Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

his attention?  
    I needed him then. I need him more now. The ache is worse, and I know he can soothe it, calm this roaring, salivating beast in me with the beast in him. His mouth presses into a line, and he slowly licks his upper lip. I want that tongue on me.
    “I vowed to myself I would not spank you again, even if you begged me.”
    “Please,” I beg.
    “But then I realized, you’re probably very uncomfortable at the moment, and it’s not something you’re used to.” He smirks at me knowingly, arrogant bastard, but I don’t care because he’s absolutely right.
    “Yes,” I breathe.
    “So, there might be a certain . . . latitude. If I do this, you must promise me one thing.”
    “Anything.”
    “You will safe word if you need to, and I will just make love to you, okay?”
    “Yes.” I’m panting. I want his hands on me.
    He swallows, then takes my hand, and moves toward the bed. Throwing the duvet aside, he sits down, grabs a pillow, and places it beside him. He gazes up at me standing beside him and suddenly tugs hard on my hand so that I fall across his lap. He shifts slightly so my body is resting on the bed, my chest on the pillow, my face to one side. Leaning over, he sweeps my hair over my shoulder and runs his fingers through the plume of feathers on my mask.
    “Put your hands behind your back,” he murmurs.
    Oh! He removes his bow tie and uses it to quickly bind my wrists so that my hands are tied behind me, resting in the small of my back.
    “You really want this, Anastasia?”
    I close my eyes. This is the first time since I met him that I really want this. I need it.
    “Yes,” I whisper.
    “Why?” he asks softly as he caresses my behind with his palm.
    I groan as soon as his hand makes contact with my skin. I don’t know why . . . You tell me not to overthink. After a day like today—arguing about the money, Leila, Mrs. Robinson, the dossier on me, the roadmap, this lavish party, the masks, the alcohol, the silver balls, the auction . . . I want this.
    “Do I need a reason?”
    “No, baby, you don’t,” he says. “I’m just trying to understand you.” His left hand curls round my waist, holding me in place as his palm leaves my behind and lands hard, just above the junction of my thighs. The pain connects directly with the ache in my belly
    Oh man  . . . I moan loudly. He hits me again, in exactly the same place. I groan again.
    “Two,” he murmurs. “We’ll go with twelve.”
    Oh my! This feels different than the last time—so carnal, so . . . necessary. He caresses my behind with his long-fingered hands, and I’m helpless, trussed up and pressed into the mattress, at his mercy, and of my own free will. He hits me again, slightly to the side, and again, to the other side, then pauses as he slowly peels my panties down and pulls them off. He gently trails his palm across my behind again before continuing my spanking—each stinging smack taking the edge off my need—or fueling it—I don’t know. I surrender myself to the rhythm of blows, absorbing each one, savoring each one.
    “Twelve,” he murmurs his voice low and harsh. He caresses my behind again and trails his fingers down toward my sex and slowly sinks two fingers inside me, moving them in a circle, round and round and round, torturing me.
    I moan loudly as my body takes over, and I come and come, convulsing around his fingers. It’s so intense, unexpected, and quick.
    “That’s right, baby,” he murmurs appreciatively. He unties my wrists, keeping his fingers inside me as I lie panting and spent over him.
    “I’ve not finished with you yet, Anastasia,” he says and shifts without removing his fingers. He eases my knees on to the floor so that now I’m leaning over the bed. He kneels on the floor behind me and undoes his zipper. He slides his fingers out of me, and I hear the familiar tear of a foil packet. “Open your legs,” he growls and I comply. He strokes my behind and eases into me.
    “This is going to be quick, baby,” he murmurs and grabbing my hips, he eases out then slams into me.
    “Ah!” I cry out but the fullness is heavenly. He’s hitting the bellyache square on, again and again, eradicating it with each sharp, sweet thrust. The feeling is mind-blowing, just what I need. I push back to meet him, thrust for thrust.
    “Ana, no,” he grunts, trying to still me. But I want him too much, and I grind against him, matching him thrust for thrust.
    “Ana, shit,”