“Go ahead,” he says. “Spite yourself. Tell yourself you hate those stones for everything they represent. Tell yourself whatever is going through your pretty little head, but don’t expect me to publicly disgrace you by leaving your finger bare.”
My Adam’s apple bobs against his palm when I swallow. “It’s not bare.”
“By a diamond magnate’s standards, it is.”
He lets go. I stumble, but he’s ready, catching me before I fall.
This is as much as Scrawny can take. He snaps the case shut and is on his feet, heading for the door.
“She’ll take the teardrop,” Damian says, holding my gaze. “It seems most fitting.”
The man is gone before I’ve found my bearings.
“Russell,” Damian calls down, “tell security Tony’s good to go.”
“Yes, sir.”
Downstairs, men are lining up with firearms. No wonder Tony is so antsy.
Damian walks to the door and kicks it shut, cutting off my view of the commotion in the foyer. I breathe faster. I pushed him. I’m still to discover his limits. The closed door doesn’t help. It’s not locked. It’s not locked.
“We have unfinished business,” he says as he advances on me. “You broke the most important rule I gave you. What did I say about visits with your father?”
“He never set foot on your property.”
“So, you broke two rules. You visited with your low-life father and left the property without Russell.”
“Russell wasn’t far. He was just outside the gate.”
“Number three, you hurt yourself, and that won’t happen again. Not on my shift, and my shift lasts for as long as you’re my wife.”
“I didn’t hurt myself.”
“You cut your wrist raw on the handcuff. Number four, you took a pill you clearly know is too strong for you. Number five, you threw my gift and consideration back into my face.”
“I don’t need your consideration.”
“I beg to differ, but if it’s a point you wish to push, I can play your game.”
“The last thing I need is you turning me into a showpiece with a big, fat diamond on my finger.”
His expression darkens. “Marrying me turned you into a showpiece, has it?”
“Yes,” I hiss. “And a whore.” I could call him a whore for marrying me for my late husband’s money.
“You have no idea what it’s like to be treated like a whore, angel.”
“Do your best. This time, try to be a man about it and do it while I’m awake.”
He snaps. Nothing in his stance changes, but I feel it. It crackles on the air. This is the breaking point. This is his limit.
“Go to the desk,” he says. “Bend over and pull up your skirt.”
He’ll have to drag me there. I’ll never go out of my own will.
“Ten lashes,” he says, “two for every rule you broke and every destructive thing you did to yourself. I’ll add another five if I have to make you walk to the desk.”
I don’t move. I can’t give in.
“Very well, Lina.”
He walks to the fireplace. My stomach is tight with tension. I follow him with my gaze and gasp as I take in the wall. Distracted by Tony and his diamonds, I haven’t noticed how the wall above the mantelpiece has been transformed. An array of whips and paddles hang on hooks, neatly spaced. My mouth dries up. I attempt a futile effort at swallowing away the dryness. He stares at the collection for a moment, seemingly deep in thought, and finally removes the paddle, which he places on the corner of the desk. In a few strides, he’s in front of me, taking my arm and forcing my feet to move to his desk. With a hand around my nape, he pushes my upper body down while throwing my long skirt up around my waist. I struggle, but he easily grabs my wrists and pins them behind my back. He’s not careful of my injury. My skin burns under the bandage where he applies pressure. He transfers both wrists to one hand while the other moves to my underwear. With a single yank, he pulls down my panties. I stop squirming. I pinch my thighs together, hiding what I can, but his palm caresses my globes and scorches my heart with shame.
“Count, Lina.”
“Go to hell.”
“Sixteen lashes. I’ll keep on adding one until you learn to count.”
He picks up the paddle and lets me feel the cool wood on my lower back. Slowly, he drags it over the crevice of my buttocks. I start squirming anew when he reaches my sex. Flames leak over my cheeks because in this position he sees everything.
