USA Today bestselling author Jane Henry delivers a gritty, impassioned romance of arranged marriage, fearless love, and ultimate triumph over evil.
I’m the girl no one wants.
Scarred beyond repair and locked away, I’m tainted and tarnished.
Unworthy of friendship, love, or hope.
But I was born into Bratva life, and my life is not my own.
I’m ripped from my home and forced to marry a man I’ve never met, sight unseen.
He’s ruthless, possessive, fierce...
My husband.
Her eyes follow the solid black in my hand, from the feather tip to the little square strip of leather at the bottom.
“How original,” she quips. “A riding crop?”
“You know what this is?” I ask her, dragging it from her shoulder down her side, the leather traveling over her skin leaving goosebumps in its wake.
“A crop,” she says. “Thought we established that.”
“A crop designed for impact and sensation play,” I tell her. I quickly unfasten the cuffs, lift her up, and place her chest-down on the bed. Positioning her hands on the headboard, I cuff her to the rings I have there. The bed bounces a little with the force, and I step back to admire how gorgeous she is. Her beautiful breasts swing free, her ass barely covered by thin panties and pushed prominently in the air, the quick movement making her full hair bounce in fragrant raves. Over her shoulder she shoots me a look that dares me to let the crop fly.
Swish. The leather strikes her, making a small splotch of faint pink bloom against her pale skin and eliciting the most beautiful little cry. I lash her again and again, each flick a little harder than the last. At first, she actually growls at me, cursing under her breath but unable to get away. She whimpers, squirming, when the crop lands with more intensity. When I’ve painted her a fetching shade of pink, I flip the wand around and tickle her abused flesh with the feather.
“Ohh!” she gasps in protest, squirming, likely surprised by the different sensation. I take the delicate feather-tipped crop and trace it up her back and to her neck, tickling her just there, before I flip the crop again and give her another sharp spank.
“Beg.”
“No.”
I continue the same torturous teasing, alternating flicks of the crop and tickling feathers until she’s moaning, her hips rising, and I know that if I touch her secret folds she’ll be sopping.
Another swishing swing of the crop, “Beg me.”
“No.”
I’m growing impatient.
“It’s unfortunate you’ve chosen to be so stubborn,” I say. “You’ll need something more serious, then?”
Clenching her jaw, she refuses to give in.
I shake my head and cluck my tongue, walk to the bedside table and open it again. She watches every move. I take out a leather flogger and tap it against my palm. Tame, but would work if we had more time. I place it back in the drawer and take out a stout cane. Too harsh. Then I eye a lightweight but sturdy wooden paddle. I nod to myself. That will do well.
“You’re crazy,” she says with a scowl, staring at the solid wood. “Insane!”
“And you’re stubborn as fuck,” I say with admiration. “I like it.”
Without another word, I place my hand on her lower back and slam the wood against her full ass cheeks.
“Ow!” she screams and bucks, but I’ve got her tightly secured. I do want to subdue her, but I also want to take her to a place where pain and pleasure blend. I don’t strike her again yet but rather run my hand along her heated skin, massaging. She freezes, unsure of what I’m doing next. I drag my fingers along her inner thighs, so silky and warm to the touch.
“Beg.”
This time there’s a slight pause, and her refusal is tamer when she whispers, “No.”
USA Today bestselling author Jane Henry pens stern but loving alpha heroes, feisty heroines, and emotion-driven happily-ever-afters. She writes what she loves to read: kink with a tender touch. Jane is a hopeless romantic who lives on the East Coast with a houseful of children and her very own Prince Charming.
Connect with Jane at http://janehenryromance.com
No comments:
Post a Comment