But when I walk into our room and Ash shuts the door behind me, he presses his finger to my lips again.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the first time we met,” he speaks, pushing close to me. His erection presses into my belly. “I’ve been fantasizing about it for ten years.”
I take a short, stilted breath beneath his finger. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
His other hand drops down to find mine, to play idly with the new ring on my finger. “It’s not going to be easy, being my wife. There will be so much scrutiny and so much sacrifice, and I’ll forever be asking you to step between public and private roles—sometimes with no transition or warning. But right now…right now, it’s just the two of us. Right now those things are far away. And right now, I’m going to make you completely mine.”
I look up into his eyes. “Is it…are we…” I feel like I can’t catch my breath.
He grins down at me. “Yes, my impatient angel. I’m not going to torture us any longer.”
I drop to my knees. Not because he’s going to fuck me—although that’s part of it too—but because I love him so much. Because I’m so grateful. Because he’s Ash and I’m Greer, and when we’re alone, I belong on my knees.
It’s as simple and as complicated as that.
He strokes my hair, tangled and messy from the hat I wore outside, and allows me to rub my cheek against his thigh. “My beautiful angel,” he murmurs down at me. “My little princess. How have I lived so long without you?”
I don’t know, God, I don’t know, but now that we’re together, I don’t know how I lived this long either. Survived, yes. But living—how did that ever happen before I was able to sit at Ash’s feet?
Reluctantly I pull back, bowing my head and placing my palms flat on my thighs. He lets out a long breath, and his hands leave my hair. And then he kneels down in front of me, his hands covering mine, his head ducking so he can meet my eyes.
“Greer, I want to give you what you want. This first time, I want you to let me serve you, and I want you to let me take care of you. There’s no need for our first time to be…well. You know.”
I’m shaking my head before he even finishes. So fucking chivalrous. So fucking wary of himself. It’s both commendable and painfully exasperating—especially now, with my nipples pulled into aching beads and my pussy already swelling with the thought of Ash inside of me. Part of me distantly recognizes that this is a first for him too—he’s been married and he’s dominated in a club setting, but this is the first time he’s ever mingled love with kink, and he wants to make sure that I get both in equal balance.
But still.
“I want what you want. You know that you aren’t forcing me, right? You know that I’m not merely playing along? I choose this. I choose you. Every time I kneel, I know that I can stand back up, and every time you push me, I know I can say your name and make it all stop. And when you do things to me, I have just as much power over them as if I were doing them myself, because I can stop you at any time. I’m choosing what I want, and what I want is you how you are.”
He’s peering deep into my eyes now, and I hope he can see the truth there, just like he always can. A tiny flume of anger courses through me, and I give it passage through my words.
“You want to know what else I want? I want what I dreamed about ten years ago too. I want to be dragged to the edge of shame and fear and darkness, I want to not recognize myself, and I want you to be the glorious, demanding beast that you are. You want to take care of me? Then fucking own me. Wreck me. Tear me up and sew me back together the way that only you know how.”
His lips crash into mine, a kiss not meant to convey love, but a kind of deep gratitude, a sort of hot joy. “You perfect thing,” he says huskily, his voice already melting into his Other Voice, the one that haunts my sweetest dreams. “You unimaginably perfect thing.”
And with the ease and grace that comes with strength, he rises fluidly to his feet. “Take off my shoes.”
Relief, happiness, rightness, it all twines around the arousal, making it sharper and brighter.
I do as he asks, trying to hide my happy smile behind my curtain of hair as I tug at the laces, but he sees the smile anyway.
“Are you a happy angel?” he asks. “Serving me?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I’m happy when you serve me. It pleases me to see you on your knees.” He resumes his idle caresses of my hair as I carefully lever one shoe off and start on the other. After I finish with that, he bids me to stand up and he starts undressing me, his fingers sliding between fabric and skin and lingering there before he peels the clothes from my body, his eyes hot on every new inch exposed. He strips me like you’d strip old wallpaper or faded carpet to get to the antique house underneath, utilitarian and anticipatory and disdainful and reverent all at the same time. And soon I’m completely naked, shivering in the cold room.
