My stomach churns, the glass slips against my sweaty palm. I bite my lip, and look anywhere butat him.
Or try to. Yet my eyes are drawn to him.
He removes his blazer, laying it over the arm of his chair, and rolls up a sleeve of his button-down. Getting ready for battle. He’s unhurried, expression relaxed—unlike me. His shirt clings tight to his broad shoulders, the thin material doing nothing to disguise his pecs or hide the flatness of his stomach. He’s fuckingdelicious, and my body responds to that, too.
“Are you ready?”
His words jerk me out of my reverie. Did he notice me staring at him? Do I have drool to wipe away?
My eyes return to the bed. It’s a large, old-fashioned thing with a wrought-iron headboard, elegantly curving in a gothic style. It wouldn’t be my choice; it doesn’t really suit the room.
Yes, because when he fucks your ass, décor is important.
I swallow, go for a sip of water, and realize the glass is empty.
So I suppose that means I’m ready.
I’m so goddamn far from ready.
My heart’s pounding in my chest as I stand up. Naked. He’s still clothed, and that dichotomy reinforces my vulnerability. Obviously deliberate on his part, but no less effective for my realizing it.
My skin’s awake and sensitive, tingling all over. Not merely across my vulva, but everywhere. Partly my arousal, partly his eyes on me, and the stimulation of the past two torturous hours. I’ve been aroused for at least one of them.
I’m a mess. Emotionally, physically… I suppose I should be trying to resist, but my defiance is nowhere tobe seen.
Fuck that.He doesn’t get to defeat me.
“I’m not in the mood,” I say. It’s a great line… save that it comes out with a tremble in my voice.
“No problem,” he says, rolling up his other sleeve. “I’ll give you thirty seconds to get in the mood, then if you’re not, I’ll spank you until you are.”
And the effect of those simple words, casually uttered?
Breath, catching. Nipples, aching. Stomach, churning. Pussy, clenching.
Defiance, gone.
He spends most of the thirty seconds he’s afforded me crossing to the bed and whisking the duvet off, while I stand and watch, unable to move. It catches the air, billowing as it crumples to the floor. Then he picks up one of our suitcases, carrying it to the dining table and opening it. It’s full of his clothes, and I’ve no idea what he wants from within. But Alex does nothing without a reason, so I’m about to find out.
His words from earlier return to me.Tic-toc. Thirty seconds, and how many have already passed?
I walk to the bed, trying to make it look like I’m not hurrying. The sheets aren’t black or silk. They’re a white cotton, though in a place like this, the thread count will be high. I crawl onto the mattress and lie down on my back. Awaiting my fate.
“Good girl,” he says as he walks over. “I’m glad to see you’re now in the mood.”
Resentment flares. He’s controlled me, forced me,humiliatedme. And now he’s goading me.
“Bastard.” The word slips out before I can catch it, biting down, biting my tongue, wincing at my slip. But the only sign he even hears is a slight curl at the corner of his mouth.
“Hands above your head, please.”
That’s when I notice what he’s holding. It’s not a piece of clothing, it’s a bundle of rope. A few feet of it, the weave tight and thin. Where the hell did he get that from?
A shiver runs through me.
“Why?” I ask in reflex, a more coherent question eluding me. I’m exposed enough already, and now he’s going to restrain me too?
He pauses, standing beside the bed, looking down at me stretched out before him, and deliberately flexes the rope in his hands. “Are you objecting to a little light bondage?”
