“But you must learn to please me in the bedroom,” he said.
“I do want to,” she said quietly, surprising herself by her candor.
“Good. Then to start, I’d like you to shower and put on this robe. When you’ve finished, come out to the bedroom, and I’ll administer your punishment.”
He started to walk out of the bathroom but paused. “Oh, and wash your hair, please. It ought to be a crime for all that glory to smell like an ashtray,” he muttered under his breath before he exited, closing the door behind him with a brisk click.
She just stood there for a moment on the pristine marble tile floor. He thought her hair was glorious? She pleased him? How could he possibly be having thoughts like that about her? How could he kiss her until she thought she’d spontaneously combust and yet look at her at times like she was about as interesting as the paint on the wall?
She showered thoroughly, enjoying the experience more than she’d thought she would. The glass-enclosed stall steamed up quickly, the tendrils of warm mist seeming to caress and kiss her naked skin. It was nice to lather up with Ian’s hand-milled English soap, cover herself in his clean, spicy scent. Fortunately, she’d shaved before she went out to McGill’s, so she didn’t have to worry about hairy legs.
Would he spank her while she was naked?
Of course he would, she answered herself as she slid open the glass door to the shower and exited. He’d told her point-blank he wanted her naked beneath the robe. She extricated the garment now from the plastic wrapping. Was it brand-new? Did he keep a supply of robes on stock for the women that he “entertained”? The thought made her a little sick, so she shoved it out of her brain, focusing instead on finding a comb for her wet hair, deodorant, a new toothbrush, and a bottle of mouthwash. Everything was arranged so neatly in the cabinet that she took special care returning the items to their proper places.
She folded her clothes and set them on an upholstered stool. Her reflection in the mirror caught her attention. Her image stared back at her, her eyes looking huge in her pale face, her long hair hanging damp. She looked a little scared.
So what if I am scared? she thought to herself. He’d said he was going to spank her and that it would hurt. She’d agreed to his apparent warped sexual practices because she wanted Ian so much.
It came down to which was greater: her fear or her desire to please Ian.
She walked toward the door and opened it. He sat on the couch, a tablet in his lap. He set the device on the coffee table when she walked into the room.
“I lit a fire for you,” he said, his gaze running over her from head to foot. He was still dressed in the same clothing he’d been wearing when he’d barged into the tattoo parlor—dark gray tailored pants and a blue-and-white button-down shirt. His long legs were crossed negligently. He looked utterly at ease. The light from the fire flickered in his eyes. “It’s cool tonight. I didn’t want you to catch a chill.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling awkward and uncertain.
“Take off the robe, Francesca,” he said quietly.
Her heart skipped a beat. She fumbled with the sash and drew the robe off her shoulders.
“Set it down there,” he instructed, pointing to the chair next to her, his gaze never leaving her. She draped the garment over the back of the chair and stood there, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her, studying the intricate pattern of the Oriental carpet beneath her like it held the secrets of the universe.
“Look at me,” he said.
She lifted her chin. There was something in his gaze she’d never seen before.
“You’re exquisite. Stunning. Why do you look down, as if you’re ashamed?”
She swallowed thickly. The embarrassing truth came unstuck from her throat. “I . . . I used to be overweight. Until I was nineteen or so. I . . . guess I still have the confidence of my former self,” she explained, her voice barely above a whisper.
A subtle of-course expression flickered over his bold features. “Ah . . . yes. But you seem so sure of yourself at times.”
“That’s not confidence. It’s defiance.”
“Yes,” he mused. “I understand now. Better than you might think. It’s your way of telling the world to go fuck itself for ever having the gall to look down its nose at you.” He smiled. “Bravo, Francesca. It’s time you learned how beautiful you are, though. You should always control the strengths you have available to you; never let them languish or, worse, allow others to be the ones to control them for you. Come stand before me, please.”
She went to him on shaking legs. Her eyes went wide in confusion when he picked up a jar sitting on the cushion next to him. It was so small, and Ian had filled her senses so completely, she hadn’t noticed it before. He unscrewed the cap and put a small dollop of the thick white substance on his forefinger. Glancing up, he noticed her bewilderment.
“It’s a clitoral stimulant. It increases the sensitivity of the nerves,” he said.
“Oh, I see,” she muttered, even though she didn’t.
His gaze dropped between her thighs. Her clit pinched with arousal, his stare stimulant enough. “I’m very selfish when it comes to you.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I always give a submissive pleasure if she pleases me. I’m not usually concerned if she feels it while she’s being punished, however. She might have to endure it to get her reward. I find I’ve . . . changed my tune a bit with you, however.”