He took her up so high, that terrible tension coiling tight, and then he leaned over her, his mouth on her nipple, teeth clamping down, tugging with the other hand, fingers biting into the roses while his thumb thumped her clit hard. She exploded into impossible cataclysmic waves, so powerful she screamed and screamed, trying to hold on to him for an anchor, but he was riding her hard. Then he flipped her body over, uncaring of the welts, as she came, belly down on the material.
He dragged her legs over the edge, yanked out the plug, kicking her legs wide apart, and once more began to surge into her like a madman. Every wild hammering drive into her sent her body skidding across the bed, so the material rubbed over the whip marks. It was her mound, with those terrible roses, that added to the coiling heat that wouldn’t let up in her body. It was as if she had caught fire with him and they were burning together, a firestorm out of control. It went on and on, with Savage smacking those whip marks, or raking them, but that only seemed to drive her higher. Then they were both shattering, exploding, coming apart together in a way she didn’t think they’d ever be able to come back from.
She floated for a long time, barely aware of Savage taking care of her, washing her carefully, applying the numbing lotion, whispering to her, soothing her, turning her gently to do the same to her front. She drifted off, only to have Savage wake her so many times she lost count. Most of the time, she couldn’t move, but her body exploded every single time. He always did the same thing afterward. Holding her close, rubbing the lotion gently on her. Whispering to her, rocking her tenderly, sometimes showering or bathing her. Telling her to sleep. Then waking her again to repeat the savage fucking.
During the day he wanted her to wear a see-through shirt and nothing else. He cooked for her, waited on her, took care of her, but out of the blue, he would set her on a counter, shove her over a couch or a chair, take her on the floor, up against a wall. Outside on the porch. It didn’t matter. He was insatiable. The moment he looked at her with those patterns on her skin, he was as hard as a rock and all over her. It hurt and yet, she had to admit, he always made certain her orgasms—and they were always multiple—were explosive and amazing.
He was rough and demanding. Attentive and even loving outside of the sex. The sex was just that: sex. It wasn’t loving, and it didn’t feel loving to her. But she did begin to feel in control. She did begin to understand his cycle. She could look in the mirror and admire his ability to put the patterns on her skin and never once break her skin. There wasn’t one single spot where he’d struck so hard that she’d bled. It might have felt that way, but she hadn’t.
As the days passed, he began to ease up, and she caught more and more glimpses of Savage. Her Savage. She began to make an effort to converse with him. Just a little. Tease him. Make him laugh. She asked to see his whips. She really was interested in the way he’d braided the leather. She wanted to see the floggers and understand why some he considered “toys” and some were too intense and even dangerous in the wrong hands. She asked lots of questions and tried to get as much information as possible.
By the second week, Savage had come back to her. He still loved to see the fading welts on her body, but when he rubbed his hands over them, he wasn’t trying to hurt her. She could tell the difference. She didn’t want him to feel shame, not when she had insisted they were partners and she felt like his partner. She reiterated that he had stopped the moment she had given him the word.
They laughed hysterically together when she tried her hand at just cracking one of the whips, but it was fun practicing, with Savage showing her how. She knew it gave him a sense of companionship. She wanted him to know she was with him 100 percent. All in. Committed. She did her best to show him.
“Babe. Want to talk to you about something important before you head out.” Savage watched his woman as she stepped out onto the front porch. He was always fascinated by the way she moved. She was wholly feminine, her hips swaying in the dark lavender yoga pants she wore to minimize the discomfort of those remaining stripes on her rounded bottom.