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“Do you want to stop?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Green.”
“You sure?”
“Please.” I need this. Need him. Need to feel something other than the chaos in my head. To not think about dinner or chips or?—
Another slap on my ass. “Where’d you go?”
“Here,” I whisper. “I’m here.”
“Are you?” His palm connects with my ass again, the sting spreading like wildfire across my skin. “Do you want me to break you?”
My fingers grip the edge of the tub tighter. The need pulses through me, raw and desperate. “Yes.”
“You don’t need me to break you.” His hand ghosts over my ass. “You’re doing a pretty good job of that yourself.”
The words hit harder than the spanking. “That’s not?—”
“Fair?” His fingers thread through my hair again, a whisper against my scalp that soothes rather than demands. “Neither is makingmewatchyoudestroy yourself.”
I try to move, but his grip is unshakable, keeping me exactly where he wants. The water laps at my thighs, cold now, making my skin pebble. Or maybe it’s his words.
His fingers trace my spine. I am exposed, completely exposed. Not just physically. He sees right through me, past all my carefully constructed walls.
“Bran—” Another smack cuts me off.
“Tell me…” His hand rests on my ass, a warm reminder of his control. “Why do you punish yourself?”
“I can’t.”
“You can.” He releases my hair, moving to cup my throat. Not squeezing, just holding. “And you will.”
“Please.” I’m not sure if I’m begging him to stop or continue. “I just want to forget.”
“That’s not how this works.” His thumb skims over my throat, pausing where my pulse hammers beneath his touch. “Not anymore.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because someone needs to.” His grip on my throat tightens fractionally. “Because you deserve better than using my cock to avoid your feelings.”
A sob escapes me.
“Why Naomi?”
“Please don’t make me.”
“Answer me!” Another slap.
“Because I can control it!”
He caresses the flaming skin. “Why do you need to control it?”
“Yellow.” The word comes out strangled. “Please, I need a minute.”
His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go. “Why do you punish yourself? With food. With dresses that feel like a prison.”
“Because…” Every bite I take, every moment of happiness I feel—it’s stolen. I know what I did. What I let happen. The garage, the smell of oil, and Mom’s mascara running down her face. “I deserve it.”