His fingers brush against my nipples and I squeak, my body starving for real stimulation.
He gives a chuckle. “Eager, are we?”
I don’t dare answer. Every time I play this game with Ash, it feels like the first time, like I’m peeling back a new layer of myself with every humiliation I endure, revealing a woman pink-skinned and raw and glowing underneath.
“Hands on the footboard of the bed. Legs spread.”
I obey, swallowing. I know what’s coming next, and sure enough I feel a large hand between my shoulder blades. It runs a gentle, almost exploratory, path down my spine, and then rubs circles on my ass and flanks.
“Breathe, angel.”
Crack.
The first one is never that bad. No, the first one is fun in a way, like being scared at a haunted house or jumping into a cold pool on a hot day. Startling, bracing, sending sensation sparking down your legs.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
“Breathe,” my master repeats.
I breathe in.
Crack, crack, crack.
I breathe out.
“Again.”
I breathe again.
Ash deliberately disrupts the rhythm, making sure I relax before he strikes, or that he strikes several times in quick succession so that my body has no choice but to yield to his dominance. Pain shimmers behind my sternum like a living entity, pulling at my lungs and stomach, and my hands shake as they try to grip the footboard. My whole body shakes, and there’s heat glowing in my eyes. I’ll be crying soon. Very soon.
My feet scrabble at the floor as Ash continues his assault, a leg involuntarily kicking up and trying to cover my ass with my foot. Ash pushes it back down with a noise that can only be described as evil delight, and spanks me all the harder for my resistance. Crack goes his hand, and there’s the heavy panting of his breath, and the pain in my chest like a familiar houseguest, rifling through my feelings like a pantry, tossing out fear and anger and humiliation and leaving behind a deep mindlessness that feels almost like bliss. There’s only the pain and Ash, and everything else shrinks to a pinpoint and vanishes.
Crack, crack, crack.
And then Ash is folding his body over top of mine, his jeans scratching painfully at my raw ass, his thick cock hard as steel against my flesh. He fists my hair and yanks my head back so he can kiss my cheeks.
No…so he can kiss the tears on my cheeks. The visible and undeniable proof of my submission.
In a wrenching instant, his body is gone over mine, and I actually moan a little at the loss. Only to moan again as I feel his mouth somewhere other than my cheek, somewhere much, much better.
It starts with a kiss on my pussy, an almost chaste one, if such a thing can exist. Then it blossoms into wet, warm caresses, his tongue tracing up from my clit to my entrance, firm on one stroke, flat and wide on the next. The pain where I was spanked flares around the hot point of his mouth like the corona of a sun, like the halo around a saint, the golden thing that highlights the beauty within its circle.
He rubs my back as he tongues me, pets my thighs as if I were a horse that needed gentling, and God help me, I love it. I buck into his touch, practically purring as he runs his warm hands over my abused flesh, and occasionally I hear him chuckle to himself as I get especially eager. The pain subsides, but the bliss stays, and all that nibbling and licking and sucking is stirring a twisting pressure in the cradle of my pelvis. I’m going to come soon, the delicious kind of orgasm that can only happen after pain and pain-triggered endorphins, but then something unexpected happens. Ash’s hands come to rest on my ass, and slowly, ever so slowly, they spread my cheeks apart so that I have no secrets from him. I’m completely exposed.
The twisting pressure freezes mid-twist, discomfort and embarrassment managing to gouge their way past the bliss.
“Ash, I’ve never—”
He silences me with one lick. One brush of his tongue against my darkest secret. The sensation is like nothing I’ve ever felt, too shallow, too slick, too dirty, too everything, and I squirm frantically away from him. A hundred what ifs run through my mind, only to be chased away by a fingertip and Ash’s stern voice.
“This is mine, little princess. My hole. Yes?”
The fingertip is probing. Pushing. Gradually and almost lazily breaching my most elemental barrier.
His other hand comes up to slap my ass, right on top of the spots still raw from the spanking. My leg kicks up and he impatiently pushes it back down. “I asked you a question. Is this mine?”
