Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“Are you drunk?” I ask before I can stop myself, before I’ve processed that he just asked me not to ask questions.
He shakes his head slowly from side to side. “You’re a naughty little thing,” he whispers. “Just begging for that spanking, aren’t you?” He stands before me, wearing only his t-shirt, the fabric stretched across his biceps. I swear his arms are as thick as my thighs. I watch, enthralled, as he grabs the bottom of his shirt with both hands and yanks it up over his head. It’s somehow arousing, just watching him remove his shirt.
Tossing the shirt behind him, he points to the headboard. “Turn around,” he says, in the same deep, velvety voice, “and place your hands on the headboard.”
My heartbeat quickens. Is he looking for a reason to punish me? Does he crave this? Or is there something else going on?
My eyes on his, I gently push down the bedding. I’ve worn a simple silky sheath nightie to bed, white as snow and sensually soft. I’m covered fully, but the delicate fabric clings to my curves, dips between the valley at my breasts, hangs at the gentle part of my thighs.
“Bloody hell,” he whispers. “Christ, woman.”
I don’t respond, determined to do what he says. Rising to my knees, I turn my body to face the headboard. Still kneeling, I grasp the very edge.
And then I feel him beside me, his warm, reassuring body pressed up against mine. “Stay right there, lass,” he whispers in my ear. “Stay. Right. There.”
I close my eyes. I’m going to do exactly what he says.
I hear him open the drawer beside the bed, hear him remove something, but I don’t turn to look, for I don’t want to bring on his displeasure. I want to please him. And I have to admit, I’m a little scared. But a part of me is neither scared nor eager to please. He has lipstick on his cheek, and I don’t like that one bit.
Why don’t I like that? Why does it trouble me?
Could I be jealous about my captor, so soon? Why? Why do I wish it were my lipstick on his cheek? He’s a powerful man. Others obey his orders. What could he possibly want with a girl like me?
Cool metal against the silky nightie makes me shiver. I swallow, but don’t speak, curious what he’ll do next, when I feel the metal graze my neck.
“A naughty little girl ought to wear a collar,” he says, clucking his tongue. “So she can be trained properly.”
My mind is a jumble of thoughts.
What on earth is he doing?
What will he do next?
Why do I feel excited?
He clicks the collar in place, and I gasp at the weight of it. It’s heavy and cold, and it’s connected to something else. I look down when I hear the clink of metal.
It’s… a chain?
There’s another clink of metal, and he produces two thick metal bands he slides around my wrists.
I’ve read classic literature, and in those books… men don’t hurt women. They don’t abuse them and degrade them and… and spank them… and yet why do I feel so hyper aware of all things Keenan? His voice, his scent, the way his warm fingers graze my skin when he fastens the locks in place.
The feel of his mouth—oh, God—his mouth on my neck when I’m well and securely fastened to the bed with yet another chain. I shiver in delight, and there’s a low pulsing between my legs, and deep in my belly. I swallow hard and close my eyes. I don’t know why I feel this way, or how I can possibly control the erotic flare of heat that weaves through my body like a teeming river. He licks my neck and cups my bottom in his large hand, giving me a gentle squeeze.
“Do you need a spanking?” he whispers in my ear.
“I…” I don’t know what to say. A spanking is a punishment, a humiliating one at that, and I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t think.
He slaps my backside and I straighten my back.
“Do you?”
I don’t think twice before responding. “Yes, sir.”
Yes, sir.
What is going on with my crazy mind? Am I addled? Insane? Somehow under the influence?
I feel a thin, sturdy something on my lower back, like he’s tracing the edges of my curves with a stick. His hand wraps around my waist, a thin whistle of something cuts through the air, and I squeal when a line of fire cuts across my backside.
“Count,” he says, his voice as sharp as whatever just struck me.
I inhale.
“One.”
Another hard strike lines the lower curve of my backside, then another. It hurts, it hurts badly, but the sting quickly dissipates into heat that flares to my core.
“Two.”
“Three.”
When I get to five, my skin is throbbing, but the ache between my legs has only magnified even further.