Cruz (Dark and Dirty Sinners' MC #5) - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,29
with my head so that I felt like I was the one in fucking subspace and not just her.
“You been a good girl today?” I asked softly, letting my fingers slip around and down her cheek to her chin, which I tipped up to maintain eye contact.
“Never,” she said with a smirk, and her gaze lit with a hot flash of fire that reminded me of the whip of lightning through a clear sky.
I tapped her bottom lip once, then before she even had the chance to shriek out in surprise, I shoved her face down to the floor, pinned her there by the nape, and with her butt arching up and out, spanked her there.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
A set on each cheek.
Then I backed off.
At least four feet away and I studied her prone form.
She was the most interesting sub I’d ever come across. At first, she didn’t like to be touched. She had to warm up to that. Then, when she was ‘warm,’ it was like a heat wave took over her.
It was that heat wave which kept me coming back for more. Though I was working on getting her used to touch, not just for sex but for aftercare, every time she didn’t outright evade me was a victory I claimed as my own.
I didn’t like complications. Didn’t like difficult women. One of the reasons I’d fallen into the Dom culture back in college was because my studies had overtaken my life and I needed release with, what I’d stupidly believed, were easy lays that let me take full control, let me unleash myself whenever I was in the zone. Only as I grew older and wiser, did I realize I was a prick.
Subs were submissive. Biddable. Slaves. I could treat them however I wanted. Get off and go. Be selfish because they didn't need anything from me, just wanted me to top them…
All of it bullshit.
The belief that subs were easy was a fallacy, because they were anything but.
I’d been a fucker back then, but I wasn’t anymore. One of the main reasons I hadn’t had a sub in years was because I’d realized I didn't deserve one. I’d had no right to label myself a Dom back in the day, so I’d walked away. Now, with Indy, she was changing my life in ways she didn’t even know.
These kinds of relationships were incredibly complicated. So bogged down with minutiae that there was nothing easy about them at all. So it’d been a relief to stop when I’d gone vanilla. Most of the clubwhores liked to be spanked—hell, they got off on anything that meant they had center stage for a little while so I got to be rough with them, and it ticked all my boxes.
It was only when I’d come to learn what Indy needed, that I realized she was perfect for me in ways I hadn’t even known mattered, and where the desire to dominate her morphed into being. I hadn’t regretted a thing this far.
But today, with this shit with my mom going down, I did a little. Not because I didn’t get a thrill out of seeing Indy like this, but because I’d been around long enough to know when a storm was coming. Indy had already been through too much, and I didn’t want her to be tainted by me because tainted she’d be. Just by proxy.
Thoughts like those weren’t why I was here, though.
I hadn’t seen her in a few nights so I knew she’d have slept like shit.
That was, I realized, when you knew you cared about someone. When their fucking sleep mattered more than you getting your rocks off.
Dropping into a squat a few feet from her, I repeated, “Were you a good girl, Indy?” because I wanted a genuine answer, one that wasn’t dosed with more sarcasm than cinnamon sugar on a churro.
She was quiet for a second, like she always was once I’d taken things down a notch or two. With her sarcasm fading into a distant memory, it was a reminder of why I’d taken to greeting her this way, mostly because the Indy that the rest of the world saw wasn’t the real Indy. It was an act.
A show.
I didn’t want that bullshit between us.
If I was going to do this, if I was going to be this and if I was going to taint her, then it had to be real. No lies. Only the truth would do.