“Jesus Christ,” he said. “When you look at me, so damn trusting. It’s not right. I know that, but I can’t stop. Will you let me, subby? Can I hurt you?”
Her only hesitation was how best to answer him—yes, anything, finally—and she slowly left the water, let it fall off her body as she sank to her knees. To her surprise, there weren’t any sharp pebbles here—only silky sand beneath her palms, sliding up between her fingers. Not part of the rough ground outside, this was an extension of the ocean floor, worn smooth from an eternity of ripples.
She glanced back to gauge her behavior; he stared at her body with such blatant appreciation that she felt a flush of pride mingle with the slow burn of arousal.
“You have to promise to stop me.” He gave her a light smack on the flat of her ass. “Can you snap your fingers? Let me see you do it.”
She did, and he hit her again. It was light, more of a promise than a punishment. It bore little resemblance to the spankings she had endured at the hands of other men. She had been cold and shaken, like a cymbal played too loud and too long. But now his hands moved over her skin like a melody long forgotten.
Then she forgot to listen to the slap of his hand on her skin, the gentle backdrop of trickling water fell away. There was only feeling; there was only pleasure. And all of it underscored with the rhythm of her body into his.
She almost didn’t notice when he stopped, because the beat continued in her body. It narrowed in her clit as he touched her there. Her fingers were clenched in the sand, she realized. Her body rocked over his hand, using it for its sweet pressure. This was wanton, it was release.
Despite her nakedness, despite his fingers in her cunt and his hoarse words urging her on, this was the least sexual thing she had ever done. It wasn’t even submission, at least not as she had known it. It was freedom.
She couldn’t think if she was pleasing him. She couldn’t think if he might hurt her. She couldn’t think, not at all. Pleasure sang through her body, spiraled higher and shuddered through her. Her climax came upon her from behind, where he was, murmuring words against her shoulder. Yes, like that, so beautiful.
Aftershocks racked her body, and he held her through all of it. The long weight of his body, his thick arms, were like a cage around her, and yet she felt safe. The hard length of his cock pressed against her ass, and that at least was something familiar. Something she could recognize from the old, but even that didn’t scare her. It would hurt, it always did, and so what?
He waited for her to recover. She knew that from that way he held himself so tightly leashed. Though she was still weak, still tender, she pushed back against him. It didn’t feel strange, giving him permission. Her body gave it for her. But he caught her hip in a tight grip. His fingers dug into her soft flesh.
“Wait,” he ground out. “Damn—I can’t. Just don’t move.”
After a minute he pushed back, letting the moist air mingle with the sweat on her back and her fluid on her thighs. She turned back, expecting to see him unzipping, maybe directing her to her knees, but he had turned away. He was already wading into the water by the time she stood up. He moved too fast through the water, and she couldn’t keep up.
On the other side of the water, he emerged and kept going. It was on the pointy rocks where she finally caught his arm.
He turned back, and she shrank away from the fire burning in them. “Fuck, don’t look at me like that. Don’t look at me at all. Don’t you know what your eyes do to me? And where the fuck are your clothes? No. No, don’t go back and get them.”
He gently held her arms and rested his forehead against hers. The rocks dug into her soles, and that was why her eyes were wet, that was why.
“Damn you, I’m trying to be honorable here.” His breath caught on a laugh that hurt her to hear. “I know I’m failing. That’s why I wanted you to go, but I can’t give you up either. So what are we going to do? Can you tell me that, subby?”
She didn’t have an answer for him. He swung her up into his arms and carried her like the proverbial bride across the threshold, if the bride were a slave of questionable consent and the threshold tore his feet.
Tucking her head against his shoulder, she watched him leave flecks of red on the chalk-white pebbles. He left his own blood behind just to spare hers. He had lied. He’d said he was going to hurt her, but he was the one who was hurt. Her body clenched in a phantom pain, and he followed her glance to see the trail of blood.
His look was wry. “At least it’s distracting me from the other problem.”
She stroked his jaw, where stubble had thickened.