He warns me, not with words, but by removing the paddle. He brings it back down diagonally over my globes with a smack. Reflexively, my ass clenches. It stings, but it doesn’t hurt.
“Count, Lina.”
I grind my teeth and lock my jaw. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s taking pain. He underestimates me if he thinks I’ll break under his paddle.
“Count, Lina.”
“No.”
“Are you sure about that?”
I only gnash my teeth harder, preparing for the second blow, which will no doubt hurt, but I’m the one who’s underestimating. Instead of hitting me, he drags the thin edge of the wood through my slit, parting my folds as if I’m an object that needs closer inspection. I jerk when he reaches my clit. The sensations from the shower return. I’m swelling and turning slick. This can’t be happening. Not while he’s looking. The touch on my sex disappears, and then he slaps my left globe. Again, the smack is playful. It makes me hotter. It makes me ashamed. My nape turns damp with sweat.
His voice is hoarser. “Count, Lina.”
I can’t give in. I won’t. This time, I know what to expect. I think of icebergs and how much I hate him, but when he touches my slit with the knob-end of the paddle handle, I realize with a shock how wrong I’ve been again. I underestimated him again. Dragging the thick knob down my slit, he parts me wider. My struggles are meaningless. He’s too strong. When he reaches my clit, he runs circles over the nub with the wooden knob. To my horror, I turn wetter, my slickness easing the movement of the instrument. The only thing worse than my reaction is the knowledge that he’s watching.
Smack. My right globe comes alive with heat. I wish he’d make it hurt so I wouldn’t get aroused, but as long as he’s hitting just hard enough to jiggle my ass, I feel it deep in my core. My inner muscles clench.
“Three. Count, Lina.”
If he brings the paddle back to my sex, I’ll come. I don’t have a choice but to count.
“Three.” How I hate him for making me speak when my voice quivers.
There’s victory in his tone. “That’s my girl.” He’s the master of the situation, fully in control while I’m falling apart.
Smack. Right on the crack of my ass. Too soft. Too hot.
“F-four.”
The knob is back between my legs. It’s wet from my arousal. He rubs it over my slit again before starting to massage my clit.
“W-what are you doing?” Why isn’t he going on to five and six and seven so I can lower my dress and hide from his eyes?
“Count, Lina.”
“Five.”
Then he does worse. He twists the handle from left to right, wiggling it deeper. As I gasp, he applies pressure, stretching and entering me. I still in surprise at the sudden intrusion. Shock and embarrassment course through me. I want to hate it with all my being, but the sad and unfair truth is that the feeling isn’t unpleasant.
I can’t stop a moan from escaping as he pushes deeper. I bite back a whimper as he pulls out until the knob is barely lodged inside, stretching my opening. It’s dirty and good. I’ve never been this needy, not even in the shower with my secret thoughts. I must be a closet pervert. I can’t think when he’s teasing me with a few shallow thrusts. I’m fast moving beyond the ability to reason logically. What is he doing to me?
“Count, Lina.”
“S-six.”
He gives me my reward, fucking me with the paddle handle. Not gently, but not hard, either. Just enough t
o make my wetness gush around the intrusion.
“Seven, Lina.”
“Seven,” I gasp as he moves the object inside me again.
His rhythm turns harder, quicker, softer, quicker, and everything inside me clenches. My senses go haywire. I’m not resisting any longer. He knows it. He lets go of my wrists to spank me with his hand while he keeps on doing his wicked work with the paddle handle. I’m breathing hard, but so is he, and I forget to count.
“Count.”
“Nine. T-ten.”
I don’t know where we are, any longer. He’s careful and rough at the same time.
“Eleven,” he says, urging me on.
“Eleven. Twelve!”
He changes the angle of the paddle so that the thin side presses on my clit. I gasp again, speechless, but he rolls the handle, hitting not only my clit, but also a sensitive spot inside. My nails scrape over the wood of his desk. My body goes taut. I’m going to come if he doesn’t stop. I’m going to come right in front of his eyes.
