Jasmine

The heat of the room settles on me like tropical nightfall, murky and oppressive. It steals my vision and breath, the moment pregnant with anticipation. Waiting. Hoping. And If I’m honest, I’m a little bit afraid.

He’s only gagged me, but he chose his tie. I run my tongue along the silky fabric, bite it between my teeth, my core clenching as his scent saturates my senses.

I’ve lived through real fear. My brother’s rage. My father’s wrath. The threat of molestation at the hands of his vicious, brutal friend.

I’ve lived through real pain. My mother’s abandonment. Fists, bloodied lips, bruises hidden under shirtsleeves and make-up.

What Rico does to me now—holding me on the brink of anticipation in fear and hoping for pain—is measured. Controlled. Somehow, inexplicably, so erotic it’s almost an act of kindness.

My belly tenses and swirls when he circles me, taking in my body with the utter control only a dominant possesses. When he touches my body, an electric zing of need and want skirts over my skin like a live wire. I need him. I want him. And that’s how he’s turned the tables.

I use my body as the most potent weapon I have to bring men to their knees. Leave it to Agent Rico to wield my own weapon against me. And isn’t that the appeal of Rico? He’s the one man I can’t ensnare.

When he kneels in front of me, fully clothed but for his open collar where he removed his tie, he’s a full head taller than I am. And when he kneels, he’s no less majestic than when he towers over me. I catch my breath as he lets his gaze wander lazily down my body and up again, lingering at my peaked nipples. When he bends his mouth to my navel, my body begins to quake. I try to still it, but his power over me is magnetic, a force beyond my control.

He kisses my thigh, soft, warm lips caressing bare skin, then he moves his mouth along the underside of my belly, sending a tremor through me. He licks and nips my skin across to my other thigh, his hands anchored on my hips. My pussy swells with need and want. His fingers dig into my hips, marking me, but I crave more. Harder. Painful.

As if he read my mind, he pinches my inner thigh, making me yelp and squirm but a lazy swipe of his tongue along my abused flesh begs forgiveness for the pain. I throw my head back when he suckles the tender skin so hard I can feel his teeth. He’ll leave a mark. Christ, I hope he does.

He moves his grip to my ass, huge hands gripping each of my ass cheeks, while he continues to lick and suck and nibble on my tender flesh speckled with goosebumps. When his teeth sink in, the pain hits me so suddenly I scream against the gag and beg him to stop, but my cries are only a jumble of confusion. This is wrong. I can’t stop him. But deep down inside, where my darkest fantasies lurk, I know I don’t really want to stop him. I need him to take me so far beyond what’s comfortable and right.

Minutes tick on as he worships and teases my body. Every swipe of his tongue and pinch of his fingers pushes me deeper into the mindless chasm of need and want.

Please, my mind begs, but I can’t articulate the words. Stop, I plead, but I’m helpless and mute.

And I don’t need him to tell me he knows this anyway. Agent Rico is a brilliant man but not a god. While he continues his assault on my body with his tongue and fingers, just skirting the edge of where I need him, his pants tent with an erection that makes me grin. He’s turned the fuck on and hell if that doesn’t make my body pulse with want.

Cupping my breasts in his rough hands, he squeezes so hard I arch my back. “You think this is funny, little girl?” he whispers against the shell of my ear. I shiver. “Are you a naughty thing who likes to tease the boys?” he asks. “If you weren’t hurt tonight, I’d take my belt to your ass. I’d punish you for being a cock tease.”

I close my eyes and whimper. Why the fuck would he abstain from giving me what I need because of what I went through? I need to feel him, my self-possessed captor, give me the pain that will set me free.

“Why do you whimper, Jasmine?” he whispers in my ear, but I hear the sincerity in his question. How can I answer him with my mouth gagged? “Do you need me to release you?”

I shake my head.

“Unfasten your gag?” Again, a shake of my head. But this is only the illusion of control. A game of sorts. I don’t really have the power here, and I fucking love that I don’t.

Bending down so his lips brush my ear, he whispers, “My belt, Jasmine?”

I nod my head vigorously, mentally pleading with him. Hurt me. Please, Ricky.

To my surprise, he releases me entirely and in one swift motion, unfastens the tie. “Beg.”

“Please,” I say, my voice hoarse and unrecognizable. “Punish me.”

He circles round me, no longer touching, his gaze the only stroke along my skin. Footsteps behind me fade. Where’s he going? What’s he doing?

Minutes pass and the only sound in the room is my rapid heartbeat and labored breathing.

“Ricky?” Nothing. “Agent Rico?”

The clink of ice in glass. The swish of liquid. Glass along a tabletop and footsteps approaching. He has a few fingers of whiskey in a stout glass in one hand, his other hand tucked into his pocket. Prowling toward me like a predator, he sips his drink then releases a sigh of contentment.

“I like to unwind in the evening,” he says. “A good drink with the strains of music playing. Sometimes I watch a movie.” He draws closer, bringing his heat with him. I stifle a sigh. God, he’s beautiful, so rugged and handsome and deliciously dangerous.

“No movie tonight?” I ask.

Shaking his head, he folds himself into an armchair a few feet away from me. “No need,” he says. “Instead, I’m taking in an art show. The visual is outstanding,” he says with a quirked brow before he takes another sip of his glass. “This particular exhibit is rather avant-garde,” he muses contemplatively. A corner of his mouth quirks up, a flirt of a smile that makes my heart race. “Minimalistic, yet aesthetically appealing on every. damn. level.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, and to my surprise, my cheeks heat.

