But she wasn’t about to take any chances. Based on his reaction to the sight of her bared shoulder, full nudity seemed by far the most effective persuasion she had at her disposal.
He looked her up and down, slowly, as if he had all night. She felt a hint of anxiety at the exposure, at his ruthless gaze, and the vulnerability only heightened her anticipation and desire. She could see his ragged breathing as he took her in, his gray eyes darker in the candlelight.
She ached for him. She wanted him to touch her—her skin felt too sensitive, as if one brush from his fingers across her nipples or down her belly would send her careening out of control.
And then he did touch her. His hand, which had been warm on the back of her neck, slipped free. He trailed the tip of his forefinger over her shoulder, then down, tracing the underside of her breast.
She gasped. She felt that light touch all over her body, a hot liquid pull between her thighs.
“I see,” he said. His eyes were on hers now. He did not watch the tortuous progress of that single finger, under her breast and then up, a slow circle around her areola. “You don’t want to be a good girl, do you, Matilda?”
“I—” She could not make the words come. She was hot, cold, shivering, undone.
He caught her tight nipple between his fingers and pinched it, rolling it hard. “Answer me.”
She couldn’t. She couldn’t think. She tried to press herself back against him, and he wouldn’t let her, his other hand at her waist holding her still. She made a little wordless sound and put her hand between her own thighs, touching herself where her need was sharpest.
He let go of her nipple. He caught her hand, dragging it away from where it had crept and pinning it behind her back.
Oh God—this was like nothing she had imagined, and everything. Her hand in his powerful grip, his mastery over her body—it was threat and safety at once. She wanted this, shecravedthis, and he knew it.
More than that, he wanted it too. She could see the outline of his cock in his trousers, stiff and thick, and the pale skin of his throat was flushed.
“Answer me,” he said again. “Do you want to be a good girl, Matilda?”
She realized as he held her hand pinned behind her back that he was asking for something more, something beneath the words. He wanted to know what would please her—to be praised by him? To be punished?
Something broke free in her chest at the realization. Safety—there was such safety in him, in the way he pushed her and cared for her. The way he wanted to know her—and more than that, the way he wanted her to speak her own mind. She felt a thousand contradictory things at once: lust and tenderness, a need to push against him and the desire to submit. She wanted him to be rough with her, and then she wanted him to pet her and soothe her and tell her she’d done well.
She wanted him. She wanted all his hard edges and the sweet tenderness lurking there as well.
“I want to be wicked with you,” she said, trying to put words to the feelings that had always been within her, set free now by her own boldness and the security she felt in Christian’s hands. “I want to tease you and torment you. And even more than that, I want—I want you tomakeme be good.”
He yanked her back to the bed by her wrists, and she gasped and shivered and let him tow her. He sat on the bed and pulled her down across his lap, her arm still caught behind her. One of his legs came across hers and pinned her down.
She squirmed against his hold, her blood hot, her skin thrumming. She loved this—ah God, she loved his hands and the hard muscle of his thighs beneath her. She was pressed naked against his trousers, and the contrast between her nudity and his clothed body aroused her further. She arched, pressing her sex against him, her body instinctively seeking relief.
He bent his head to her ear. “Say stop,” he said again, “if you want me to stop.”
“No,” she gasped. “Keep going.”
She felt it then—the smack of his palm across her buttocks. “You want this,” he said, his voice a hot demand.
“Yes—”
Another swat, quick and stinging. She writhed against him, against his cock, hard as iron beneath his trousers—she needed friction, she neededmore,she had never felt like this. She could not think of anything except the craving for pressure between her legs.
“Please,” she said, her voice thready. “Please, please—”
He spanked her again and again, harder now, and between each smack he pressed his hand against the swell of her bottom, soothing the hot skin. She tried to arch up into his hand, her back bowing.
“So greedy.” His palm kneaded into her flesh, holding her down. “So desperate.”
“Yes,” she said thickly. “I need you to touch me.”
He did. His fingers swept down the cleft of her buttocks, finding her sex, and she cried out. He hissed, and she felt his hips buck beneath her, his cock pressing against her naked body.
He stroked her, circled her clitoris, dipped inside her body. “Jesus”—his voice was hoarse—“you are so wet. Matilda—”
