Burn (Bayonet Scars #5)

“Please, Sir,” I say through my sniffles, trying to convey what I need without sounding too pathetic.

“Mindy,” he says. His voice is so quiet and strained. I can’t handle losing this with him. He turns me around so I’m facing him and cups my face in his hands. “This is a mistake.”

“No,” I say loudly and place my hands over his on my cheeks. “I want this. I want you. I need this from you. Just . . . let me do this.”

His eyes search mine, like he needs further reassurance that I’m okay. I don’t know if okay is the right word for it, but it’ll have to do for now. I drop my hands to his waist and slip my index fingers into the waistband of his boxers. I take a peek down and try to force back the blush that explodes on my cheeks when I see the tent his erection is creating.

“The only thing that makes me better is you,” I say and pull his boxers down and redirect my eyes to his face. His brows are pulled together, his expression severe. I want to see his hardness, uncovered and ready for me, but I need his eyes. I need him to see me, really see me as I offer myself to him.

“You don’t have to like it, but you do have to accept it.”

“Do I?” He loses the hardness in his features, replacing it with a sadness that breaks me apart in ways the memories of what they did to me never could. Looking at him now, there’s no doubt in my mind that he doesn’t believe he can be good for me.

I might not be able to convince him that he’s good for me, but I can show him how well our bodies will fit together. He sighs heartily and lowers his hands to my waist, gripping me firmly and pulling my naked body against his. I gasp at the smooth hardness pressing into my stomach. His hands are all rough and calloused, and his arms and legs are firm with his well-crafted muscles. He’s so rough everywhere, except for here. The flesh of his shaft is so soft. I don’t remember Heath being this soft, but that was a long time ago.

“I belong to you.”

He smashes his lips against mine. We each battle for dominance over the other, like we’re trying to prove a point to the other person. He’s insisting that he’s bad for me with every bossy caress of his tongue, and I’m demanding he see reason as I lovingly nip at his lips. We’re not competing for something, just arguing the only way we can now that we’ve worn out the words and have grown sick of the pain. I’m moaning and rubbing myself against him shamelessly. In response, he wraps his arms around me, holding me so tight against the hardness of his body that the twitch of his cock only encourages me. I slip one of my hands to his ass and give it a hard squeeze. He groans and pulls his lips from mine just an inch.

“I’m not going to be able to be gentle if you do that,” he says.

My lips turn up into a sly smile, and I do it again, this time standing on my toes and rubbing on his cock more forcefully than before.

“I’m not asking for gentle.”

“Are you ready to be fucked, Melinda?”

He’s all business now, the scene back on. Hearing the sharpness of his tone thrills me, and I have to clamp my legs together to calm the thundering in my core. I place my hands back on the wall, where they were before the scene broke.

“Yes, Sir.”

He leans to the side and grabs the bandana that’s on the dresser nearby. He folds it twice and then reaches around me and ties it over my eyes tightly.

“Green,” I say, remembering my color.

Ian moves away from me, though I can’t tell what he’s doing. The blindfold blacks everything out. I stand in place, waiting for his next move and what it will bring. I hear the scraping of something against the wooden floor beneath my feet. Cold metal slaps against my legs, and then my ass, stinging my skin along the way. It’s not one solid piece, which is confusing as hell, but the sensation is incredible, distracting. I moan in response to the metal hitting my side just hard enough for it to sting. I’m going to be covered in scratches and welts when we’re done here. I can’t wait to see evidence of our fucking on my skin long after we’ve sated ourselves.

“Mmm, green.”