Feeling is mutual, love.
“Let you go?” I smirk. “Never. Now it’s time for your punishment.” She freezes against me, and I chuckle. “Didn’t think you were getting off that easy, did you?” I push her away, and she stumbles back, suddenly looking nervous, her chest heaving and cheeks adorably tinting red.
Circling her, I pick at the long shirt dress she’s wearing, the fishnets underneath letting me glimpse her pale, tattooed skin. Needing to regain some control, I push her until she’s bent over. “Stay,” I order, as I stand behind her.
Flicking open the button on my trousers, I slide my belt through the loops until it’s free, the noise loud in the silent room, and she shivers in anticipation. I tug up her dress to expose her ass and tiny red knickers, and I have to bite my knuckles as I stare at her to stop myself from dropping the belt and going to my knees to worship her like I ache to. I want to slam my cock inside her wet heat and hear her scream for me.
Me.
Not my brothers.
But I rein in that impulse, only just, my years of careful control shaky in the face of my greatest challenge. She’s wet, I can see it. Fuck. Shifting my cock in my trousers, I try to ignore the urge to just rip those taunting knickers away and thrust into her tight little pussy. No, punishment first. Then control. Only then will I have her. “Ryder, don’t you fucking—”
I bring the belt down on her unprotected ass. She hisses and falls forward, but I catch her around the middle, and when she’s steady again, I rub my hand across her plump silky ass, massaging in the burn before I swing the belt back and land it on her ass twice more. She cries out but stays standing, profanities and insults leaving her lips.
But she doesn’t move, doesn’t fight me...because she wants it. She wants my brand of control. She wants to surrender to me. She wants to be consumed by me, and I want that too.
Good girl.
Pushing aside her knickers, I feel her freeze against my fingers as I expose her to my gaze. I lick my lips and stare at her glistening lips, so wet. She smells delicious, and I bet she tastes just as good. Running my belt buckle across her center, I watch her cry out and push back, wanting more.
Laughing, I snap her underwear back in place, and when she can’t see, I lap some of her juices from my belt, groaning at her taste. “So fucking wet, love. Tell me again how you hate us when you’re dripping for my cock.”
“Fuck you, you cocky son of a bitch—” She whimpers as I bring the belt down again. Dropping it to the floor, I bite my lip at the redness across her ass. My marks. It’s hot as hell seeing her like this.
But she’s had enough punishment, and so have I. If I don’t have her soon, I’m going to come. I reach down and squeeze my cock. Not yet, I need her to understand who’s in charge. Who owns her body, as well as her mind. She needs to give herself over to me completely, and only then will she get the pleasure she seeks. I can’t let her know how affected I am.
How easily she breaks my control.
Turning away, I give myself a moment to breathe, and when all those roiling emotions are under better control, I sit down on the sofa, legs spread and arm thrown over the back as I stare at her still bent form. I run my eyes greedily down her thick, tattooed thighs and plump red ass. She’s fucking glorious, the most magnificent creature I have ever seen. She shifts uncomfortably, and I take pity on her. “Stand.”
She hesitates for a moment before doing as she’s told, whirling to face me, making me tut. “I didn’t tell you to turn, did I, princess? Shirt off,” I demand.
She bristles at the order, and I narrow my eyes. “Do I need to take the belt to your plump little arse again, love? I will, and this time, it will end in pain instead of pleasure. When I give you an order, you do it. Shirt off, now. Let me look at what I own,” I command.
“You don’t own me, asshole, no one ever could. Not you. Not your fucking brothers. There isn’t enough money in the world to buy me,” she snarls, and I have a feeling she’s right. It’s more of a pretence now that she’s ours. We all know Roxxane is not a kept woman or a toy.
She’s a fucking wild card.
But she still does as she’s told, because even though she fights it, she wants us too. With a snarl, she rips off her shirt, baring herself to me. I let my eyes run across her exposed skin. Her full breasts are heaving in a see-through little lace number, her rosy nipples pointy and staring at me. Her belly is curved, and her waist is tucked in, perfect to grab onto and toned, with a shining jewel pierced through her navel, begging me to trace it with my tongue. Her thighs are rounded and delicious, and I can see them wrapped around my head as I tongue fuck her cunt. Her legs are long and lean, and I can’t wait to have them draped around my head either.
She is goddamn beautiful, so beautiful it hurts. All pale, silky tattooed skin, thick thighs, and attitude. A combination I didn’t know I would find irresistible, but my cock jerks hard as I store every detail of her body in my memory. Every dip, curve, and scar.
She parts her legs, head tilted back as I drink her in, unashamed in her own body. No, Roxxane owns it. She doesn’t strive to make it what she deems perfect, doesn’t go for plastic surgery or alterations like so many in our world. She’s comfortable and confident in her own skin, scars and all, and it’s sexy as hell. Not to mention the tattoos painted across her skin like the finest works of art.
That’s what she is. A work of art.
One I’m going to stare at for the rest of my life.
“What next, asshole? Want me to crawl to you as well?” she scoffs sarcastically.
Hiding my grin behind my hand, I rub my chin before dropping it to my lap. “Yes, actually.”
“Wait, what?” she squeaks, before clearing her throat. “I mean, what the fuck?”
Leaning forward, I narrow my eyes on her, warning her not to disobey me. “Crawl to me, love.” She sucks in a deep breath, debating whether or not to ignore me. Wondering what it will mean to do so, but she wants the pleasure I have to offer.
She wants me more than she hates me right now.
“Fuck,” she shouts as she sinks to her knees. “I hate you.” She tosses it at me like barbed wire. I just laugh, though, since she says it so often, it’s becoming an inside joke now. If she didn’t say it, I would start to get worried. It’s better than her…than her saying she loves us. She can’t do that, but this? Hate and desire? This we can do and survive.