Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(46)
She jumped when the door to the bedroom suite opened abruptly and Ian walked into the room. He glanced at her where she sat before he walked over to the valet stand and hung up his suit jacket. He opened the doors to a highly glossed antique cherry wardrobe and bent as if reaching for something. She strained, trying to see what he was doing, but the door blocked her view. When he started to straighten, she turned, not wanting him to know how focused she was on his every move.
So she was shocked when he walked around the couch a moment later and set a black crop on the coffee table. She stared wide-eyed at the two-inch-by-four-inch supple leather slapper at the end of the long, thin rod, her heart starting to pound against her breastbone.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly.
She looked at him. “But it looks like it will hurt.”
“I’ve punished you before. Did it hurt?”
“A little,” she admitted, her gaze dropping to one of his hands, which held what appeared to be a pair of cuffs, the hand straps made of soft-looking black leather.
Oh, no.
“Well, it wouldn’t be much of a punishment if it didn’t sting a bit, now would it?” She stared up at his handsome face, mesmerized by the sound of his low voice . . . compelled. “Stand up and take off the robe.”
She didn’t break his stare as she stood, somehow taking courage from some unspoken message in his eyes. She dropped the discarded robe onto the cushion. His gaze dropped over her, his nostrils flaring slightly. She shivered.
“Would you like me to turn on the fire?” he asked, referring to the gas fireplace.
“No,” she said, thrown off emotionally by the combination of his polite query and his intention to punish her. She walked to the mantel.
“Keep your back to me,” he ordered when she started to turn to face him. She longed to twist her chin over her shoulder to see what he was doing behind her, her anxiety and excitement mounting, but she restrained herself with effort. Was that because she once again didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing she was curious, or because she somehow sensed he wouldn’t want her to gawk over her shoulder?
She started when he wrapped his hands around one of her wrists.
“Easy, lovely,” he murmured. “You know I’d never really harm you. You must trust me.”
She said nothing, her mind racing as he buckled one of the cuffs snuggly around her right wrist. “Now you may face me,” he said.
She turned, her nipples pulling tight when she realized how close he stood. He must notice. There was no way she could hide her arousal as he fastened her other wrist into the cuff, his lowered head just inches from the tingling, prickling crests. The position of her arms as he cuffed her wrists together plumped her breasts. When he’d finished, her hands were bound together in front of her mons. He stepped back. Her nipples pinched even tighter when she noticed his gaze glued to them.
“Now lift your wrists and place them behind your head,” he instructed. He watched her while she complied. “Push back your elbows and arch your back a little. I want your muscles stretched tight.” She strove to do as he asked, thrusting her breasts forward and her elbows back, noticing the slight snarl shape of his mouth when she did so. The position left her feeling extremely naked and exposed. Then he turned away. “It will amplify the sensation,” he explained, his back to her as he walked over to the coffee table.
“Of pain?” she asked, her voice shaking from a potent brew of anxiety and anticipation as she watched him walk over to the coffee table. Was he getting that scary-looking crop?
He was coming toward her again, but she didn’t see the crop. Her heart knocked on her stretched rib cage like it was asking to get out when she saw the familiar little white jar. He unscrewed it and dipped a thick forefinger into the cream.
“I told you before that I would prefer if you didn’t fear me,” he said.
She gasped loudly, shuddering when he immediately plunged his finger between her labia and began to coat her clit with the emollient that she knew would soon make her tingle and burn . . . and want.
She bit her lip to prevent from crying out and noticed he watched her with a tight focus.
“But I want to emphasize, this is a punishment nevertheless,” he stated firmly.
“I want to emphasize that while I give you permission to punish me,” she said before air puffed out of her throat as his finger rubbed the cream with bull’s-eye accuracy. “I’ll still go jogging—or do anything else I damn well please—without asking for your permission.”
He dropped his hand and walked away. She stifled a cry of deprivation. He turned and came toward her again, now carrying the crop. She couldn’t take her eyes off the wicked-looking device gripped in his large, masculine-looking hand. It looked as if it would hurt more than the paddle or Ian’s hand.
“Spread your thighs . . . if you damn well please,” he added softly.
She blinked at his words, her gaze zooming up incredulously to meet his stare. Heat rushed through her sex when she saw the glimmer of amusement and the heat of arousal in his eyes . . . when she absorbed the edge of a dare to his tone.
If she agreed to what he’d demanded, it would be because she wanted it. And her impulsive statement of defiance just now was proof of that. Frustration went through her when she recognized how he’d tricked her into compliance and revealed her own desire in one fell swoop.