Page 22 of Burned

Possessive and steady. “Safe word,” he says.

I close my eyes. “Red.”

“And if you need me to slow down?”

“Yellow.”

“Good girl.” The praise slips over my skin like silk.

Then he guides me forward, one hand between my shoulder blades, the other at my waist, until I’m bent over the edge of the bed, exactly where he wants me.

Where I want to be.

That doesn’t change how my body trembles with nerves as much as need. My palms press into the quilt. My pulse is everywhere.

Lucian’s hand smooths over me first, slow and deliberate, over the curve of my backside through the thin fabric of my panties. He does it like he’s memorizing me. Like even this is worship before it becomes punishment.

“You crossed my boundary,” he says.

“I was three feet past it.”

His palm comes down.

Not hard enough to hurt badly. Hard enough to make my breath break.

A sharp, hot sting blooms through the cotton, spreading across my skin in a wicked little pulse. My fingers curl into the quilt.

Lucian rubs the spot immediately after, soothing what he just lit up. “That was one,” he says.

“One what?”

“One reminder.”

“Oh, that’s very reasonable of you.”

His second smack lands on the other side, firmer. I gasp. Fire, hotter, the pain stinging. His hand lingers after, gripping, kneading, fingers sinking into my curves as if he can feel the way my body softens for him.

“Still mouthy,” he murmurs.

“Still controlling,” I hiss back.

A low sound leaves him. I’ve gone too far. I feel his hand raise before I feel the sharp spank, then another.

Each one lands over the thin barrier of my panties, heat building under the sting, shame and want twisting together until I can’t tell which is making me tremble. He takes his time. Never too fast. Never careless.

The fire blooms over my skin, heat pulsing. He follows each smack with the drag of his palm, and tingles spread over my skin. Then the press of his fingers, gripping my hot curves, the flood between my thighs that the quiet possession of his touch creates.

My body betrays me with every breath. Lucian notices.

Of course he does.

His hand stills on me. “You like this.”

My cheeks burn. “I hate this.”

“No,” he says, and hooks two fingers into the waistband of my panties. “You don’t.”

He waits. The pause is everything. He wants my shame without even having to ask for it.