Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
I didn’t miss the threat he made if I told my mom. He’d have to get rid of her. So why would he keep me around?
He wouldn’t.
No, I can’t let my attraction to dangerous men keep me in danger. If I have a chance to run, I should run right now.
Gio jerks in his sleep and moans.
Shit. Maybe I should wait until his condition is more stable. What will they do without me?
No, fuck that.
It’s not my problem.
I didn’t volunteer for this job. They need to figure it out on their own.
I slip on my shoes and coat and hunt for my purse, which they took from me when they grabbed me at the hospital.
I search downstairs, checking closets. I even step into Junior’s room and do a cursory sweep. When he snorts and rolls over, I dart back out of the room.
Screw the purse. My life isn’t worth risking on the stuff in my purse.
I head back down the stairs and crack the front door. I stop at the bite of cold wind and the stare out at the graying dark.
Fuck. Should I leave?
If I do, then what? Go to the cops?
Maybe I’m nuts, but I don’t have any desire to throw Junior or Gio to the authorities, even though they’re surely involved in something very illegal. Probably deadly.
But if I don’t go to the cops, what stops Junior from just grabbing my ass off the streets again and dragging me back here? And then I’m sure I’ll forfeit the money he promised, which I desperately need.
To add to my dilemma, if I walk out this door, I don’t even know where to go. I don’t have a car or a phone. It’s freaking freezing out and who knows how far we are from public transportation. The neighborhood looks ritzy—like Oak Park or some other neighborhood named after a tree.
“Shut the door.”
I jump and gasp at Junior’s angry voice coming down the stairs. I freeze, unable to make myself bolt out the door, or obey him and shut it. The indecision that kept me there for the last eighty seconds still has me paralyzed.
“I said, shut it.” His hand slaps against the door, slamming it.
I still don’t move. Don’t turn to look at him. Don’t try to run. I guess this is what they mean by “petrified.”
Tacone grabs the sleeve of my jacket and tugs it off me, tossing it onto the floor. “Where in the fuck do you think you’re going?”
Oh shit. He has the most effective angry voice I’ve ever heard. I’m surprised I don’t piss myself.
I still don’t turn around—just stand facing the door like it somehow makes me safe if I can’t see him.
His hand crashes down on my ass.
I gasp in surprise, but honestly, the spank is welcome.
It’s not a gun. Not a wire around my neck. It’s not even a backhand. It’s a slap. On my ass. Simple and sexual.
He slaps me again, hard.
I bring my hands to the door to brace myself, spread my fingers, push my ass out.
I hear Junior’s breath rasp out in a rush. He grunts and reaches up to capture my hands, stacking one wrist over the other and pinning them above my head as he rains stinging smacks all over my ass and the backs of my legs.
My heart pounds against my chest. It hurts and I’m still frightened, but I’m getting more and more turned on by the second.
This is like a scene out of my fantasies. Okay, they never involved spanking, but they totally involved Junior dominating me. Bending me over the couch and forcing me to have sex, or shoving me to my knees and making me suck his cock.
Being on the receiving end of a spanking at his hands definitely fits in the same category.
He stops spanking, his breath at my ear. We both pant like we ran a lap around the block. He hasn’t released my wrists and I love how it feels to be captured by him. My body reacts to it before I can stop myself. I toss my head back, push my ass against his body.
To my disappointment, he releases me and steps back. “Go upstairs to my room.”
Ms. Bluster makes a full appearance. I whirl and put my hands on my hips. “What for?”
His gaze is heavy-lidded. He’s standing there in a white undershirt and his boxer briefs, which doesn’t make him seem the slightest bit vulnerable. No, the way he fills them out—chest and shoulder muscles stretching the cotton shirt, cock tenting the briefs—he’s as commanding as he is in a suit. “I’m not done punishing you.” He jerks his chin toward the stairs, in a silent repetition of his command.
My pussy clenches but I can’t seem to drop the attitude. I cock a hip. “What does the punishment entail?”