That order, coupled with the stern, yet gentle expression aimed at her, Malora felt warmth trickle out of her to stain her panties. She never expected to be turned on by someone ordering her around, yet here she was.

Malora found herself eyeing the expanse of carpet between them, filled with the oddest compulsion to crawl.

She imagined the rub of the fibers beneath her palms. The ache in her knees. The way he would watch her, the hunger flaring in his eyes. And when she got to him she would push his legs apart and—

Oh, fuck imagining.

Malora slid off her chair and dropped to the floor. Making sure to arch her back, raise her pert behind, bowing her body in supplication. Invitation. Her face went slack and peaceful, her lips slightly parted.

Titan's reaction was way better than any fantasy. The gasp he uttered sounded almost shocked. And, God, the look on his face. Desire and this terrifying gratitude. As if she'd given him something wonderful.

Maybe it should have been humiliating. Crawling to someone's feet. But, honestly, Malora felt sexy as hell. Very aware of herself: the roll of her shoulders, the curve of her spine, the shapes she could make, sensuous and brazen and all for him. Her nipples tightened behind her peach-coloured lace bra.

Titan was shaking when she got there. His head thrown back, lips damp and parted to admit his harsh, unsteady breaths. Malora rubbed her cheek against the inside of his knee, then up a little higher. The denim was rough but he was hot, hot, hot underneath. And he smelled amazing. Not a trace of cologne left. Just his skin and the promise of sex.

Before she could get much further, his hands closed around her upper arms and he yanked her into his lap. His mouth was frantic against hers. His passion unrestrained to the point of need. Making Malora squirm and whimper and surrender. Leaving her bruised and breathless and dizzy on pleasure.

He shoved a hand into her hair, pulling hard enough to melt Malora. 'Tell me again. What are you, Little hellcat?'

Malora almost said, 'yours', but it didn't feel right. She felt completely different. Drunk on lust. Maybe it was the plane, or maybe it was this new side of Titan. So, instead of the standard response, she said, 'I'm a. . . I'm a slut.'

'No, you're not.' He pulled harder. Pain this time, but so good, so sweet.

She moaned helplessly, confused and blissed out and sensation lost. Who knew having your hair pulled would be so erotic? 'I'm not?'

'You're my slut.'

Malora garbled something along the lines of yesyesyesyesplease.

'And what happens to my slut?'

Malora opened lust-heavy eyes. Stared deep into his. Found words. Important words. Put them in a sensible order. 'Anything you want.'

Her words had the desired effects because his eyes turned so dark, they almost seemed black.

He pushed her gently to her feet. Malora's legs had apparently gone all shaky.

'Strip,' he told her, his words cracking like a whip in the air.

She couldn't help glancing toward the front of the plane. When she'd offered anything he wanted, Malora hadn't quite realized he'd take it right now.

'We won't be disturbed.'

He sounded certain but she couldn't shake the mental image of a horrified air hostess—did you get those on private jets?—finding Malora all naked in the middle of her day job.

Malora liked the idea of performing for Titan, exposing herself to him, but exhibitionism was not my thing. In fact, even the idea of casting some stranger in the role of nonconsenting voyeur was wang-wiltingly embarrassing.

'Malora?'

Oops. She must have been lost in her own head. 'Um. Yes?'

His eyes met hers, pale in the silvery light that filled the cabin, and softly gleaming. 'Will you trust me?'

It was the last thing she'd expected, somehow. He seemed to have an obsession asking her that question. Always asking if she trusted him before they started anything in the bedroom. Did someone betray his trust in the past or was it the other way around?

But she had no defense whatsoever against. . .against being asked. It was neither plea nor demand but God, it was intoxicating. And it slipped between the edges of her heart, twisting it open like an oyster.

'Yes,' Malora whispered. The moment she said it, she knew she meant it.

And suddenly Malora found herself thinking about the story of Sir Gawain and Lady Ragnelle. Not that she was hideously cursed. Or that they were being forced into matrimony because the King of England had made a deeply spurious promise to some random woman he met in the woods.
But still. Titan had given her my sovereynté.

And now she was ready to surrender it to him.

Malora's hands were unsexily damp as she unbuttoned and peeled of her blouse and it was only when she was wriggling her pants down that she remembered shoes were a thing she was wearing. So she had to stop, with everything bunched around her thighs, and hop about for a bit. By the time she was finally done she was all warm and flustered and pretty much the opposite of attractive. And so. . .so naked.