“You’re thanking me?” he says, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I haven’t even made you climax yet.”

I buck with sudden need, surprising even me and this time he grins. I don’t trust my voice, so I don’t say anything, but I let the warm caress of his smile wash over me like moonlight. I’m so at his mercy.

His gaze grows molten. “Touch yourself.”

“Sir?” I whisper.

“Stroke your clit,” he orders, before he takes another swig from the glass. Eyes on him, I obey, gliding a finger through my slick folds with a whimper. I’m so damn turned on I could cry.

“One hand at your nipples,” he commands. “The other on your clit.” I do what he says, squeezing my breast and stroking myself harder, faster, getting closer and closer to climaxing until a sharp, “stop,” freezes me in place. My hand trembles, just on the verge of bringing myself to completion.

“Tell me, Jasmine,” he says, sobering before he takes a long sip from his glass. “Why do you deserve my belt?”

“Because I’m a bad girl,” I whisper. “I do terrible things.” His stark blue gaze narrows on me and for one brief, terrible minute, I worry that he’s setting me up. That he’s trying to get a confession out of me, and I close my mouth out of habit.

He tips his head to the side. “Why the sudden silence?” he asks, his eyes genuinely curious. “Do you not trust me?”

“I do,” I tell him, with brutal honesty. “That’s what terrifies me.” Christ, I need him to gag me again.

I don’t trust anyone but myself, ever, and I’ve just told him how vulnerable he makes me. It’s terrible and wonderful and scares me senseless. He nods and rises. My pulse quickens. I have no idea what he’ll do next, which is exactly the way he planned it. Kneeling before me again, he takes a sip of whiskey, places the glass down, then leans in for a kiss. My breath catches, my hands tremble, then I still when his lips meet mine. I close my eyes and inhale his strong, masculine scent mixed with my own arousal, taste his bourbon-stained lips, and let myself lean into the strength of his embrace when I nearly topple over. He pulls away too soon and mouths into my ear, “What now, little girl? How will you earn that strapping you’re begging me for?”

“I already have,” I respond, swallowing hard. “Haven’t I? Don’t you like to punish naughty girls?”

Standing, he reaches for the clasp of his belt. “No, Jasmine. Only you.”

I don’t breathe when he whisks his belt off. Tense when he wraps it around his huge, powerful fist. Brace for the first smack.

“Over the couch,” he rasps out, flicking a finger at an old-fashioned denim blue sofa that stands across from the armchair. “I don’t want to strike your lower back.”

Somehow, I get to my feet and obey, and drape myself over the side. I close my eyes. I must be crazy to want this, but I do. I want it so damn bad I could cry. My naked, vulnerable ass bared to him, cool air brushes across my skin just a second before the whizz and snap of leather ignites my skin. I hiss and come up on my toes, but quickly go back down, kneading my fingers into the plush fabric in front of me. A second strike follows the first, then a third. My fingernails claw at the couch, and it hurts so fucking bad I can’t breathe when a fourth and fifth lash stripe me. I’m whimpering but holding my position when I hear him come up behind me. He trails a finger along the welts on my skin before he parts my thighs.

“Wider, baby,” he says, killing me with the sweet dominance laced in his words. He knows exactly what he’s doing. “Remember to breathe,” he says, the only warning before he continues the assault on my ass. Over and over the belt pounds my flesh, wicked stings fading to warmth but a deep, abiding feeling of satisfaction anchoring me in position. God, it feels good to let him hurt me. Something in my chest loosens when he continues the controlled but wicked strapping.

I could stand here and let him do this all fucking day.

When he approaches me and drops the belt, I’m almost disappointed. “That’s enough for now,” he says. “You’ll feel that every time you sit down. You’ll sleep on your belly tonight. You could maybe take more, but you’ll have to earn it.”

I look over my shoulder at him and watch as he slides the belt back through the loops on his pants and fastens the clasp. My pussy clenches and throbs along with my ass, my breasts so sensitive just brushing up against the cushions almost hurts. Then his whole body is flush up against mine, smooth fabric gliding along my sore ass, his scent and strength and warmth enveloping me like a warm bath.

“Touch yourself,” he grows in my ear, pressing his cock against my ass. “Stroke that pussy until you’re ready to come.”

I don’t need him to tell me twice. I spread my legs and slide my hand along the couch, my fingers finding my needy, swollen folds. I stroke and fondle until my hips buck while he thrusts his fully-clothed flank into me from behind.

“I’m going to come,” I whisper.

“Ask me permission.”

Stroking, fondling. Lights dimming, breath hitching.

“May I?” I beg.

“Say it the right way.”

“May I, sir?”

He brushes my hair off my shoulder and puts his mouth to my ear. “Come, Jasmine. Come for me. Let yourself go.” He sinks his teeth into my bare shoulder, and I lose my mind.

I groan as the climax shudders through me so hard and fast I’m momentarily blinded. I can’t think, I can’t see, I can’t even breathe. My hips buck so hard he has to hold me down, his mouth never leaving my neck as if to brand me, reminding me that he commands even this. I stroke and milk every bit of bliss from my release, a second climax building on the first until my muscles ache and my legs can’t hold me anymore.

“Good girl,” he says, holding me against his chest. “Such a very good girl.”

He controlled every second of that, and even made me orchestrate my own release. I smile, pretending I’m not affected by everything about him.

“I can be, Ricky,” I tell him. “When I want to.”