“I know I’ve never used a belt before,” he said.
“You used to say it was too harsh.”
“I don’t have much to work with here,” he said, and she knew he meant that he didn’t have his room full of sexual equipment at his disposal. He opened his hand at the side of her neck and gently stroked her throat with his thumb in a soothing gesture, as if he’d known she was having difficulty drawing breath as desire and anxiety warred in her chest. “You can trust me to attenuate, Francesca. You know I’d never harm you.” Her heart jumped. He closed his eyes briefly and she sensed his regret. “Not in this way, at least. Never. Do you believe that?”
“Yes,” she said, holding his stare. That much, she did believe.
He nodded slowly, still studying her face so intently, she wondered what he read there. He’d said once that women were a mystery even to themselves. She couldn’t have agreed more at that moment. She also knew he’d been given the gift of decoding her, though . . . and that’s why she stood here, naked and bound before a man who had forsaken her.
“Then come over here,” he said quietly, pointing at the bottom post on the grand bed. The four carved posts were seven feet tall. “Put your hands above your head and rest them on the post. No, don’t bend over all the way,” he instructed, using his hand to prompt her into the position he desired. When he’d settled her, she was mostly upright, but bent slightly at the waist, her weight braced by her bound hands. He put the looped belt strap between her thighs and gently flicked his wrist. She immediately parted her legs more at the silent prompt, liquid heat surging at her sex.
“That’s right,” he said gruffly. He swept her long hair around the shoulder furthest from him, fully exposing her backside. Her clit throbbed dully as he stroked her from flank to hip with his hand, pausing to squeeze a buttock in his palm. Then he did the same with the folded belt, running the sleek leather over her spine and caressing her ass and the back of her thighs. She moaned softly.
“I’ll prepare you with my hand,” she heard him say. She bit her lip when he spanked her bottom, that quick, expert slap achingly familiar. He spanked her again. It stung, but it aroused her almost unbearably. The flash of sensation as her nerves were awakened, the erotic sound of flesh against flesh, the sharp knowledge that she was allowing it . . . that she wanted it. He continued to enliven her flesh, spanking her by hand, escalating her arousal. At one point, she turned to look at him, hungry for the image of him standing there, his eyes hot and possessive as he watched his hand striking her ass with a tight focus. He glanced up and made a rough sound in his throat.
Francesca turned her head and closed her eyes, overwhelmed with a potent mixture of shame and desire.
Chapter Seven
He dropped his hand. Her bottom prickled and tingled, not unpleasantly. Her pussy felt hot and wet. She kept her eyes clamped closed, her ears pitched for signs of what he was doing in the silence. Then the folded leather strap touched her ass. He ran it over the smarting flesh in circles. Her clit pinched in anticipation. She clamped her teeth.
It was going to hurt. She dreaded it. She needed it.
“Hold steady,” Ian said. He lifted the leather and struck gently several times. She knew from having done this with him before they were just test strokes as he got the feel for the instrument he used. He lifted the belt. Her muscles tensed. Then it came, that quick, bright flash of pain, more concentrated than what came from the paddle or the flogger. She whimpered. Her hips moved, but not to escape another blow. From arousal.
“Shhh,” he murmured, and his hand was there, soothing the stinging flesh, caressing her bottom. “Okay?” he asked after a moment of rubbing her.
“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. She waited, her anticipation so sharp it cut at her. Whoosh. He landed the belt again and she gasped. Immediately, his hand was there, easing the pain, mounting her need until all she craved was another strike of the belt. It was unbearable. It was exquisite . . . and just what she needed.
After five strikes, she was moaning uncontrollably in rabid arousal. He paused after landing a blow on the tender area of her buttocks just above her thighs. He palmed her from below tautly, and then abruptly released the stinging flesh, jiggling it, making her moan harder.
“Stand up straight,” Ian said, his voice sounding strained. She backed away from the post. “Put your hands behind your head, elbows out, and face me.”
She did what he said, her breathing erratic. When she turned toward him, the vision of him undid her. She shut her eyes defensively. He looked unbearably beautiful to her in his tuxedo pants with his dress shirt open at the collar, his sleeves rolled back displaying his strong forearms, his masculine hand gripping the belt. He stepped toward her and ran the folded strap of leather along her waist, her ribs, and the outer curve of a breast.
“Open your eyes, Francesca,” he demanded quietly.
“No,” she said shakily, determined to keep some tiny part of herself inviolate. Safe. She’d given all of herself once, and felt the consequence every second of her life. The caressing leather stilled on her breast, and then fell away. She sensed him crossing in front of her. He placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Bend over and spread your thighs. Present your bottom. Keep your hands on your head,” he said sharply when she started to lower them as she bent. “I’ll steady you with my hand.”
The belt struck her ass. She whimpered. Her thighs quivered. She felt very exposed and vulnerable in this position.