by Jane Henry
Then he stops. He stops.
Noooo.
“Tomas,” I whisper. My voice shaking. I’m so close to begging I’m ashamed.
Stroke. Pleasure. Vibration. Pulsing, throbbing, coursing through me, ready to explode and I want this, I need this. I want to come so badly my mouth is dry, I can’t even breathe or swallow or blink.
“You know what I’ve told you to do,” he says, before he punctuates his words with another stroke of the paddle. And damn him.
It feels good. The solid smack sends pleasure right to my clit. He’s done this on purpose, manipulated me, and I hate him for it.
I clamp my lips together. I’m more stubborn than he thinks.
Smack.
I gasp.
Smack.
I’m moaning.
Smack.
I think another stroke of his paddle and I’m going to come. I didn’t know I was the kind of girl who got aroused like this, but he’s a master of pleasurable pain. He knows exactly how to dance between pleasure and pain so that both are irrevocably intertwined.
One more gentle stroke of his fingers, then another, and he stops, resting his hand on my inner thigh.
“Please,” I say before I can stop the word. As soon as I do, I wish I could take it back, grab it out of the air between us where it hangs and shove it away out of sight. I’m ashamed of myself that I caved like that. I didn’t mean to.
“Good girl,” he says approvingly, and then he does the unthinkable. He moves to the side and stares down at me, unbuttons his pants, and removes his cock. No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t!
But he fucking does, stands right beside me and strokes himself. I’m impossibly more aroused watching his thick cock in his palm, the way he throws his head back in ecstasy before he climaxes, hot come splashing on my back. Oh my God. He didn’t.
“You’ll keep this in mind tonight at the reception,” he says casually, placing his cock back in his pants and turning away from me.
“Wait! I did what you said!” I protest. The stupid thing he put in me still vibrates, and I could almost come just from that alone, but I’m too in my head to get to the point of release.
“You did. Good girl. I don’t need to spank you anymore for now.” He slides open the drawer beside the bed and replaces the paddle, then walks to the large bathroom on the other side of the room. I close my eyes, trying to mentally take myself to a place far away from here, but my only focus is the bundle of nerves between my thighs, the vibration that ricochets through my body, his come on my back.
When he returns he has a towel and washcloth. Quickly, efficiently, he cleans me off.
“No shower,” he says. “I want the traces of me to scent you tonight, to fill your pores and your memory of how you belong to no one but me.” Weaving his fingers through my hair, he yanks my head back. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I say through clenched teeth. I hate him. How could I have ever even entertained the thought that this asshole was anything more than a sadistic monster bent on his own pleasure? He didn’t defend me because he cares about me. He only did so because he got bent over someone touching what was his.
I curse him out so viciously in my mind, I swear he can read me just from looking.
You fucking bastard.
You selfish prick.
You’re a motherfucking asshole.
I never swear out loud, but hell, this situation seems to warrant it. It so does.
“Up you go, little brat,” he says.
“I thought you meant baby?” I say, but he shakes his head with a chuckle.
“That was before you looked at me with those beautiful, murderous eyes. Now there’s only the brat about you, my detka.”
“Could that have anything to do with the fact that you just manhandled me, brought me to the edge of climax, jerked yourself all over me, and beat me?”
“A spanking isn’t the same as a beating, sweetheart,” he says with sickening condescension. “I gave the bastard who tried to take advantage of you a beating. What you got was a reminder of my authority and a taste of how pain can become pleasure.”
“Pleasure? You call that pleasure? You left me hanging, with no pleasure in sight, while you—”
But he’s had enough. His eyes harden, and he grips my hair one more time.
“That’s enough of this,” he says, giving me a little tug. “My patience is growing thin. Behave yourself. If you do, this evening I’ll make good on my promise to pleasure you.”
He drops me and my face falls to the pillow before he takes my wrists and unfastens the cuffs. “Up you go,” he says, and I want to literally punch him in the throat for treating me like this. I’ve never been aroused and left hanging, and I fucking hate it. It’s like some sadistic game for him or something.
Was it in my head before, imagining that he had any tenderness in him at all?
“I’ll call Eliott,” he says. Of course. I’m a mess now thanks to him and he won’t have me tattered and unkempt before his associates. I can’t help but grumble under my breath, barely stifling the desire to smack him with my newly freed hands or cuss him out, but I’m a quick learner.
I sit on the edge of the bed fuming, when he stands right in front of me and chucks a finger under my chin. “Look at me, Caroline.”
I look into his deep brown eyes and see something that surprises me: compassion.
But he isn’t trying to get my attention or control me. This time, he’s actually looking at the scar on my chin in the light of the bedside table.
“Who did this to you?”
I swallow, weighing my options. “If I tell you, what will you do?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Punish them.”
“Is that what you do to anyone who doesn’t do what you wish?”
Meeting my gaze, he nods. “Yes.”
“Is there no one more powerful than you?” Is he that arrogant? I have sense enough not to ask the second question aloud.
“Of course there are,” he says. “But even the mighty can fall.”
Does he consider himself one of the “mighty” ones? Is he capable, then, of falling?
