Chapter 8

There was a moment of disorientation, and then triumph, and then Clark remembered what was coming next. “Aw, shit,” he panted.

Low laughter sounded, and Daniel was there, hands all over Clark. “Yes, my love. Yes.” Palms ran over every sensitized inch of tender skin, and Clark squirmed, wondering for the millionth time at his Sir’s definition of “comforting.”

A soft huff of satisfaction blew over Clark’s shoulders. “Love how you’re taking this. You’re going to bruise spectacularly, but no skin’s broken, and not a single touch against kidneys or spine. I think we can go on, and I’d like you to count the next ten strikes, Clark. You up to that?”

“Count?” Clark repeated, trying to figure out what in the hell Daniel meant. Daniel merely hummed in the affirmative and toyed with Clark’s nipples until Clark wanted to bite him. Eventually Clark recalled the numeric system and what it did. “Yeah.” He nodded, registering the movement in the mirror with blurry eyes. “Yes. Sir. Can do.”