Oh, the invasion. How small it must look and yet how big it feels. “Yes, Sir,” I answer, my voice cracking on the last word.
“That’s right,” he says arrogantly. “This one and this one” —a finger enters my pussy — “and your mouth. Every hole belongs me, doesn’t it?”
“Y-yes, Sir.”
The finger finally tunnels past the first ring of muscle, sinking up to a knuckle. I sputter and pant and kick my legs, and all I get for my pains are more spanks.
“And this ass—this is mine to bite or to spank. And the hole there, that’s mine to lick. Mine to play with. Mine to fuck. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right,” I gasp.
“Mine to show off, mine to display. I could order you to display yourself in the middle of the Oval Office, to pull down whatever pretty pencil skirt you’re wearing and have you bend over for inspection, like a prize animal at a show. Would you like that?”
The thought is so degrading, so awful, that of course it triggers a wave of submissive lust.
“You don’t have to answer, Greer. Your pussy just answered for me.”
I press my face into the bed, humiliated, shaking, on the precipice of orgasm. The finger leaves, replaced by his tongue again, but this time he doesn’t stop at licking. This time he pushes the tip of his tongue into the pleated rosebud, sending a frisson of filthy electricity straight to my clit.
The pleasure is undeniable and immediate, but so is the shame, the reflexive resistance. My hands fly back instinctively to push him away, my legs trying to close, and that earns me an angry growl. Ash wrestles my wrists away from myself and kicks my legs back open with a grunt.
“I could fuck you like this,” he hisses. “Holding you down. Is that what you want?”
My answering moan fills the room.
His arm wraps around my waist like an iron bar and then I’m lifted bodily from my feet and tossed onto the bed, as if I weighed nothing more than a sack of flour. “On your stomach. Show me your face.”
Moving my limbs takes a strange kind of effort, as if the leashed-up orgasm inside my body is weighing me down, but I manage, and there’s a moment of unfiltered tenderness when I feel Ash’s fingers gently brushing my hair away from my forehead, sweeping it over my head so it won’t tickle my face. He drops a light kiss onto my jaw. “Doing okay?”
“I’d do better if you’d fuck me.”
He laughs. “I love it when you get desperate. What’s your safe word?”
“Maxen.”
“Keep it close at hand. We’re going to try something new.”
He straightens up, and from my vantage, I see his strong and certain fingers as they work his belt open and slide it from the loops. I swallow as I watch him double up the belt and run it through his palm.
My mouth parts, protests rise to my lips. I’ve never been belted before, never had anything more intense than a hairbrush, but before I can run through my options, before I can rationalize this or ask him to stop or to pause, he lets fly with the belt and a leather stripe of pain hits my upper thighs.
It’s agony. It’s unbearable. The breath leaves my body as I arch backwards and my mind goes blank. There’s nothing but pain, nothing but the sparking static of it, and when I finally draw in a breath, it comes in and back out as a choked sob.
Maxen.
For the first time ever, my safe word is there on my tongue, ready to be spoken.
“Too much?” He asks right as a shot of endorphins hits my bloodstream, right as a pulse of swollen arousal hits my cunt.
“Don’t you dare stop.”
The belt flies again, slicing through the air with a whistle, higher up on my thighs this time, on the crease between my legs and ass. A real sob comes out, an actual cry, and I’m writhing and burying my face in the bed.
“Angel.”
I sense rather than see his arm pull back, and I know—I just know—this one will be on my ass, on the skin already inflamed and welted from his hand. The moment hangs in the air like the belt, and as I draw in another shuddering breath, I realize this is my chance to say his name. My chance to end this.
But I won’t.
I press my lips closed, sucking in my crying breaths through my nose. The belt falls, and my lips open right back up in a scream.
All across my ass there’s fire, not just where the belt’s hit, but everywhere, as if the skin caught fire under the leather and the flames spread instantly everywhere else. My scream dies into a sobbing groan, the blanket underneath my face is wet with tears, and I’m rubbing my face against it without even knowing it.
