Page 49 of Snowbound
The first spank is slow, measured—less punishment, more possession. A claiming.
She arches into it, moaning low and desperate, and I trail my fingers between her legs—her clit is sticky and slick. I stroke it, circle it, then lick the sweetness off my fingers, tasting her and the hint of mint with a grin.
The second spank lands harder.
She gasps, so sharp, so pretty, that I don’t stop.
Each strike is followed by my hand, warm and steady, soothing and stroking, blurring pain into pleasure and heat.
I bend down, press my mouth to her ass, stubble grazing her delicate skin as I kiss, then bite.
“Oh my gosh!” She moans again as I land another spank, and then another. Her body jerks with each one, caught between restraint and surrender.
“You gonna be a good girl?” I ask, my hand still working her clit, stroking, circling, spreading her wet heat on her most sensitive parts.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes.”
I turn her upright again, wrists still bound, her chest heaving, breath ragged. Her eyes are glazed with need.
“Are you going to continue to be a good girl for me?”
“Yes,” she whispers again. “Yes, please.”
“Good,” I tell her, and then I give the order—low, commanding, final.
“Come for me, baby. Come on my hand.”
I hold her gaze, never looking away, and watch as she falls.
Falls right over the edge, into oblivion. Intome.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Emma
The orgasm slams through me,stealing my breath. I’m helpless under his voice, his fingers, his control.
Every tight, wound thing inside me unravels and melts. Heat and need blend in one electrifying moment before he pulls me onto his lap, my bound wrists pressed against his chest. He kisses me hard and hungry, his tongue sweeping my mouth like he owns it. I taste myself on him. It feels dirty when I recognize the sharp, sweet taste, still laced with peppermint. My thighs are sticky, skin tingling, still slick with peppermint andhim.
Maybe when I found my way to this cabin, I truly did leave the old Emma behind. Maybe I left behind expectations. Maybe I left behind every last damn fuck I was holding on to.
“Fuck, Emma.” He breathes against my lips. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
I press my hips against his. He’s still hard. I feel the thick length of him and whimper.
“I want you,” I whisper. “Now.”
His hand clenches the garland binding my wrists. My pulse spikes at the feral look in his eyes and the powerful grip he has on my makeshift bonds. I stare at his strong, powerful hands and remember how I used to imagine those exact hands touching me in a way only he could. Thick veins stand out as his fingers wrap around the sparkly golden garland.
“You sure you can take it, lass?” he growls, his green eyes boring into mine. “Bloody hell, Emma. Once I start, I’m not feckin’ holding back another damn second.”
I lean in closer and bite his shoulder. “I can take it. I’m not holding back either.”
That breaks something in him, the last thread of restraint. Standing, he holds me tight, his hand gripping my ass. My clit throbs, a whimper escaping my lips, as he lays me down on the thick rug just in front of the fire, staking his claim. I’m sticky and minty, bound and aroused, my hair’s a mess, and the towel’s fallen away, long forgotten. The garland scratches against my wrists as he pins them above my head, anchoring them with one of his huge hands.
“I love your hands,” I moan, sounding ridiculous even to my own ears. “You’re so strong and powerful. I crave this, Owen. I craveyou.”
His wicked grin should warn me, but it doesn’t. With his free hand, he shoves my thighs apart. He doesn’t tease this time, doesn’t work up to anything. Doesn’t play. Just drives into me, brutal and deep, like he’s making up for lost years.