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So it hadn't been a huge surprise that being a sub had been terrifyingly addictive. I didn't want that. (I didn't. Did I?)
And being my father's daughter had meant always trying to obtain an ideal I was unlikely to manage.
Couple all those sad half lives with the fact that I could feel the various implements on the other side of the wall, the ones hanging off hooks in the pain room, and I was nontraditional all over the place.
Somehow or other my eyes had closed. I was lying on the bed, both shoes discarded, my feet bare.
"Are you all right?"
I pogoed up like the bed had just been electrocuted. "I'm fine! I'm sorry, I was just – " I trailed off because I had no idea what I was just…
"Thinking?"
But Cole's first question – Are you all right? – had been asked in the tone of voice you use when you're on the same level and you like each other.
The second question, all of one word, felt ominous. Like he knew what I was thinking. And wanted to do something about it.
Harder than you think, St. Martin. Because I wasn't sure what part of what I was thinking mattered.
"Get up," he said.
Un uh. Not doing it. Not falling back into this. Not playing this game. I got out. I got out and I'm someone else now.
My eyes flew open when he leaned over and picked me up bodily, grabbing me by the biceps just under the caps of my shoulders and depositing me on my feet.
His eyes found mine and I saw a scary combination of the raging Cole St. Martin who had frightened me into going – and the playful one, who knows every damn thing is a game he can win. Either because he's a billionaire, or because he's a sexual sadist who doesn't have to take no for an answer because if a girl is there, she knows the score – or because it's his house, his rules, and what he wants.
"What were you thinking, Annie?"
His eyes were on mine.
Mine weren't the same. I had changed.
"None of your business, Cole."
But this time I'd gone too far. This time, his gaze darkened and the playful left, and there was only the sadist, only the Master.
Only a whole lot of trouble.
"Get on your knees." He still had hold of my arms.
How was I supposed to kneel if he was holding me up? But the next second he was using that grip to shove me down toward the floor.
I fought back. I raised my arms and broke his grip on my shoulders and arms by swinging my arms together in a windmill motion from being clasped by my groin, to up and over and through.
He let go. His face was instantly full of fury.
He grabbed my hair, and I realized how long it had grown because he had a good handful of it now. We were still face to face, but his hand was behind my head, snarled in my hair.
"Kneel."
Fuck you! "No."
He pulled harder. My eyes filled with tears. They weren't completely down to the pain. I wanted and didn't want and didn't want to want. I think I said Please.
I know I said Sir.
I was on the floor. I was at his feet. I was pressing my lips to his feet, to his shoes, I was letting my forehead rest on the floor, feeling the pain throb through my skull where he'd pulled my hair.
