Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
She shakes her head from side to side, still gazing at me with nothing short of hero worship in her eyes.
“No, definitely not," she says eagerly. Too eagerly. "Do go on."
I bite back a smile, and I do go on.
"Sometimes we loan money. Sometimes people who borrow money don't pay it back. So they have to pay it back in other ways. Sometimes people steal from us, and that wouldn't be very wise to allow people to steal from us, now, would it?"
She shakes her head again. "Oh, also definitely not."
"And sometimes, people betray our confidence."
"And those people need to be punished, too? This is your job?"
I shake my head. “Sometimes, but I don't like to mete out punishment straight away."
"No?"
"No." I clear my throat, and I speak slowly as if I'm reluctant to tell her the rest. I lower my voice to a deeper register. I'm having way too much fun with this.
"Our enemies that are due punishment need to wait. We like them wondering when we’ll come for them. We like them looking over their shoulders.”
She’s holding onto my every word, mouth open, eyes as wide as beautiful, brilliant moons.
"We don't punish or strike until they least expect it. And then when we do…" My voice grows even more menacing as I draw out the words. My voice is harsh. “The punishment is swift and merciless."
Some of this is true. Some of this is exaggerated. Some of this is embellished for the sake of drawing her interest, and I really fucking enjoy that.
I’m tired of hiding who I am, tired of watching everyone else in my family find their place in this world while I quietly toe the line, maintain anonymity, and enforce the rules of our Clan.
I want her to know exactly who I am. I know she suspects it, and has for quite a while, and I have no doubt my sisters talk.
She leans over to me, and is it my imagination or as has her voice gone a little more sultry?
“Have you ever had to punish a woman?"
My dick hardens, and I shift on my seat.
Is she really asking me what I think she is? Her question drips with sensual interest.
God, how I’d love to punish her.
"I have.”
That doesn't have quite the effect that I was hoping for. She blinks and pulls back to her side of the car.
Is she jealous? Angry? What the hell is this?
"Why do you ask?"
She shrugs. And when she speaks she is once again feigning nonchalance. "I just wondered if you find that hot.”
Of course I find it bloody hot, but she doesn’t need to know that.
"Are you making a mockery of my job?"
She blinks slowly. And shrugs one shoulder so seductively, it's as if she's making a move on me. "If you say so."
I grip the wheel harder, and the tension between us grows.
"I wouldn't tempt me if I were you."
"What's that supposed to mean? I’m supposed to be afraid?”
"It means that I like when I have to punish a woman. And it hasn't happened in such a long time, that maybe I wouldn't need much of an excuse to do it again."
There's no playing at anything now. We both know exactly what we're doing. We both know exactly what we want. Maybe we have for a while.
So I keep this up. I push her to where I want her to go.
"Let's be honest, Fran,” I say. "I wouldn't be driving you into town if I didn't want to, now would I?"
Her voice is almost a whisper. "I don't know about that."
"Why did you ask about me punishing women?”
She doesn't reply at first but makes a sound like a little caught mouse. Almost a squeak. We're getting closer to the centre now, and we need to change the subject before things get out of control.
She is absolutely someone in need of a firm hand. I know it. She does, too. It’s as if we’ve been tempted by what happened last night and what’s happening here, like our former selves have been replaced by the bolder versions of us.
Maybe we’re tired of playing by the rules. Maybe we’re tired of skirting around the bush.
“Firm hand?” she asks, her voice as sexy and heated as warmed honey.
“Aye.” I don’t even recognize my own voice, deep and suggestive.
She sighs, and her voice grows a little wistful. She speaks so earnestly, I wonder if this isn’t a part of her act. If this is the real Fran, speaking in all sincerity.
“I’ve always envied Paisley and Islan.”
“Have you?”
“Aye,” she says, turning back to look out the window. She twists a lock of her hair thoughtfully, and she chews on her lip before she elaborates. "It isn't just that they have this big, beautiful family." Her voice is a little wobbly. Has she gotten emotional with these medications and her injury? That happens to people sometimes.