My traitorous body melted at his words, and I reached for the tiny hidden side zipper on the skirt. My fingers were damp, and my hands were trembling as I tried to grip it.
Artem let out a low growl of annoyance and grabbed the waist of my skirt, ripping the cheap faux leather from my body.
That was when I realized this wasn't just about discipline.
This was about control and power.
He had it, and I didn't.
He was going to punish me because he could, and he wanted me to know there was nothing I could do about it.
He was right, but I'd be damned if I was going to give him that satisfaction.
Fucking me was one thing, but trying to break me was something entirely different.
I held my chin high and clenched my lips together as I stood in a luxury hotel room in nothing but a transparent white shirt and a pair of thigh-high boots, my hair dripping freezing water on the thick dark carpet, and stared him down.
Artem was the sexiest, most powerful man I had ever met, even though he could break me. Or maybe because of it.
I told myself it didn't matter. He was wrong. I wouldn't break, not for him, not for anyone.
The way he looked at me, I knew he recognized the challenge in my eyes, and the cocky son of a bitch curled a corner of his mouth in a self-satisfied smile that made my stomach flip.
He met my challenge head-on. Grabbing me by the hair, he tangled his fist in the wet locks and pulled me over to a low bench at the foot of the bed. Then he dragged me over his lap, my head down and my ass in the air.
I fought him until he laid the belt on the bench in front of my face and held my head in place. The belt was close enough I could smell the rich leather and the spicy cologne he wore.
"Tell me why you are being punished," he said, his free hand running over the panty line on my ass cheek.
"Because you are a sick son of a bitch." My ill-advised taunt would have been more convincing if my hands weren't shaking.
He grabbed the back of my panties, scrunching the fabric in his hand and pulling up, forcing the material between my ass cheeks.
"Don't you dare," I said with more courage and defiance than I felt.
"Since you asked so nicely," he taunted before ripping my panties from my body and tossing the soaking wet, ruined cotton on top of the ruined skirt. His hand went back to my ass, petting me. His warm hand soothed my chilled skin, but I still knew what was coming, and it terrified me.
"Are you going to scream for me, little girl?" His voice was low and thick, pure honey laced with poison.
"Never."
"We'll see about that." He pulled my hair, lifting my head so I could watch him pick up the leather which he then dragged over my skin.
I held my breath, not daring to let it out. It was so quiet I could hear the water dripping from my hair onto the plush carpet.
Then that leatherwhooshedthrough the air and an instant later landed, the agony of it slapping across my thighs.
Tears threatened yet again. I clenched my jaw, refusing to make a sound. I was still so cold from the shower I wasn't sure if that muted the sting or worsened the resulting burn.
"Count for me, little girl."
"Fuck you," I gritted out.
"I was planning on only giving you ten lashes. But if I lose count, I'll have to start over. We could be here all night." The bastard was enjoying this too fucking much.
"One." I kept my voice steady, angry.
The belt swung through the air again, this time leaving a matching stripe of fire across my body the other way.
