“Why?” My heart pounds, blood throbs loud like a drum in my head.
“I want to see you. See if you’re ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“You know what,” he says.
I do. Time for a reckoning.
He sets his drink down and stands.
I try to take a step backward, but the backs of my knees hit the ottoman and I almost fall, but Stefan catches me easily and holds tight to one arm, his expression hardening. He’s so close, I feel the heat coming off him, smell the scent of him and some part of me, it wants to curl into him. To have him hold me again like he did when he carried me out of that well. Out of that house.
But what he does is so opposite.
With his free hand, he unzips the dress and strips it off me.
“Step out.”
I look down and realize what he means. Step out of the puddle of the dress. I do and he shoves it aside. I cover my breasts.
He sits back down and picks up his drink again, casual as his gaze glides over me.
“Bra off.”
“Why?” I ask again, beginning to shudder a little.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I don’t see why you need me to take my bra off.”
“Don’t make me get up again.”
He’s seen me naked before. He’s touched me. Why is this hard?
“And don’t make me repeat myself.”
“I just don’t understand—”
“I’ve coddled you,” he says, setting his drink down again. This time, instead of standing, he tugs me down by my wrist so I’m leaning into him. He reaches around to my back to unhook the bra. A moment later, it’s falling onto his lap.
He releases me and I cover my breasts again.
He looks at the bra, then sets it aside. “Arms at your sides.”
“Stefan—”
“Arms at your sides. And whatever you do, don’t fucking cry. Don’t be a baby.”
I swallow back my tears, bury the twisting inside me, that feeling of betrayal.
Why do I feel betrayed, though? He is my enemy. Why do I seem to constantly forget that? He only rescued me because I’m not worth anything to him dead.
I let my arms drop and I force myself to stare at him, my hands fisting, even as he blurs with the build-up of tears because I can’t just stop them. Emotions don’t work that way, but he wouldn’t know that because you’d have to be human to know and he’s made of stone.
“Good,” he says.
I swipe the back of my hand across my eyes, wipe away those stupid tears.
He looks me over, pausing on the healing bruises as if taking inventory. He reaches to take my wrist.
I try to tug it away, but he holds tight and just gives a shake of his head.
He pulls me down so I’m sitting on his right thigh. I cover myself again with my free arm. He takes that wrist too and holds both in one hand, turning them upward. And when he touches me, trailing his fingers from wrist to elbow and back, it’s with a feather-light touch and it’s so soft, the contact makes me physically shudder.
“I can be gentle, Gabriela. And I want to be gentle with you.”
My nipples are hard, and I want to say it’s because I’m cold. He sees too and having him here fully dressed and me in my underwear, it makes me feel exposed and wholly vulnerable.
He shifts my wrists so they’re behind my back, keeps them in one of his giant hands. His eyes are locked on mine.
I can’t read him. Can’t read what he’s going to do. I just know he’s going to do something.
“But if you don’t deserve gentle,” he starts, cupping his free hand around the back of my head, fingers massaging my scalp for a moment before they make a fist in my hair.
I make a sound as he tugs. His expression remains level. Hard.
“Then you force me to be rough,” he says, slowly pushing me down over his other knee so my face is in the seat of the couch and my legs are trapped between his thighs, my ass in the air.
He releases his grip on my hair and I feel his hand on me, feel him slide my panties between my butt cheeks, exposing me fully. Then, as if to demonstrate what he means, he gives me eight sharp spanks on one cheek.
I don’t know if it’s the shock or the sting or the sound of it, but it takes me a moment to find my voice, to cry out.
“Stop!” I try to free my wrists, but he’s got an iron grip around them and I’m not even sure it’s taking any effort for him to keep me pinned like this.
“Do you remember my warning from the other night?” he asks as he begins to rub the spot he just spanked. That part feels good, him rubbing out the pain.
“What are you doing?” I ask, turning my cheek into the couch so I can see his face.
He drags his gaze from my ass to my eyes.
“Getting the truth out of you.”
Keeping our eyes locked, he raises his hand and brings it down again, just once on the same spot.
I grunt. It stings. “Stop, please.”
“Are you ready to tell me the truth?”
“What truth? What are you—”
He delivers eight more smacks on the opposite cheek and I’m whimpering, gasping for breath by the time he’s done.
“Let’s get these out of the way,” he says, shifting his grip to drag my panties down, releasing me from the trap of his thighs only momentarily as he lets them drop to my ankles so I’m naked. Naked and bent over his knee.
I turn my face into the couch and tug at my wrists. I try opening my hands when I can’t free them to cover my ass because I’m sure he can see everything.
“Look at me,” he says.
I shake my head. I’m embarrassed and hurt, and a part of me hates him for doing this to me.
“Gabriela, I said look at me.”
I suck in a shuddering breath.
In reply he brings his hand down in the center of my ass, making me arch and twist in my effort to get away from him.
“Look. At. Me.” He’s not even a little winded and I think he can do this all night long. He probably enjoys it.
I turn my cheek into the couch and force myself to meet his eyes. “Why are you hurting me?”
“Because you force my hand.”
“I don’t…I—”
“I can make you feel good. I want to make you feel good,” he says, rubbing my butt again. He makes circles on one cheek, then the other. I calm down a little and his hand slides to the tops of my thighs.
I bite my lip, holding my breath because this touch, the look in his eyes, it’s different.
He never shifts his gaze from mine while his fingers travel to my center, to touch me lightly, like he’s testing. I realize then what I feel against my belly, it’s him.
He’s aroused.
And as little sense as it makes, so am I.
His hand is gone for a moment, wrapping around the inside of my thigh and I feel wetness from his fingers—my wetness—as he guides my legs apart, just a little, just enough.
I press the balls of my feet into the carpet. I don’t move as he shifts his gaze to my ass. His fingers slide up along my pussy, through the wet folds and up, just touching my other hole before sliding back down. My back arches involuntarily when they brush my clit.
“Gabriela,” he starts, and I realize I’ve closed my eyes. “Look at me, Gabriela.”