““It hurt. His hands were hard and hot, and the force of them drove my cheek against the damp sheets underneath. I heard my breath turn throaty, my whines turn to hoarse grunts. There was an apparent cadence about what he did, but the throb and singe spreading across my backside distracted me from following it. I told myself I could catch the rhythm of his hands, and if I did, I could drag myself back to the surety I was synced with him. My thighs shook, my fists curled around the sheets. How many times? Which side now? But it hurt and I lost track of the count and the burn was so much, so good, even better than good when I reminded myself it was Walt’s hand—Sir’s hand—and this was what I gave him. What I took from him. For him. I””
