Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Before I can process his words, his hand slams down sharply on my bare ass. The sound is deafening in the quiet, the sting radiating across my skin, hot and bright. My breath hitches, and I let out a strangled gasp—not from pain, but from the unexpected wave of pleasure that surges through me.
My core clenches, and I hate the way my body reacts to him.
“You deserve a lot more than that,” he says, his voice a dark purr. “To remind you who’s in charge.” His hand doesn’t leave my skin. Instead, his fingers trail lazily over the spot he struck, soothing the sting in a way that only makes the ache inside me worse.
“You liked that,” he says, and it’s not a question. His voice is full of dark amusement, and I want to deny it, to fight him, but I can’t.
I bury my face in the bed, trying to hide from the shame and vulnerability.
“Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I meet his eyes.
They are sharp, unreadable, but his gaze burns into me. “I said, look at me, Anya.”
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, his voice a dangerous whisper, and I know it’s not a question he asks lightly. He doesn’t want to. And a part of him doesn’t want to continue without my say.
Oh god.
I swallow hard, my throat dry, and shake my head.
“Good girl,” he repeats.
My eyes flutter closed at the feel of his warm hand slipping between my thighs, his fingers grazing me where I’m already embarrassingly wet. I gasp, my hips jerking involuntarily at the contact.
“Jesus,” he groans, his voice tinged with approval. “You’re soaked.”
His fingers slide over me again, teasing, never quite giving me what I want. It’s maddening.
“Do you like this?” he asks, his lips brushing against the curve of my ear.
I nod, unable to speak, my body betraying every ounce of resistance I thought I had.
Chuckling softly, his fingers press harder, drawing a low moan from my throat before he pulls away entirely.
“Then maybe this will be your punishment, Anya,” he says, straightening to his full height. “To want but not have. To feel what I can do to you and know it’s mine to give—or take away.”
I don’t know how I feel about this. Part of me wants to tell him to stop, that I don’t want his touch. But I couldn’t do that right now if I tried. Because I do want his touch. Because I’ve wanted more than this, more from him, for so long—even back when it was wrong.
And now I’m his wife.
I try to bring myself back to the present, to tell myself that this isn’t what I need, that it isn’t what I want. But it isn’t working. My body is desperate for relief. Desperate for him.
Why do I feel this storm of emotions—anger, confusion, and need colliding inside me?
“This is for storming into my office and disrespecting me in front of my men,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous, before his hand comes down sharply against the full curve of my ass. I inhale at the sting but stay in place, unmoving.
“That’s right. Just like that.” His voice softens, almost approving. “My handprint on your ass pleases me so much, beautiful.”
I swallow hard, unable to stop the shiver that runs through me before his fingers slide through my wet heat, brushing where I crave him most.
My back arches instinctively, my body surrendering to the pleasure he offers.
It feels so fucking good—so damn good—that all my thoughts, my anger, and my pride dissolve into nothingness. Everything I’ve ever known or wanted could fit on the head of a needle.
“Does that feel good?” he asks, his voice low and probing, as though he genuinely wants to know and is cataloging this moment like he catalogs everything else.
“Yes,” I breathe out in a hushed whisper, my voice trembling.
He speeds up his movements, circling my clit with precision, smearing my wetness over every inch of me. My body bucks against his hand, craving more.
“And this?” he asks, his tone almost clinical as he shifts the rhythm.
“It’s… too much,” I gasp, the sensitivity overwhelming me.
He slows, adjusting his pace to something deliberate and steady, coaxing moans from my lips that I can’t suppress. The pleasure courses through me, taking over every rational thought I might have had.
“And then there’s the matter of you running out,” he says, his tone darkening as he slows his movements. “Leaving my home when you knew I wouldn’t allow it.”
Before I can respond, his hand presses firmly on the center of my back, pinning me in place. Then his palm slaps hard against my ass—once, twice, three times in rapid succession, never in the same spot. The sting is sharp, radiating heat through my skin. It hurts like fuck, but the pain only intensifies the ache between my legs.