And I tremble.
Is that fear?
I don’t know if I want it to be fear, because I don’t want it to be anything else, or if Idon’twant it to be fear, and something else is preferable.
He doesn’t give me time to figure it out, but drags me to the bed. My feet catch in the dress, but he’s still holding me to him. I stumble, he braces me. Half lifting me. Then the dress is left behind, and the edge of the bed hits my knees. He whisks the duvet offthen releases my throat and pushes me forward. I fall, catching myself on my hands, his sheets silk beneath my palms. Black silk.
Why does he always have black silk sheets? And who the hell else has been in this bed?
“Are you going to behave?” he asks, taking his grip on my neck again, this time at the back. He pushes me down.
“No, I’m not going to fucking—”
“Good,” he says. “Because you absolutely deserve to be punished.”
“What? I don’t deserve jack, you bastard.” Where does he get off, talking about punishingmewhenhe’sthe one who was kissing another woman tonight?
He pins me with a knee in the small of my back, and he’s heavy. It presses me into the bed, my muscles clenching, and ithurts.
“Getoffme!”
“Stop struggling,” he says like he’s bored, while one hand catches my ankle. He has my shoe off in an instant, and it lands on the floor with a dull thud. I kick my other leg, but it does no good. He grabs that one too, and that shoe joins the first. The pressure of his knee lessens. “Up the bed.”
His removal of my shoes has given me time for my brain to catch up. I need to stop this before it goes any further, but he’s out of control. One of us has to be the adult. “Look,” I begin, fighting to keep my voice calm, to keep my growing fear at bay, “just let me free, and we can talk—”
His hand slaps into my left ass cheek, and mythong gives no protection at all. It stings like hell, drawing a cry I can’t bite back in time. “Up.”
It’s humiliating. I blink back tears of frustration, and inch forward. He lets me move when it’s the direction he wants. I’m soon fully on the bed, in just my thong, his hand still on the back of my neck.
And he pins me when I’m where he wants me to be. “Good girl, Vicky.”
My stomach flips.
Is that nausea, or something else?
He’s never said those wordsto me before.
Eight months—no, nine. Some nights of gentle, quietly passionate sex. The occasional romp in the kitchen, once up against a wall. Many, many weeks between where he’s barely touched me. Never pinned me, never spanked me, and never, ever, has he called me a ‘good girl.’
His hand caresses my bottom. “Do you know, I’ve always loved your ass.” His tone’s almost wistful. “Those running shorts you wear. Hell, even those thin pajamas don’t hide how firm and taut it is.”
“Alex—”
“Vicky, if you speak again when I don’t want you to, you’ll regret it.”
I bite my tongue. Lie there while he has one hand on my neck, holding me to his bed, and the other strokes the curve of my ass, almost gently. My thoughts are racing, but not more than my heart. What comes next in this twisted game?
I don’t have to wait long to find out.
His finger hooks beneath my thong, and he tugs.It’s lace, the material not designed for his strength. It pulls against me then gives with a snap, and I swallow hard as he draws it away.
I’m naked. Vulnerable. Held.
“Alex, please, I—”
“You don’t listen, do you?” He sounds almost reasonable, likeI’mthe one being difficult.
His weight shifts, the grip on my neck tightening, then his other hand comes around. Into my face. Something soft bundled in his palm. He finds my mouth, pulls my jaw open, shoves it in. It’s lacy against my tongue. A musky taste.