My chin still in his hand, I watch as his eyes wander back to my scar.
“Do you consider yourself infallible?” I ask him.
Still focusing on my scar, he shakes his head. “No man is infallible, Caroline.” His eyes wander to my hair. “And I changed my mind. We won’t need Eliott. I’m capable of helping you get ready myself.”
I look at his thick fingers and imagine they’re clumsy. And hell if I know how to put on makeup or fix my hair. The traditional Russian women fix themselves up to perfection and I pale in comparison. But if I’m to be paraded around in front of all of the visitors he has coming, I want to look my best.
“Are you sure about that?” I ask.
With a chuckle, he drops my chin and grabs my elbow, lifting me to my feet and doesn’t answer. He leads me to the bathroom by the hand, and it feels intimate, holding his hand, somehow even more intimate than what he did to me sexually.
I hate that he manipulated me that way. After what I’ve been through, the abuse at Andros’ hands, I hate sex. I don’t want to like it. Damn Tomas for making me want more.
Damn him.
But when he leads me to the bathroom, I begin to quiet a little. He’s preparing to take me to present to his brotherhood. To local politicians and wealthy leaders. When I’m ready, it will be time.
My stomach clenches with fear and nausea. He instructs me to stand in front of him and releases my hand, oblivious to my worry.
“This is a beautiful dress,” he murmurs. “Fitting for the woman who will wear it.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” I whisper. “Is it, like, your duty or something? Are you trying to seduce me?”
He gathers my undergarments, and when he returns, he gives me a curious look. “Seduce you. Of course I’m trying to seduce you.” He takes the panties and tosses them into a basket in th
e corner of the large bathroom. “You won’t be needing those. The bra I’ll allow.” He hands it to me to put on.
“You’re not even going to deny it?” I ask while I fasten the strap. Then it dawns on me he just said no panties. “And what do you mean no panties? What if I… I don’t know, need them?”
“Why would you need them?” he asks, but his back is to me while he’s getting the dress off the hanger, so I’m not sure if the tightness in his voice means he’s amused or impatient.
“To keep me… clean or something. It feels terribly indecent.”
“I don’t want you decent,” he says, as if that’s explanation enough. My eyes roll heavenward, and I’m grateful he’s occupied taking the dress off the hanger, because he probably wouldn’t be cool with me rolling my eyes at him.
When he turns to me, I can’t help but admire how pretty it is. The pale blue gown with silver and lace accents dips into a low vee in the front, and I wonder if it will even cover my… ample assets. A filmy overlay gives the gown an almost ethereal appearance, as if I’m wearing something made of fairy dust. I don’t know how much this is worth, but I know I’ve never even touched anything worth what this is in my life. How did they know it would fit me?
He bends with the dress in hand. “Hold onto my shoulders.” With a sigh, I comply, stepping into the dress and allowing him to dress me. In silence, he gently spins me around so he can zip me up and fasten the little buttons in the very back.
“Turn around, now,” he says. I do, not looking at him. My bust looks good, I guess. It sure feels ample and… bare. But the sleeves don’t hide my arms, I still have a rounded belly under which there are curves upon curves. But when he takes me to the full-length mirror in the corner of the massive bathroom, I stare.
I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me. Beneath the makeup I’m wearing, I can still see the scar. This is me. Scars don’t just magically vanish. But I’m not this beautiful. What magic did he work? I turn around in wonder, alarmed at how some preening and this dress have impacted my overall appearance so quickly.
Standing behind me, he takes hold of my waist, his hands spanning either side.
“You are beautiful,” he says with emphasis, as if he’s already predicted my response and knows how uncomfortable this makes me. I prefer being hidden and unobtrusive. I hate the idea of attracting anyone’s attention, because God forbid, they think I’m worthy of attention.
I shake my head. “I don’t like this,” I tell him. “Not at all. Please don’t make me go.” I turn away from the mirror, unable to look at myself for another minute. But his grip on my waist tightens when I try to pull away.
“You have no choice in this.”
“Why not?” I say, my emotions rising. I swallow hard and stare at the floor. I don’t want to look at myself again.
“I’ve already explained to you,” he says tightly. “You’re expected to show yourself to others as my wife. And because I asked.”
To my surprise, his hand comes to my chin and he yanks my face back up, making me look back at the mirror. He grips my chin in his fingers. “You are beautiful. Say it.”
I clench my jaw. His grip on my face tightens.
“Caroline.” There’s warning in his voice I’ve already learned to heed.
“I’m beautiful,” I lie.
He holds my gaze in the mirror, his full of determination and bossiness and mine full of anger and denial. He actually smiles.
“Keep that fire,” he says. “It colors your cheeks and I quite like it.”
I open my mouth to protest, when I realize his command to stay feisty makes my response complicated. Has he tricked me? If I snap at him or act like the little brat he calls me, I’ll be giving him exactly what he wants. I open my mouth to protest, even though I’m not sure what I’ll actually say, when he turns me to face him. Holding my gaze with challenge in his eyes, he lifts my face, bends down, and captures my mouth with his, not bothering to even ask permission with the brush of lips but plundering me with firm, purposeful lashes of his tongue against mine. My knees buckle and I move involuntarily closer to him, my arms grasping his neck for purchase before I swoon, and I will not swoon.
