His eyes go to my neck. “Whose good girl are you?”
“Yours,” I answer softly.
“Mine,” he agrees.
He slaps the side of my breast again, and I yelp. It wasn’t as hard as the first time, but it catches me off guard. My hands go to shoot up, but I shove them back down to my sides.
The corners of his lips slowly turn up before showing me his gorgeous smile. That alone has more wetness pooling between my legs. The man knows exactly what he’s doing.
He does it again, harder this time, and I throw my head back, closing my eyes and letting out a cry. But it’s not because it hurts. It feels so good.
He does the other one, and I moan this time, my body just slightly jerking, starting to adjust to the sting.
“You like that, don’t you, Blake?” His voice is full of amusement. “So much potential for my chosen one.”
I’m not sure what that means, and I’m not about to ask.
“Look at me,” he orders, all sense of humor gone.
I open my eyes and lower my head to stare up at him. His gaze drops to my breasts. Reaching out, he takes both my hard nipples between his fingers, and he pinches them. Hard. I rise up on my tiptoes, screaming out, and he yanks me closer to him by them. I’m panting as he holds me in place. I fist my hands down by my sides, sucking in a deep breath.
Letting go of them, I cry again at the sensation it gives. It felt good. So good. “Get your heels.” He nods to the bathroom door behind me and then turns, going back to the dresser.
I walk into the bathroom to find them lying on the floor where I had taken them off for my shower. They’re still wet, and I pour what little bit of water remains inside into the sink and go back to the bedroom.
“Put them on,” he orders, not even bothering to look at me.
Using the wall as support, I slide my feet into the six-inch Guccis. They’re cold from the water, and my feet are already so sore from wearing them earlier. But I’m not telling him that. I kinda like the pain.
He turns around, and I notice he has something in his hand. He tosses it onto the bed. My eyes go to see what it is, but he reaches out and grabs me, pulling me toward him.
I trip in my heels, falling into him, and he catches me. Bringing me over to the foot of the bed, he spins me around to where I face it and lightly smacks my ass. “Spread your legs. As far as you can.”
I see that he had thrown my underwear from earlier in the middle. He smacks my ass again, getting my attention. And I place my hands on the black footboard for support to spread them as far as they’ll go. He bends down next to my left ankle, and I watch him reach under and pull out a chain. It’s short, attached to a black leather cuff, and the other end is attached to the post. He wraps it around my ankle, securing the buckle. I pull on it just to see how much slack it has. There’s none. Then he walks around to the other ankle, pulls it even farther to the other corner post, and does the same.
Standing behind me, he places his hand on my back and pushes me to lean over the footboard. It’s a little higher than where my hips are, so I have to get up on my tiptoes to where it doesn’t dig into my stomach.
The moment my face hits the bed, I feel the muscles in my legs pull tight from the position. I suck in a breath, trying to readjust myself, but it’s not going to matter. I don’t think it’s supposed to be comfortable.
He walks over to the left side and bends down, grabbing another chain from underneath the bed. “Right arm.”
I slide my left to him, and he just stares at me. “Right arm …？” I trail off, repeating what he said, but he’s on the left side of the bed.
Leaning over, he grips my right hand and yanks it across the bed toward him. He wraps the leather cuff around it, securing it, and I almost smile at the feel of them. They’re not nearly as bad as the handcuffs. Then he walks back around behind me and to the right. This time, he doesn’t even say anything. He just grabs my left hand, crossing it over my right one, and secures that wrist too.
My whole body is pulled tight, my upper body twisted like a pretzel. My neck and chin sit on my upper arms, which makes it hard to breathe.
He opens up the top drawer to the nightstand and pulls out a small roll of duct tape. My breathing picks up. He disappears behind me, and I try to look over my shoulders, but I can’t. My arms crossed restrict the movement of my head.
His wet jeans rub against my thighs before he leans over my back, pressing my hips further into the footboard. The edge of the wood, digging into my skin, makes me whimper.