“Count, Lina. Thirteen.”
I’m a blabbering mess, mixing up numbers and signals. He spanks me harder, but what’s supposed to hurt feels good.
“Thirteen,” he repeats, relentless. “Count with me, Lina.”
He leads, and I follow.
“Fourteen.”
We speak in tandem. “Fifteen.”
“Come for me, Lina.”
It hurts. The last smack draws my tears. I don’t come, I explode. My back arches, my upper body lifting off the desk. Shockwaves ripple through me. He makes me ride the orgasm so hard I go on tiptoes to escape, but there’s no escaping Damian. He manipulates my body until my thighs quiver, and my knees buckle. Only then does he gently pull the invasive object out. The paddle hits the floor with a thud. If I weren’t braced on the desk, I would’ve fallen to my knees. Unable to move in the aftermath of the violent climax, I lie still while he drags his palms over my globes, spreading them a little, and plants a kiss at the top of my crevice. His fingers dig into my bottom as he splays and kneads me, pulling me apart and pushing my flesh back together as if I’m clay in his hands.
Turning my head sideways, I look at him while perspiration trickles down my temple. The concentration on his face as he studies my body makes my cheeks heat. How quickly and hard I came makes my whole body burn with humiliation, but he doesn’t rub my weakness in with victorious words or knowing smirks. He only pulls my panties up and my skirt down before gripping my hips to help me stand. With my legs still wobbly, I have to lean my back against his chest. I’m overly aware of his erection pressing against my lower back. I want to pull away, but he’s holding me too tightly. His study smells like sex and me, a one-sided victory.
Running his nose over the arch of my neck, he inhales deeply. “Your punishment is over.”
This was punishment? “You didn’t hurt me.”
“I know.”
“Why not?” I ask snappily. I hate that I came. I hate the suspense. I prefer to get the unsavory parts of my new life out of the way. The quicker I know what he has planned for me, the better. I’ll deal with it because it won’t be forever. I’ll find the evidence that will set me free. “I know you wanted to.”
I can hear him smile, so calm and collected, nothing like the mess he made out of me, when he says, “Not today.”
The answer is mild, but the meaning sets a tornado off in my head. He’s the cruelest of cruel. He’s giving me what I dread more than pain—the awful suspense. I suck in a breath. I want to ask when, how, where, but before I can construct a meaningful sentence, a knock falls on the door. With my nerves are already shattered, the sound makes me jerk. Damian’s body tenses against mine. Before he can give his permission, the door flings open. At the same moment I register the beautiful woman on the threshold, Damian pushes me away.
Chapter 5
Damian
Of all the timing in the world, Annemarie chooses now. I’m trying to get around why I made Lina come instead of cry, and it doesn’t help that I’m fighting a raging hard-on. What just happened is private. It’s intimate, however warped our intimacy may have been. Lina didn’t come for me by choice. I manipulated her body into climaxing. I don’t want to humiliate Lina by allowing another woman to witness the aftermath of this twisted lust, which is why I put a little distance between us. It’s what any gentleman would do.
When I step aside, Lina’s face turns blank. With the way she folds her hands and draws back into herself, the small distance may as well be a gorge. It’s as if I didn’t watch her orgasm a moment ago or tell her I most definitely want to hurt her, only not today. I’ve just admitted to being a sick son of a bitch, and now my wife’s attention is fixed on the woman standing in the doorframe. Anne’s gaze settles on Lina before it shifts to the paddle on the floor.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Anne’s green eyes shimmer with hurt. “I came for some of my things.”
Goddammit. “You were supposed to do it before.” Before I brought home my bride.
“I have no place to keep my clothes.”
“My conditions were clear.”
“Damian, please.” She runs across the floor and throws herself at my feet. “Please don’t kick me out. I beg you.”