It shouldn't have been a big deal. Titan had seen her before—he'd fucked me for fuck's sake, a bunch of times, tied her up in positions that exposed her—but it had never felt like this. As if her skin was too thin and her heart too hot.

All Malora could think was: what if he's laughing at her.

But no. When she managed to meet his gaze, there was no mockery in it. No exasperation at her failure to spontaneously launch into an alluring striptease. Just this fierce, glittery excitement, that was, in itself, exciting. Definitely worth getting starkers for at thirty-five thousand feet.

Her libido, which had been retreating like it didn't want to know her, was definitely back in the game.

Titan held out a hand—the gesture slightly formal, the way you might invite someone to dance—and she took it instinctively, not really sure what to expect. Which was probably for the best because what happened next was. . .well, it wasn't the sort of thing that happened in Jane Austen.
(Though maybe Fanny would do it to a penitent Henry Crawford.)

Basically, Titan tugged her closer and. . . arranged her, she guessed, over his lap. He wasn't rough and she was a little dazed, so Malora wasn't entirely sure how she went from standing to. . .not doing that.

Whenever she'd seen this type of thing in pictures, it looked a lot less comfortable, the subject hanging there, precariously balanced on tiptoes and fingertips.

But Titan got her up on the sofa and positioned over his thighs, letting her brace herself on her knees and forearms. It felt. . .natural, actually. Except for the part where her arse was cheerfully right in the air and her boob's squished into his Jean clad thigh. It was just on the bearable edge of embarrassing. The ideal mixture of exposure and arousal to make her squirmy. The worst thing was not being able to see his face anymore. Malora needed the reassurance that he was definitely finding this hot and not ridiculous.

At that moment, his palm glided over her upraised buttocks and Malora was suddenly too busy shuddering and moaning to worry anymore. Maybe it was the vulnerability of the position, but even that light touch was crazy intense—heat and pleasure spilling across her skin, along with a rush of rising goose bumps. His fingers followed, tenderly skimming the groove of her spine until he reached the taut plane between her shoulder blades and stroked her there. He found nerves Malora never knew she had and lit them up like stars, sharp and bright and sweet.

She couldn't help wriggling. It was good, it was so good, being touched that way by Titan, but also a little bit torment at the same time. She hadn't realized something gentle could ache like something harsh, and it unhinged her a bit.

But then his other hand came down on the back of her neck, cupping her nape, all warmth and pressure and the promise of control, and the tension leaked right out of her, leaving her fizzy and liquid in his lap. He squeezed and Malora just gurgled in this pathetically eager way.

'Have I told you,' he murmured, 'how bewitching you are?'

Malora guessed she would have balked if he'd tried beautiful. She wasn't unappealing but compared to the type of women he'd dated in the past she was entirely fucking ordinary. But bewitching, it turned out, Malora could get behind, since it was as much about her effect on him as it was about her. She liked the idea a lot: this power had been given her, to please him.

He caressing fingers returned to her arse, slipping into the soft valley between her cheeks and reminding her abruptly exactly how my current position presented her: no longer with peach-like discretion, but spread wide and wanton for his looking and his touching.

Malora was glad her face was tucked away because she was bright red. It wasn't as if she hadn't had people get up close and personal with her bum before but Malora was starting to discover that context really made a difference. The very personal activities you indulged in in the dark were one thing. Being laid out not-very-virgin-sacrifice style in broad daylight was pretty explicitly another. And then there was the fact Titan was still clothed and she was about as bare as it was possible to be.

But, the truth was, she loved it.

Especially because, amid the roughness of denim beneath her thighs, Malora could feel how gloriously hard he was. She did that. By merely submitting to him, she'd turned cold Titan to Master T, but that wasn't just the beauty of it. It's beauty wasn't just something he did, or something she gave, it was something they shared.

Which didn't mean Malora wasn't also nervous about it. And getting more so as he. . .uh. . .got acquainted with the territory, his hand mapping the curve from the tops of her thighs to the (occasionally rather admired) dimples at the base of her spine.

'Um,' Malora squeaked. 'You have done this before, right?'

'Yes.' He stopped stroking her. His palm just resting there, possessive and protective and vaguely threatening, all at the same time.

There was something weighing heavily on her mind since the day she signed the contract in the lawyer's office. She hadn't had the courage to ask because of the way Titan acted after each sexual encounter.

