He didn’t want to lose this. He knew that the way he knew his own magic, the shape of his needs and scars. He wanted this.
So he turned to his belt again. Striping that pert backside. Lines and marks. Lower, over those thighs. Over each bare burning cheek. Ink counted dutifully, voice growing more and more drowsy, slipping into some dim faraway space of sugar and stars, honeyed waves and iridescence. After eight—Aidan had made that one a bit harder—he moaned and shuddered all over, head to tail, and sagged against the fence.
Aidan yanked on the leash. “You can’t stay upright? On the ground, then. Hands and knees. Like a good pony. My good boy.”
Ink gasped out loud as the command hit, that incandescent line of fire under the banshee’s voice, and fell to the dirt, on hands and knees in th
