Page 223 of Reign

“I communicated eventually.”

“With attitude.”

“That still counts.”

“Needy.”

“I am not needy.”

“Spoiled.”

Her eyes narrow. “Luciano!”

“Slut.”

The argument disappears from her face.

Her knees start to inch together before she can stop them. I tap the inside of one with my foot.

“Keep those open.”

She obeys.

I tip her chin a little higher, studying her face. “You like that one.”

She swallows. “Yes.”

“And whore?”

Another small shift of her knees. Another breath she doesn’t manage to hide.

“Yes,” she whispers.

I smile.

She scowls, those sharp eyes meeting mine. “You look entirely too happy.”

“I like watching you discover things about yourself.”

She rolls those pretty eyes.

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Good. Stand.”

She rises, and I take her to the padded bench.

Her attention flicks toward the cabinet as we pass it. Leather paddles. Crops. Floggers in different weights. Implements designed to create everything from a dull, spreading ache to a bright line of fire.

I leave them where they are.

For now, I want my hand.

I want to feel every change in her—the heat building beneath my palm, the tightening of her muscles before impact, the moment her body begins pressing toward the next strike instead of bracing against it.

“Face the bench.”