Now, Malora found the courage to burrow into the sofa and then tell him: 'I want you to spank me.'

He made a soft, lust-rough noise, but his voice was amazingly steady: 'Show me how much you want it. Ask me.'

'Oh God.' Malora twitched and dripped and nearly combusted with arousal. 'Will you spank me, Master T? I really'—help, breath, words—'I really want you to.'

His other hand tightened on her neck and Malora swore to God she could feel his pulse pounding in his wrist. 'It would be my pleasure.'

And then he. . .he did it. His palm cracked against her arse—the noise more startling than the pain and the impact more noticeable than either. Malora jotted forward a bit, though he kept her anchored, and swallowed a gasp.

She'd known what was about to happen but it was still shocking for some reason. He gave her a moment to process but Malora's brain was kind of stuck the fact that he hit her when he did it again—same spot, almost exactly, sending a flare of heat across her skin. The third time made her yelp and it was such a ridiculously undignified sound that Malora was giggling by the fourth.

Then giggle-yelping as it went on. Not because it didn't hurt—since it soon did, building from a swiftly fading sting to a deep, hot ache—but because it hurt in this totally giddy-making way. Some combination of the helplessness and the attention and the intimacy of his naked hand.

And, oh God, the freedom of it.

Of just being able to lie there and writhe and make silly noises and feel all the things: pain and arousal and fear and pleasure and this wild, wild joy.

Titan was trembling, his strikes falling with a little less precision than they had originally and his breath sounding harsh in the spaces between. Which was a touch worrying.

'A-ah,' Malora managed to gasp out, 'am I doing it right?'

He made this sound, probably a laugh, though it was ragged. Shot through with things she didn't have the wherewithal right then to interpret. 'I don't care. Don't stop.'

He was stroking her again: long gentle sweeps of his palms over her too-warm, too-sensitive flesh until it seemed like every last drop of blood in her body had gone south for the winter and redistributed itself evenly between her arse and her pussy. The hurt was still there but through some strange alchemy of sex and trust, right then it was indistinguishable from passion.

Malora wailed and bucked against him in a semi-delirious and fully shameless attempt to make him touch her. He laughed again at that, a less broken sound this time. Not mocking, but softly teasing, even a little wonder struck. His fingers brushed against her hole and she cried out frantically, all her giggling vanquished.

'God. Please. Please.'

He dipped inside and Malora reared up and swallowed him with her hole like Moby Dick. For a brief second it was the most beautiful, the most perfect feeling in the world: her juices staining the finger pressing into her, a very slight stretch and this cool-water pleasure in the middle of the fire he had forced into her skin. And then it was just not enough, not nearly enough, relief becoming frustration becoming fresh and fiercer need.

Malora couldn't tell if he was giving her cruelty or mercy but she wasn't entirely sure she cared. Trying not to think about how profoundly debauched she was going to look, Malora spread her legs as wide as she could get them, and. . .well. . .yeah, fucked herself on his fingers. It wasn't much—mainly a sort of desperate rocking—but as self-torture went it was irresistible, teeny-tiny starbursts exploding behind her eyes with every very nearly nudge in the vicinity of her G-spot.

Who even knew she had one of those?

Malora probably couldn't have got off that way, but she was damn committed to trying. And he let her for a little while, his other hand still curled against her neck, petting her, making her feel tormented and indulged and cared for all at once. She tightened as he withdrew, greedily trying to keep him but, of course, she couldn't. He was totally in charge. And so she was reduced to whimpering and twitching her pussy pitifully at him instead.

'Ready for more?' he asked, tracing tantalizing circles where he had left her wanting.

Malora could barely breathe, her whole body strung tight and poised on his fingertip. 'More?'

'That was just the warm-up.'

Warm-up?

'H-holy shit.'

Chapter dedication: maramartha

Check out her works: The White Hat Playboy and One Friday night. You'd love it❤

A/N:

Oh, her poor, poor ass😝.

Hmm, as you noticed, there's a lot of smutty smut in this story, which was exactly how it was planned out, so sorry if you don't like, because I like😋😋😋.

Also, I hope y'all are doing good, eh?

Remain safe. I will try to finish this book before the end of February 💃 💃 💃 , so you do your part by giving me more sugar in terms of vote 🌟, comment 💬, and sharing!

Graçias 😊😊😊