His other hand moves, fingers skimming my bare shoulder before trailing lower, tracing the delicate strap of my dress. He toys with it absently, almost like he’s thinking, deciding just how much resistance he’ll allow.
Then, he lets it go.
“You want to play pretend?” he says, voice dropping lower, richer. “Fine. Tell me you won’t sign.”
I set my jaw. “I won’t.”
His grip tightens, cutting me off with a slow, deliberate squeeze. Painful this time. Enough to remind me of the game we’re playing and who always wins.
I swallow hard. My breath falters.
His smirk returns. “That’s what I thought.”
His fingers loosen, but he doesn’t let go, tilting my face up to him as his thumb drags over the corner of my mouth, tracing the smudged lipstick.
“Sign,” he says simply.
And then, as if the matter is already settled, he releases me entirely and lowers himself into his chair, reaching for his glass.
He doesn’t look at me as he takes a slow sip of vodka.
Because he knows I will.
I stay kneeling, my pulse hammering in my throat, my breath uneven. He drinks his vodka slowly, the ice clinking softly in the crystal tumbler. Like I am nothing but another thing waiting to be dealt with.
But I push. I shift on my knees, exhaling as if I’m unbothered, as if he hasn’t already wound me so tightly I could snap. "You really think threats are necessary?" I murmur, tilting my chin up defiantly. "Seems desperate."
The glass halts just before his lips.
The air stills.
Then, he moves.
I barely have time to react before his hand knots in my hair, tearing me up from my knees with a force that sends a sharp bolt of pain across my scalp. My neck strains; the sudden pull is so brutal that it steals my balance, and the whole room tilts.
A cry stumbles out, but he swallows it with his mouth on mine, crushing my lips with a searing and ruthless kiss. The edge of the table digs into my thighs, sharp and unforgiving, and then, without warning, I’m lifted—my back slams down onto the spread of contracts, the sting of impact pulsing through me. Papers crumple beneath me, but they’re meaningless compared to the hard, immovable weight of him pressing down.
His grip is punishing, fingers digging into my hips as he forces me still as if I’d even think about pulling away. As if I could.
He’s so rough with me it hurts, and yet something dark inside of me craves his harsh hands. I'm curious how far he’ll surely take things.
I try to breathe, but he doesn’t let me.
His mouth is on me again, claiming, bruising, leaving no space for protest. He kisses me like he’s daring me to fight back, to try and resist when we both know how this will end.
My nails dig into his arms, but he just presses harder, until I’m forced to look at him, take in his face that holds an expression somewhere between amusement and possession.
He finally pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot against my mouth.
"You think I’m desperate, Martine?" His voice is low, lethal, tinged with an intoxicating hint of breathlessness I also feel. "That I need to threaten you?"
His hand grips my hair again, harder this time, wrenching my head back until it hurts far worse than before. His face is so close to mine, I can see every flicker of the decision he’s already made for me in his eyes.
My skull stings where his hand is wrapped up in my hair, leaving me no room to wiggle in his grasp.
“You’re going to sign,” he says, slow and cold, his voice low enough to make my stomach twist. His fingers tighten a bit more somehow, making me gasp. “Or I’ll lock you in the fucking basement until you do. It’s one of my favorite fantasies of you.”
A shiver runs down my spine. My thighs press together before I can stop them, heat pooling low, sharp, and sudden. Would I like being locked away, at his constant disposal? The more I exist in Hayden's world, the less and less I have. I don’t lack in riches, or clothes, or food at my disposal, or rare vintages to drink, or jewels to cover myself in, but the greater, more meaningful choices are slim. It’s an uncomfortable thought, considering I’m not entirely far off from that now.
