“Five.” More for falling for a dying man. More because maybethis will hurt more than losing him. Maybe she can get all the pain out now.
Another.
“Six.” More because it feels good. More because it feels fucking great.
Another.
“Seven.” That one is so unbelievably hard it makes her shriek. It feels like his hand is made of fire. Her body feels burned.
He unleashes the final slaps in rapid succession.
Another.Wince.
Spank.Moan.
Slap.Growl.
“Eight, nine, ten,” Claudia cries out, her breathing hot and heavy. She trembles with his handprint tattooed in red on her backside. It hurts so much that she imagines the wound will never disappear. The pain is truly punishing, which makes it all the more pleasurable.
She deserves to hurt. It makes all the other bad feelings seem so small, so bearable. This is what true pain is, and she’s strong enough to not only know it, but enjoy it. Here, now, it’s like she’s watching it from above, leaning into her own ear and whispering,Look at how far you have come because of what you can endure. See how your love for pain has brought you to power.
Pain makes her feel like a soldier who is about to become king.
Cassius releases a harsh breath and kisses the red spots on her skin. Pulling back, he says, “That’s enough.”
Her grip tightens on the desk. “I need more,” she protests.
He makes a sound of disapproval. “You’ll bruise.”
“I know. Bruise me. Make it worse.”
He hooks her shoulder and spins her around to face him, her bare backside pressed against her desk. Nose to nose, the rise and fall of their chests matches in rhythm. “No.”
Anger burns in her eyes. “I. Need. More.”
He lifts her away from the desk and curves his fingers aroundher hips. “Listen to me, Claudia Jolicoeur: When I tell you that you’ve had enough, you will listen. You will not beg for more pain than you can take. Do you understand?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then allow me to clarify. The time for pain is over.” He pulls her dress down and rubs her back. “Let me look after you.”
She’s tense in his arms. Hot tears pool in her eyes, from either the pain or the guilt or the existential dread or some other horrible thing burning in her body right now. “I don’t—”
His eyes dip down and his brow furrows. “What is—”
Before Claudia can look down, he’s ripped off her robes and torn through the laces in the bodice of her dress.
Her wound reopened. It bled through.
The soaked bandages fall away, revealing the wet, oozing gashes between her breasts.
“Claudia…” His body is trembling with worry, then rage. “Who did this to you?”
“What?”
“Tell me the name of who clawed you like this and I swear to the gods I will make them suffer.”
“It’s not what you think.”
