Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71196 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71196 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“Punish me how?”
One side of his mouth curves upward. “I’ll show you. I’m sure an opportunity will present itself soon.”
I don’t want him to see how his warning impacts me, but I know he sees my shudder.
“You’ll be allowed outside twice a day with supervision.”
I open my mouth to remark on that, but close it again. I’m not sure I want to learn about his punishments just yet.
“Questions so far?”
“Will I be here for the full month?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“You said I’d be able to work. I need my laptop to do that.”
“Once you earn it, you’ll have it.”
“But you said—”
“Thirty days. Our agreement. It was your idea, remember. You’re mine for the next thirty days.” There’s a pause while he drinks, his eyes watching me all along. “I don’t want you wandering around the house alone. Bedroom, library and kitchen only. Clear?”
“Clear.” I say what he wants to hear.
“Good. Finish your drink.”
As if to set the example, he drains his glass. I know what’s coming after this. And I know there’s no way to get out of it. My heart is racing and goosebumps make the hair on my arms stand on end. I finish my drink and set it down on the side table beside me.
“Come here, Cilla.”
I just look at him for the longest time. My insides are churning. I have a thousand questions and none that matter. Because what’s left for me to ask?
I am his whore.
It’s what I offered. What it cost to save my brother. Maybe after this, I’ll be finished owing Jones, but I know that’s not true. I’ll never be finished. So I do as Kill says. I rise to my feet and go to him.
“Closer,” he whispers.
I move one more inch. The toes of my sandals are touching his shoes, my nipples brushing his chest. I have to crane my neck to look up at him.
“I won’t ever want you, you know,” I start. “I won’t ever give it. Know that you’ll have to take it every time.”
He cocks his head to the side, his gaze unreadable, intense. “Maybe I like taking, Cilla.”
“I hate you.”
“That’s a shame.”
“I’ll never enjoy it. You’ll always know that you forced me. That you hurt me.”
“Kiss me.”
A kiss? Just a kiss? I expected him to push me to my knees. To use my mouth in other ways. But a kiss, it’s intimate. More intimate than other things. And the command makes me shudder.
“Kiss me,” he repeats.
He wants a kiss. It’s not a fuck, is it? It’s not that. Why does this feel like so much more than that? Why does it make me feel so much more vulnerable?
When I don’t move, he wraps a hand in my hair, tilts my head back and kisses me. We’re close. So close, I can see specks of gold in his dark eyes. I want to close mine, feeling too naked. Too exposed. But I don’t. I won’t. I have to watch him, like he’s watching me.
The softness of his lips surprises me. It’s such a contrast to the stubble that’s scratching my cheek, my chin. To the fingers tugging my head back. Such a contrast to everything this man is.
I take his lower lip between mine, tasting whiskey as I kiss him. Taste him.
Sink my teeth into him.
He groans. His hardness presses against my belly. It’s thick and big. I meant to hurt him. To make him flinch. But I seem to have done the opposite. When his hand closes over my hip, I draw back, breaking the kiss, my breathing coming hard, my heart beating fast.
Kill looks down at me, his pupils dilated, eyes glistening. He moves his hand from my hip to capture my wrist and turns my palm to him, wrapping it over his erection.
I gasp and try to pull free and the spell is broken.
“Let me go.” My voice comes out strange, not high, but low and quiet.
“Make me.”
I look at the scratches down his face. Look at the deeper one, the permanent one. Did someone else try to make him before?
“Make me let you go, Cilla.”
I squeeze my hand around his cock, but it only makes him moan with pleasure, makes him swell in my palm. And when I try to pull away again, he twists my wrist, drawing me even nearer, our bodies pressing against each other.
“Fight. You want to,” he says, his voice also low and deep, barely a whisper.
“It’s what you want. I told you I’ll never give you what you want.”
Even as I say it, I know I’m a hypocrite because I am fighting, trying to free myself, I know it’s useless. I know the only way I’ll be free is when he frees me. And some part of me, it wants this. Some sick, destructive part of me wants exactly this.