Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
And with each step they took, her dread grew.
Chapter 9
“Face down over my lap.”
Alena looked down at Alexander, who was sitting on a day-bed style couch. The large cushion—which was large enough it might have been a twin bed mattress—was covered in red satin, with half a dozen large pillows of the same fabric serving as the back.
Alexander patted his lap, and Alena barely repressed a whimper. The walk from the dungeon to this aftercare room—which was smaller than the room they’d used last night, with only the couch Alexander was sitting on, plus one other—had been long enough that she’d started to come down from the emotional and physical high.
And with each step the noxious feeling of dismay and self-directed disgust surged.
That emotional anguish was echoed in her ass, throbbing now that she didn’t have the tension of arousal, or pleasure of orgasm, to offset the pain.
As sexy as it was to be ordered over his lap in the traditional taboo spanking position, Alena wasn’t sure she could take any more pain to that already abused part of her anatomy.
When she hesitated, Alexander tugged on her arm, pulling her towards him. Her shins and knees touched his legs, and when he reached up and gently stroked one nipple, she shivered.
“Trust me.” He patted his lap.
As much as she didn’t want her abused ass spanked again, worrying about another spanking made it much easier for her to ignore her feelings of dread.
Trust him? She did. He shouldn’t trust her; he just didn’t know it yet.
Wary, but needing to obey, if only to stave off dealing with what she was feeling for a few more minutes, Alena gingerly knelt on the couch, then lowered herself to lie across his thighs. She folded her arms under her head, focused on her breathing. She tried to count each inhale and exhale but little aftershocks of pleasure and pain broke her concentration.
His palm rubbed her ass cheeks. “Your ass is pink, red in some places. I’ll treat the skin so there shouldn’t be any marks by tomorrow night.”
She wished he hadn’t said “tomorrow”. Wished he hadn’t brought up, even obliquely, the future.
“I want the marks.” She twisted to look back at him. “I want to still have them when…”
His gaze met hers, and the dark predatory gleam was gone from his eyes. “When what?”
Twice tonight he’d been vulnerable, tender, and both times she’d nearly abandoned her plan and told him who she was.
No, she wouldn’t actually have told him who she was. She wasn’t suicidal. She would have said something to push him away, save him…from her.
He was relaxed, his expression soft and almost sleepy.
This was it, the moment when she either stuck to her guns, or abandoned months’ worth of work because he’d dominated her, pleasured her, and hurt her, better than anyone ever had before.
Put like that, what she needed to do was obvious. If only she could ignore the slimy feelings sliding around in her gut—guilt and dread an unpleasant combination making her feel vaguely ill.
Oddly those emotions were followed by irritation.
Irritation with herself for being so dramatic.
Irritation with him for eliciting a true, deep level of submission she hadn’t known she was capable of and certainly hadn’t anticipated.
Irritation with him for unknowingly making her feel guilty when she normally wouldn’t have.
Life had taught her that right and wrong were flimsy ideas sheltered people thought were solid and fixed. White and black.
She didn’t believe in the simplistic dichotomy of black versus white. She saw the shades of gray, but wasn’t quite so melancholy or dramatic as to claim she lived in shadows.
If anything, her life was the golden hour, that precious time just before sunset when the light was soft red and gold and there were no shadows, only a feeling of gilded stillness, impish and fleeting.
You don’t have to feel guilty. You’re not going to hurt him, just use him for information. He’s a billionaire—everyone around him is using him for something, and vice-versa.
And you didn’t manipulate him during the scenes, just before and after. What happened in the scene was pure, unrelated to what you’re about to do.
It was a paper thin distinction, but she clung to it.
He’d asked “when what?”
And it was time for her to answer.
Alena took a deep breath, reminded herself how much she’d put into getting here, and did what she needed to do.
“When I have to spend tomorrow night alone. I wish we had one more night together.”
His lips parted as he sighed. She wanted to kiss him.
Alexander ran one hand from the top of her ass along her spine and into her hair. She tensed, but he didn’t grab. Instead he cupped the back of her head and gently pushed her down until her cheek rested on her forearms once more.
He began kneading her ass and thighs—he was working the muscles to make sure they didn’t cramp, but like a deep tissue massage, it hurt.