“Cuz you’re hot, and you’re you,” he murmurs.
“Because I’m … me?”
“Yeah. You’re so commanding and fucking dominating. I love all this shit we do—the spanking, the punishment, the discipline. I just … love all the shit we do.”
He really does, doesn’t he? I should know that by now. But there’s still that echo chamber within me, telling me that no one could actually want what I am.
“I have one complaint, though,” he says.
“Do I look like a fucking suggestion box to you, McKinnon?” I say, but the corners of my lips twitch, fighting the smile. I climb off him, rolling to the side, and distract myself from whatever he’s going to say by spreading my cum across his skin. I’m not letting him shower. He can smell like me all day.
“You didn’t mark me up like you usually do. I’m worried you’re going soft on me because we’re, y’know, kind of a thing now.”
Kind of a thing?
My fingers freeze in my dirty work. I’m literally in the middle of marking him, just not with visible blemishes. “First of all, we’re not ‘kind of a thing’, McKinnon. If you don’t know you’re fucking mine by now, maybe I need to carve it into your arm.”
“If that’s what you think I need, carve away. Least I’ll have something,” he complains.
“Second, you still have hickeys on your neck.” I paint some of my cum over them while he continues to pout. That fucking pout. He can’t ever find out how much it affects me, or I’m done for.
“But they’re almost gone.”
As much as I’m trying to prove otherwise, McKinnon might be right. I have been soft in some ways, but doesn’t he know that if I have any softness at all, it’s only for him?
I sigh. “It’s better this way, baby.”
Please stop pouting—it’s short-circuiting my brain.He might have the power to get anything he wants out of me.
I have to at least try to resist.
There have been too many times he’s pulled out my baser instincts, tugged my careful constraint right from the tether I had it shackled to. But I didn’t have anything to lose then. Now I have everything to lose, and I have to fight harder.
I hear the sharp breath.
Then, impact.
Ace tackles me like it’s the third period of a playoff game. A full-bodied, unapologetic check that sends me back onto the mattress with a startled grunt.
“What the?—”
“I’m only obedient for you, Luke,” he growls.
“You’re a fucking brat.”
“An obedient brat,” he says.
It sounds like an oxymoron, but it’s accurate for him. He taunts and he toys and he plays, but when push comes to shove, he obeys Daddy, which is the perfect brat for me.
“It’s a fucking privilegeyouget. Don’t insult me by coddling me.” He’s straddling me now, bare-chested, flushed, his eyes like two blue flames. “You holding back is bullshit. It’s unnecessary. I want everything. Y-You can’t show me what it’s like to have everything I didn’t know I wanted and then rip it away.” His voice breaks.
I can’t stand it.
“Ace, I?—”
Whap!
His knuckles crack across my jaw. I’m a boxer, so I can take a hit, but he’s still gonna get it if he keeps it up.
