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She was mulishly silent.
“Shall I cut off more, or do you want to try apologizing again?” I wondered.
She swallowed so hard it was audible. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was full of anger.
“Are you really?” I toyed with her. She was silent for a long moment. “I don’t think you are.”
“I’m sorry you got fired, but I never made you smoke during your shift.”
I chuckled darkly. “You really are determined to be a brat until the end, aren’t you? Turn over.”
She stiffened for a second and then complied. She hissed when her ass made contact with the coarse denim of my jeans. I didn’t bother gathering her hands. The knife resting on her sternum was enough of a deterrent against fighting back, it seemed. I fished in my pocket with my other hand and found what I was looking for.
“Consider this your first and only warning not to mess with me again, DeLaurie. Next time, some wigmaker is getting one hell of a donation.”
I uncapped the black Sharpie I’d stolen from work and lowered it to her skin.
She glared up at me. I wrote carefully, in big block capitals, along her forehead. Her huge eyes threatened to burn holes through me the entire time. Her anger was delicious.
BRAT.
When I finished, I capped the marker and gripped her chin, turning her face this way and that, admiring my handiwork.
“Beautiful and fitting. Have fun getting this off or explaining it.” I flicked my wrist and sent the butterfly knife back into its sheath.
She rose with her hand swinging, trying to slap me. I dumped her off my lap and onto the bed, preventing a connection. I stood and stretched lazily, and she watched me from the bed, her eyes unreadable. My cock was still straining against my jeans, harder than hell and impossible to hide. I didn’t bother.
I chuckled at the word imprinted across her forehead.
“That really suits you. See you later, Your Majesty.”
I was already gone before the picture frame sitting on her nightstand crashed against the windowsill.
Winter
A packet of cotton pads, three different cleansers, and a bottle of acetone later, and my forehead was dark red, but you couldn’t make out the letters anymore.
In the morning, it was only slightly less red from the frantic scrubbing I’d put it through last night.
I lay there in my bed, scared to look in the mirror again. I stared at the ceiling instead. Last night would’ve seemed like a dream if the smell of nail polish remover hadn’t still been stuck in my nose.
That psychopath. He was unhinged. He’d broken into my goddamn house, after ignoring me for a year. He’d spanked me.
The memory of his hand landing on my behind again and again had blood rushing to my face. When it came down to it, all my snappy comebacks and mean-girl zingers had disappeared, and everything had left my head except for one maddening reality.
I hadn’t hated it.
As soon as I’d realized how good it felt, to be helpless in his arms, under his control, struggling to no avail and just forced to take it, I’d been too horrified to say anything. I couldn’t ask him to stop. He’d have heard the lie in my voice.
I turned over, pressing my hot face against the sheets. Something was wrong with me. I was too sheltered, or frustrated, or something. Too used to the polite young men my parents set me up with pressing a dry kiss to my cheek after driving me home at a respectable hour. So much so that the pure, wild energy of a bad boy like Asher, someone I couldn’t control or manipulate, had broken something inside me.
When Trent had laid his gross hand on me at dinner, it hadn’t been anything like the slow, atomic melting sensation that had happened deep inside when Asher had touched me.
It wasn’t just that he didn’t follow the rules or care about breaking them. It was him.
And he knew it. When his fingers had traced a path up my thigh, he’d felt the evidence of how much his little psycho act had turned me on. He knew. The fact that he knew was going to haunt me the rest of my days. My pride and dignity had left the building. The sobering realization that if he’d decided to finger me right there and then, I’d have welcomed it with open legs. There was something wrong with me.
A knock sounded at the door. The maid had come to tidy my room. I glanced guiltily at the picture frame I’d smashed with my bad aim last night. I’d put all the shards in the trash, but it still felt like a dickish thing to do.
