THE BILLIONAIRE'S LOVER

17 | IN WHICH SHE'S SATIATED (M)

Malora tried to imagine what else he could do to her—but her brain was dopamine dazed and came up blank.

He withdrew and his touch became soothing again, which she was pretty sure she didn't want at all. 'We can stop at any time. You've already given me more than—'

'No.'  Malora flattened her forearms to the sofa and shoved her hips up. She wasn't done pleasing him. 'Take it all. Take everything.'

For a moment, he was so still she thought he was going to say no or something. But then he shifted his grip from her neck, laying his palm flat across her shoulders in a way that felt both ominous and reassuring. And when he hit her this time, it hurt in such a real way that she heard herself say 'Ow' in a ridiculously surprised tone of voice.

It would have been funny— pain hurts, no shit Sherlock—but it was like his hand had knocked everything out of her except the capacity to respond. A few strikes later and even 'ow' was gone. Instead, these breathy cries were being jolted out of her. Sort of like being expertly fucked. But not. But yes.

And it was relentless.

His hand coming down on her to the rhythm of his choosing. This pain that was both in her control and out of it. Malora knew with a faith she thought she'd put aside when she no longer believed in fairy tales that if she told him to stop—if she really meant it—he would. And, sometimes, she almost wanted to. Not so much because what was happening was unbearable but because it was simply overwhelming. The pure physicality of it. The way he had her all pinned down and splayed out. The sweat and tears—oh wow, she was actually crying—stinging her lips. The sound of each strike, loud and clear and undeniable. A question demanding an answer given in suffering and submission.

And, God, did she give it. Gasping and sobbing and writhing under his hands. Begging incoherently for him to. . .she didn't know what she wanted, only that she wanted to beg for the simple pleasure of begging. Knowing it would make no difference. That she could scream and cry and struggle and he'd use her however he wanted. And, for some reason, in her slutty little brain that wasn't bad at all. It was awesome.

Liberating and sexy and scary and exactly what Malora had longed for. It wasn't like she imagined—it was a lot messier and her reactions were more complicated—but it was way better. And weirdly, something she never would have imagined: how peaceful it would be, right at the heart of all that tumult. How safe she would feel. How cherished. It made her arch into the blows, not welcoming the pain so much as everything it brought with it: adrenaline and intimacy and this deep sense of acceptance. Of being beyond strength or weakness or shame. And trusting it was okay to be there. That Master T was with her.

That he had her.

Malora was so blissfully lost that it took her a moment or two to realize it was over. That the roaring in her ears was her own heartbeat. Her knees slid out from under her and she flopped into Titan's lap like a fish.

'Ohmigod.'

Malora didn't know how long she laid there. Minutes, hours, ages of the world, while the sun tarnished and the stars fell.

Wow she was floaty.

When her breathing had steadied, and the sweat dried on her back, Titan drew her up and gathered her to him. He arranged Malora so she was straddling him, her weight distributed away from her arse, which was a relief because even the air moving against it felt rough. But he could have knotted her into a pretzel for all she was capable of resisting right then. Malora was mercury between his hands.

Well, for the most part. Her clit very much the opposite of mercury. Granite or marble or iron. Something really fucking hard and engorged. Malora blinked down at herself, slightly bewildered at the sight she presented: delicate and shiny-slick with juices, pulsing pleadingly from between her spread-wide thighs.