His hand travels up my thigh, thumb brushing along the hem of the underwear. “When I get rid of this pathetic piece of clothing, how wet am I going to find you, sweetheart?” he whispers in my ear, thumbs hooking on the side of the material and pushing it down my legs. I lift my hips and he discards the piece completely. “Drenched,” he mutters, finger sliding over my pussy. “I fucking knew it.” Unhooking the bra, he slides it off my arms and pulls back to stare at me. “How would you feel about playing another game?”

“I didn’t do so well last time.”

“If you win, you get to come.”

I frown, searching for the catch. “That sounds too easy. What happens if I lose?”

“You get spanked, then you come.”

I gape at him. How can he already be so in tune with my fantasies? How does he know I’ve been dreaming about being over his knee, ass red as he strokes my hair and comforts me?

“I-I want to play,” I say shakily. My voice might quiver, but I mean every word.

“Good. Get back on the pillows. Arms above your head again. If you drop them, you lose. Okay?”

I nod vigorously, repositioning myself so my head rests on the soft cushions. This is a game I can win. My hands clasp the headboard tightly. Henry reaches for the bowl he brought in with him.

“Ice cream?” he asks, bringing the spoon to my mouth.

“It’s cold.” I swallow the bite down and shiver.

He scoops out another bite. Instead of bringing it to my lips again, he hovers it over my chest. A drop of sticky goodness dangles on the metal, close to falling off.

“What are you doing?”

“Enjoying dessert.” The liquid tips off the spoon and drips onto my body. It’s like splatter paint on a canvas, the chocolate dark against my skin. I hiss at the impact. The melted liquid rolls down my breasts toward my stomach. Before it can get too far, Henry licks the mess up with his tongue, starting near my ribs. I moan as my back rises off the mattress. “Oops. I spilled.”

Now I understand his game and why I might not stand a chance of victory.

“This isn’t fair,” I whine, withering on the sheet.

“Do not drop your hands,” he says sternly, another spoonful dripping on my hip and running down my shaking thigh. Another lick up my leg, he purposely avoids the spot he knows would detonate me.

His next scoop ends up on my lower stomach and spills over my waist. He cleans up every drop, and I let out another sound. He’s trying to get me to lose. To fail. To give up and admit defeat. Part of me wants to; the thought of being over his knee and at his mercy, sticky ice cream residue fusing us together, is intoxicating.