I hear the belt drop to the floor. “Oh, Greer.”
His voice is as broken as I feel, as flayed raw.
“My little princess,” he murmurs, crawling onto the bed over me. His hand slides between my stomach and the bed, and then I’m turned over as gently as child so that I’m on my back. “Such a good angel. Such a sweet, obedient princess.”
Through my tears, I see his eyes like green fires in the dark.
“Ash,” I choke out.
His head bows and then his mouth is at my cunt, eating me like a man possessed. Wildly, with noises coming from his throat as he tastes me, with the passion of worship. And somehow, magically, my orgasm is fusing itself back together, ten thousand times stronger for all the pain, as if all the nerve endings singing along my skin had now all joined together to sing in pleasure.
My groans turn into moans, moans into whimpers, and I hear Ash say with his lips against my clit, “Come on, angel, take it. Take it from me.”
He slides a finger into my vagina, and then another, and then a third probes at the tight hole underneath, and I explode. Into a tornado of misery and shame and pain and sensation, into a storm of bliss and pleasure so raw and fierce that my womb cramps hard as it contracts. I think I’m screaming again, and I’m definitely crying as this climax tears through me, punches a hole straight through me like a hammer through sheetrock. I can barely see, barely hear, it’s just feel, feel, feel, as I come with my skin on fire and my muscles sizzling.
I’m not finished orgasming when Ash moves up over me, one hand working his fly open. He doesn’t bother to undress all the way, just yanks his pants down far enough to expose his cock and then finds my still-clenching hole and presses his tip to it. I’m so wet that he’s able to notch himself at my entrance with no effort, and then he pushes into my swollen pussy with a grunt that curls my toes.
Or maybe it’s his giant cock curling my toes.
It’s hard to tell.
He pulls back and shoves back in—it’s a tight, tight fit—and I whimper at the stretching feeling as he buries himself to the hilt.
“Fuck, I’m so hard for this,” he pants. “Feel how hard I am. Feel how big.”
I can, I do. I’m impaled on his bigness, speared on eight throbbing inches, and I might as well be a virgin again. It’s the same kind of perfect discomfort that I felt with Embry, a pain that seems to scratch a deep, deep itch on the inside of my body, the kind of pain that draws me towards pleasure almost against my will because it’s so very, very right.
He’s still wearing his sweater over a button-down shirt, and the fabric brushes against my erect nipples every time he thrusts and moves over me, reminding me that I’m naked and he’s not, I’m vulnerable and he’s in control. Sex with Embry was wildfire, uncontrollable lust, two storm fronts colliding in an eruption of electricity and noise. But sex with Ash is different—harder and deeper, more intense and more controlled and more spiritual and more everything else possible, and it feels as though he’s everywhere inside of me, all over me. His hard body covers mine, his marks burn my ass and thighs, his mouth is hot and biting at my neck and jaw and breasts as his cock possesses me from the inside out.
“Am I bigger than him?” he rasps in my ear. “Do I make you come harder than him?”
I forget for a minute that he doesn’t know it’s Embry, that to my Sir, him is just a mysterious male-shaped silhouette from my past, and I’m nodding. I’m gasping yes. Yes, yes, it’s all true, because in this moment, there’s no man bigger or harder than Ash. There is no man other than Ash, and he makes me feel like there’s no other woman, as if his entire life and purpose is to hold me down and fuck the life out of me.
He keeps talking; he tells me how beautiful I am, how precious, how good I make him feel. How tight my sweet cunt is, how it squeezes him, how much he likes making my tits move with each shove of his hips, how he’s going to fill me up so full that I’m dripping for days.
I reach for him, for his sweater or for his hips, but my hands are wrestled back down over my head, and Ash pins both forearms there with one hand. The submissive pose unleashes something dark in him, some animal intent on ravaging and marking, a monster that saws its perfect dick in and out of me so fast and so hard that a stream of words escape my mouth, nonsense words mixed with uncontrolled noises and grunts, yes and no and oh oh oh and please more please Sir please please.
American Queen Page 24