With his lips on mine, I can believe for a minute that he has the potential of being so much more than the man I’m shackled to for life. In my mind, I tell myself to resist this, not to allow him to seduce me and master my thoughts and actions so skillfully. But I can’t help it. Damn it, I’m only human and his kiss tricks me into believing there’s a hint of passion in all this.
As he kisses me, he yanks the skirt of the dress up, gathering the filmy layers in his fist and reaching underneath them to stroke me before he takes out the vibrator. I shudder, then pull closer to him and part my legs, welcoming the pressure and teasing, but he only ghosts a touch before he removes his hand.
“Good girl. I’ll give you good reason not to wear those.”
I’m panting and disheveled, but he quickly rights me and hands me a lip gloss.
“Fix yourself,” he says. I blink, startled by his cold tone. “And then we leave.”
Chapter 11
Tomas
As we prepare to go downstairs, a strange sort of pride comes over me. I didn’t earn this woman or even fight for her, and I have no real claim on her yet, but none of that matters. She wears my ring and bears my name. She belongs to me. I hate even leaving her for the brief time I need to connect with my men. Though I trust my brothers with my life, I want Caroline within arm’s reach. I tell myself it’s so I can keep an eye on her, but there’s more to it than that. I want to shield her from anyone and anything that could threaten her.
It surprises me that I feel this level of intensity, this need to protect her as deeply as I do. When her brother’s man attacked her back in Atlanta, that was an obvious reaction. She belongs to me, and as such, he had no right to come anywhere near my woman. But why do I feel the way I do now so intensely? As if I need to tuck her against me and shield her from the eyes of the others?
When we step into the hall, I place my hand on her lower back and draw her close to me.
“Why do you keep doing that?” she hisses.
“Doing what?” Her angry tone and hissed voice give me pause.
“Touching me there.” I look down at my hand as if my body has moved of its own accord.
“On your lower back?”
“Yes,” she hisses. “It’s so… intimate.”
Her reaction amuses me. “Sweetheart, I’ve done a lot more intimate things than that,” I say. I don’t know why she finds the lower back touch that much more offensive, but I’ll note it. Her cheeks flush a bit at the reminder of what “intimate things” I’ve done to her.
“It’s like you want to make it clear to all of them that you own me or something.”
I don’t hesitate with my response. “I do.”
She stops walking and eyes me curiously. “You do what?”
“Own you.”
Those beautiful eyes narrow to slits. “You cannot own another human being.”
I snort. “How naïve of you.”
“It’s illegal!”
“Your point?”
“You’re sadistic. You know that?”
“I’m well aware.”
She breathes out an exasperated breath but can’t seem to form any words beyond a strangled, “Argh!”
“Easy, darling,” I tell her, allowing my voice to drip with condescension. “You don’t want to burst a blood vessel. And remember, Caroline. Your behavior determines a punishment or reward. Choose carefully.”
We’ve arrived on the main floor and she suddenly becomes much more subdued than she was before, bowing her head and pulling closer to me. I like this. Without her even realizing it, I’ve become her refuge when all else fails.
Sweet girl, I think. Beneath her barbed exterior, I suspect she’s a lot more innocent than she lets on. And inside, I bet she’s far more vulnerable than she cares to admit.
“Tomas.”
Yakov and Yvonne stand just a few paces away, entering the main room from a hallway ahead of us. Yakov wears a navy-blue suit. I haven’t seen him this dressed up since he got here. I appreciate the show of respect. Yvonne wears a soft pink dress, her hair pinned atop her head, silver earrings dangling from her ears. When she first got here, she was intimidated, so much so she could hardly speak. It’s taken some time, but she’s finally grown a bit more accustomed to our methods and our brotherhood. The men of my brotherhood like their women soft, feminine, yielding. Yvonne epitomizes a wife of Bratva leadership. Caroline will learn to do so as well.
“Yakov,” I respond, taking his hand with a firm shake. I nod toward Caroline. “Meet my bride.” I can’t hide the note of pride in my voice. It pleases me to walk into this room with her on my arm.
Yakov reaches out a hand to shake hers, and she reaches a shaky hand out to greet him. Stepping toward him, she gets flustered and catches her toe on thin air, trips, and nearly goes sprawling. Yakov reaches out to catch her just seconds after I do, and I pull her against me.
“Are you okay?” he asks. I have to school myself, so I don’t deck him for coming anywhere near her. I’d kill him if he treated her badly but treating her kindly is almost just as bad. Apparently, I can’t hide my gut reaction, because Yvonne looks at me with wide, terrified eyes. She quickly grabs Yakov’s arm as if to remind me that she’s his.
“You look beautiful, Caroline,” she says in her soft-pitched voice. “Like a princess.”
Caroline turns away and nods, visibly uncomfortable from the praise. “Thank you,” she says. “I’m not sure what they did, but I—” she looks at me and closes her mouth, contemplating, before she continues. “Thank you.”
