Words boil over in my brain as I glare at him. “Who hurt you when you were a little boy? Because whoever it was, they sold you a bill of goods. You’re allowed to take the stick out of your arse. You’re allowed to relax for one goddamn minute. You’re allowed to treat other human beings like equals, to listen to what they have to say, to consider the fact that they might actually be living, breathing creatures, with their own thoughts, their own feelings, their own dreams of how they want the world to be. Did you ever consider that, Mr. Lone Wolf? Did it ever cross your feckin’ mind?”
“Three.” He says it in the same tone as the rest of his count, cold as ice, utterly certain he’s the one in control.
“Fuck. You.” I enunciate the words carefully, like I’m speaking a foreign language. The ink on my chest blazes like I wrote with acid. I turn on my heel and head for the stairs.
He gives me three steps before he pounces. His arm is a tree trunk, slung across my body. He lifts me from my feet like I’m no bigger than a doll, and he spins me back to the table.
With one hand, he presses my chest against the polished mahogany, pinning me with his elbow when I thrash to get free. His other hand finds the elastic waistband of my sweatpants. He yanks hard, taking my knickers too, baring my arse to the room’s cool air.
The first smack sounds like a cannon. I screech as my thighs push into the edge of the table, but even my jaded ears know that isn’t a sound of pain. It’s pure, raw pleasure.
“Count,” he says. When I don’t respond quickly enough to satisfy him, he reaches between my thighs and catches my clit between his finger and thumb. “Count,” he says again, pinching.
“One,” I say, because I don’t want his fingers slipping. I don’t want him feeling how wet I am.
The second blow is harder, landing right on top of the first. I feel the five pincushions of his fingertips. I picture my arse flushed the red of the stuffed tomato in the sewing kit Granny gave me when I turned ten.
“Two.” I drip venom over the word, concentrating on making it shrivel so I don’t have to think about how close I am to coming.
The third spanking is harder than the other two combined, or maybe it only feels that way because his hand falls in the exact same spot. This is punishment. I’m supposed to hate this. But something about Wolf has opened a door deep inside my heart. He’s found a secret I didn’t know about myself.
Iwantthis pain. I need it. It binds up loose ends I didn’t know were frayed. Wolf’s hand on my bare arse makes me feel alive, when I wasn’t even aware that part of me had died.
His fingers tighten on the back of my neck, shaking me like a dog with a toy. “Three.” I whisper, because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing my full voice.
His elbow shifts from the hollow of my back, but before I can pull away, he grabs my arm. He tugs me firmly toward his chair at the head of the table.
Sitting first, he forces me onto his lap. My pants are still down, so I feel his trousers beneath me. His cock is iron against my bum, as eager to learn more rules for this game as I am.
Before I can sneer and lie about the size of him, a band of cold steel cinches around my right wrist. It’s a handcuff, a serious one, not padded with leather or lined with fur. Before I can squawk, he cuffs my left wrist too.
He planned this.
Before we sat for dinner, he fastened the cuffs to his chair. He tested. He measured. He knew exactly how little range of motion he’d leave me. He knew precisely how long it would take me to spot the key, nestled beside his silver knife, so close, and yet completely beyond my reach.
His arms stretch around mine. He picks up that knife, along with his fork. He cuts a perfect bite of chicken and raises it to my lips.
I clench my jaw so tight I see stars.
His laugh beside my ear sounds like a growl. “I promise you, girl,” he says. “I am far more stubborn than you are.”
I shake my head, hoping to catch him on his chin, but he avoids me easily. Restrained like this, bare arse stinging from his spanking, framed by his strong forearms, my options are severely limited.
I have the willpower of an Irish martyr. I can go days without food, and have done, just to prove a point to Mam and Da. I’m a princess of the Canton Crew, as hardened as any of the mobsters who report to my father.
But Da sold me to Wolf. I’m captive in this house. And in my heart of hearts, I know my husband has told me the absolute truth. Heismore stubborn than I am.
Plus, the chicken smells amazing.
I open my mouth. I use my teeth to take the bite from thefork. I chew, fighting the urge to moan at the balance of salt and herbs and perfectly roasted meat. I swallow.
Wolf feeds me chicken. He feeds me potatoes and carrots. He feeds me tiny bites of expertly buttered bread, slipping them past my lips with fingers that know precisely what to do. He finishes with salad, using his fingers again, selecting tomato and cucumber and hot, peppery radish, like he’s painting one of the masterpieces hanging on the wall behind us.
It’s humiliating, being fed like a child. But it’s weirdly comforting too. It’s a sign that he wants to keep me safe. Hecares.
Every single bite makes me more aware of my body—my arse, where it rides his eager dick, and my swollen clit, desperate for friction between my thighs. I can’t stop thinking about the letters scrawled on my chest, my warning, but also my invitation:Fuck You.
I’ve never felt so alive within my skin. So I don’t fight when Wolf finally wipes his fingers on the napkin he’s kept beside his plate. I don’t twitch when he picks up the key, freeing first my left hand, and then my right.