“Then hurt me,” I whisper. “Do your fucking worst.”
48
BELLA
The elevator opens onto darkness.The pressure around my throat is familiar and intimate. My blood sings in my veins from his touch, even as ice touches my heart.
"Show me." He releases my throat, voice low and dangerous. "Show me exactly how you did it."
I turn toward the hallway leading to his office, but he holds a hand out to stop me before I can even take a step.
"On your hands and knees," he whispers.
I look back at him, feeling a shiver of anticipation running down my spine at his words. His expression is still. His eyes are on my face and they look like the sky before a storm breaks it open.
"Crawl," he says. "Like the dirty little sneak that you are."
My knees are already bending before my brain finishes processing the instruction. Keeping my eyes on him, I lower myself to my knees, and then slowly fall forward until I'm on all fours.
The hardwood is cool and smooth under my palms.
Slava's fist closes in my hair.
He winds the way I like it—once, again, and again until every strand is under his control—and then walks beside me, using it like a leash.
I get wetter with every foot of ground I cover.
And as I crawl, the glue thumbprint burns against my palm.
It doesn’t take long for us to reach his office. When we do, Slava guides me around his desk until my face is staring at the safe that I had been so eager to open just a few days ago. I open my hand, slip the thumbprint on, and press it to the sensor.
A second later, the safe opens.
His hand tightens in my hair, tugging at every strand harder than before. Tingles rush down my back and turn to heated desire between my legs. Shame rushes my face, and I close my eyes.
He looks at the open safe for a moment but says nothing. Then, he releases my hair, letting the long black strands fall like a curtain around my face. His hand finds the back of my neck, fingers tracing the gold chain.
"I should've known." He breathes. "This whole fucking time."
I'm certain, for one suspended second, that he's going to rip it off me. That this is the thing that will break his control. But he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers start moving down, lower and lower, until they slip under my dress.
I hear the seam rip before I feel it. Fabric surrenders to force. His hands keep moving, working down my spine with an angry,methodical patience. My lips tremble, and when his fingers brush my skin, a new fire starts to burn. He works in silence, ripping my dress seam by seam, until it lies in tattered strips on the floor.
Then he does the same to my bra and panties until I'm naked except for the necklace and my heels.
“Up.” His voice is hard.
I obey, and as I rise, I try to turn.
He grabs the back of my neck and snarls. “I didn’t tell you to fucking look at me.”
His hands are trembling, I realize. I try to see him without looking back, but I can’t. Charged silence settles between us, and behind me, I hear the sound of a belt clinking open, and the unmistakable buzz of a zipper being pulled open.
My heart skids in my chest when I feel a new throbbing heat behind me, and smell his masculine scent.
"What are you waiting for?" My voice is soft but steady. "Do it. Ruin me. Destroy me. Hurt me."
I mean it.
