be the cream,” she muttered.

He resumed stroking her ass. “Let us pray it’s more than the cream,” he murmured, and she heard the smile in his voice. “Now stay completely still, or I will spank you harder.”

He lifted his hand and slapped her right buttock, then her left, then her right in quick succession, the cracking noises echoing in her ears even when he paused. She bit her lip to stop herself from moaning. He was obviously experienced at spanking; his strokes were precise, firm, quick but unhurried. He landed another flurry of blows, covering all of her ass and upper thighs. Her bottom began to burn in a different way than it had from her paddling. Ian’s hand created a slow, simmering kind of heat that resonated off her skin. She also learned quickly enough where he liked spanking her most—on the round lower curve of her buttocks. Every time he smacked her there, his cock lurched against her and she felt the tension leap in his thighs. His slapping hand grew every bit as hot as her ass. Heat resonated from his cock as well, through the fabric of his trousers and into her skin.

He landed a slap on the bottom curve of her ass, then suddenly grabbed the entire buttock and lifted his groin, grinding her against his cock. Her shaky moan mingled with his low, feral growl. Her clit went from a burn to a sizzle at the pressure and the sharp awareness of his arousal. She felt dizzy, fevered, like she was on fire from the inside out. She wanted nothing more than to twist in his lap and get pressure on her clit . . . to hump against his cock like a wild, shameless thing. He lowered his hips and resumed spanking her. When he paused after a rapid round of slaps and again molded a buttock greedily into his palm, her control broke.

“Oh, Ian . . . no. I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore,” she moaned, writhing in his lap. He stilled, her ass cheek still squeezed in his palm.