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There’s a pool here.
A freaking pool.
I haven’t seen it from the bed where he had me bound for the last few hours. Nor when he carried me to the bathroom.
But I see it first.
Then smell it. Smell the sickening scent of chlorine.
Normally, I don’t mind the smell or the sight of the pool. Once upon a time, Marcus made me forget my anxiety altogether and coaxed me into dipping my feet inside.
Today, the mere low sloshing sound of the water terrifies me.
Today won’t be like that other time.
Marcus himself isn’t like that other time.
“No,” I whisper, my throat tight, suffocated by anxiety. Any attitude I might’ve given him is nowhere to be found. “Please, don’t.”
“You’ve had your chance, Leighton.” Marcus reaches the ledge of the pool. I look down to see the water sloshing at his feet. Watch with terror as they ebb and flow. Ready to take me. “We’re doing things my way now.”
I’m frozen. Unable to spit back that everything we’ve done for the past day has been done his way.
Even if I could, what good would it do?
I steer my gaze to the man holding me. His features are cold and fearless whereas mine are steeled by terror. His back is ramrod straight. His stance confident.
Kidnapping me doesn’t unnerve him. No part of him is worried the police might catch up to us. That’s Marcus.
Always so put together. Always so rational. Composed.
That’s the only part of him that reminds me of the other Marcus.
The one whose mercy I’m appealing to.
“I’ll drown.” I ball my hands into fists, punching his chest. “I’ll drown and die. You and your little doll fantasy will go straight to hell where you belong.”
Effortlessly, he twists me on his large body. My world turns upside down as my stomach presses to his shoulder. All I see are his back and his heels.
It doesn’t take long for me to understand why he did it. A large hand smacks my bare bottom. Before the sting of the slap fully sinks in, Marcus lands three more on the same spot.
I’ve been sore from the spanking before. I’m howling now.
“You won’t drown.” In a complete one-eighty, he smooths his hand over my singeing butt cheek, rubbing the sore spot. “Want me to tell you why?”
“I won’t magically un-panic, you know.” Despite the effort I put into wriggling out of his hold, I remain pinned to him. “You fucking sadist. Let me go.”
“Very good, Leigh. Sadist is a great description. We’re making progress.” The smugness in his voice annoys and mesmerizes me. “Now that we have the word psychopath out of the—”
“Pfft.” I huff, though the sound lacks any sign of conviction. Mocking him is hard when the threat of being thrown into the water hangs over my head. I do try, though. “We haven’t. You’re a psycho. Psycho, psycho, psycho, psy—”
“Not. A. Psycho.” He pushes a finger into my core, and I gasp. “I’m passionate. Possessive. Over you.”
“Ob—” I choke on the word when he curls his finger inside me and grazes that spot. My body doesn’t care that I’m sore or terrified. Not in the least. “—sessed.”
“We’ve accomplished that I’m obsessed. That’s true.” His voice is tight. The arousal he forces out of me leaks down my thighs. I feel the growl emanating from his chest. “So are you.”
“The fuck I am.” Jesus, why do I sound so pathetic? Why am I clinging to his shirt instead of pushing him away?