Letting her stay, even for one night, was a mistake. I shouldn’t have given in. Housing a single, beautiful woman with revealing clothes who easily goes down on her knees is the kind of tabloid news that will make a public spectacle out of any new wife. I took responsibility for Lina when I married her, and I take my responsibilities seriously. Hurting Lina to feed my lust behind closed doors is one thing. Publically dishonoring her is another. There’s enough of the crazy gossip going around as it is.
“Damian.” Anne blinks up at me. “Please.”
Lina’s cheeks are losing their after-orgasm glow. Despite her poker face, she’s unsettled. I can read it in her eyes. To her credit, she doesn’t flee the awkward situation.
Anne is nothing if not insisting. She folds her arms around my legs, creasing my pants in her fists. “Damian.”
I try to pry her free, but she only clings to me harder. Zane saves me by charging into the room. His face goes red as he takes in the scene. Hooking his hands under Anne’s armpits, he hauls her to her feet.
“What are you doing?” he exclaims.
Lina looks between us, her blank expression finally slipping to make space for something that looks like hurt or embarrassment, maybe both.
Beyond irritated with Anne for her intrusion, I don’t spare her my wrath. “I gave you more than enough money to find your own place.”
“I had bills to pay.”
Zane starts pulling her to the door. “Let’s go.”
“I don’t have a job,” she says. “You know how high the unemployment rate is. I’ve got nowhere to go.”
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Zane says under his breath.
Lina’s voice rings through the space, clear and beautiful. “Wait.”
Zane stops to look at her.
“You can’t throw her out on the street,” my wife says. “You heard what she said. She has nowhere to go.”
Both Zane and Anne stare at her in surprise. Instead of gratitude, something else flashes in Anne’s eyes, something ugly. It’s a nasty trait. It shows when you realize someone is a better person than you. It’s called jealousy.
“It won’t look good for you if she stays here,” Zane offers meekly.
Lina steps forward, emanating authority as if her ass isn’t still smarting—just a little—from my hand. “I don’t care.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” She will care when it’s headline news. Besides, my mother used to say two women in one kitchen can only lead to trouble.
“Since my money will no doubt pay for some of the living expenses in this monstrosity of a house,” Lina says, “I should have a say, even if the property belongs to you.”
Oh, but she’s wrong on so man
y levels. One, I won’t use a cent of her dead husband’s money to provide for her living expenses. No, the roof over her head, the food she eats, and the clothes I intend for her to wear are all paid for by my money. Whatever money she brought into this union is destined for two purposes only—to get back my mine and destroy her father. Two, by court ruling she’s incompetent and unfit to manage her own affairs. She has no say in anything. The only say she’ll have is the permission I’ll give her when and how I see fit. Three, we’re married within community of property. The house belongs to both of us. She would’ve known that if she’d paid attention to what she was signing in church, not that I blame her for being distracted on the day I married her. I don’t believe in going halfway. It’s all or nothing, and when it comes to Lina and me, it’s all. I’m not worried she’ll divorce me for half of my fortune, because I’m not letting her go.
Zane looks ready to flee. Anne is suddenly grateful, offering Lina a belated smile.
“You will not put her in the street when we have five spare bedrooms,” Lina insists.
There’s fire in her blue eyes and determination in the set of her small body. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought Lina knew what it was like to be homeless, which is, of course, the furthest thing from the truth. She was born into wealth and that’s all she’s known. She’s so strong, so convinced of her principles, and so goddamn beautiful as she stands there, dressed in black, underwear soaked, that I can’t deny her. That’s why she’s so loveable, why I fell for her the first time we met. She’ll offer a cold man a shawl and a homeless woman—a woman who for all she knows is my mistress—a room, no matter the consequences. Her compassion is her strength, and that’s why I’m weak. I don’t have compassion. I only have vengeance.
I cross my arms. “It will be temporarily until you’re back on your feet.” I shift my gaze to Zane. “This better not become a front-page tabloid story.”
“Of course not,” he says quickly.
Anne grips my hand in both of hers. “Thank you, Damian,”
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