"Yeah?" It's the idiot at the front desk.
"Do you happen to have any toothbrushes?" I ask, already feeling my nerves rising at the sound of his voice.
"All out," he says.
"Deodorant?"
"Out."
I huff out an impatient breath, but keep my voice steady. "Thanks."
I turn to find Marissa hastily putting something behind her back, her wide eyes betraying her guilt.
What the hell?
"Come here," I tell her. I clench my fists, controlling my desire to grab her by the hair and haul her to me.
"What?" She wants me think she's innocent, but she's fucking not.
"Now."
Tentatively, so slowly it barely looks like she's moving, she makes her way toward me, but I don't wait. I take a step toward her, watching as she captures her beautiful, full lips between her teeth. She lets out a little squeak when I grasp her upper arm and tug her toward me until she's flush up against my chest.
I ignore her intoxicating, feminine smell, crisp citrus mixed with delicate floral undertones, the scent that permeates my every waking hour and dreams. She's fucking around and still hasn't gotten the memo that I mean every damn word I say. She has no idea how much danger she's in. No fucking idea.
I take her wrists and draw them forward, prying her hands open to reveal her cell phone.
Anger boils up inside me so hard and fast I have to school my features so I don't terrify her, but fuck if I don't need to give her a taste of what she's up against.
This beautiful, headstrong, brilliant girl is on the cusp of losing every fucking drop of innocence she possesses. The thought of anyone touching her—hurting her…
"What did I tell you?" I grit out between clenched teeth, drawing her closer to me by both elbows, until her body is pressed up against mine, her breath coming in tiny, labored gasps.
But she's frozen, and I suspect she's lost her ability to speak, because she stares at me in silence and doesn't respond, her mouth slightly agape.
She's scared, but she's not fucking scared enough.
I want to haul her over my lap. To peel off every layer of clothing like I'm unwrapping a gift. To paint the curves of her ass with my palm until she's beet red and writhing on my knee, pleading with me to stop. But if I draw her over my lap, she'll feel how fucking hard I am. She'll know how much I want her.
I think of every damn time she's mouthed off to me, snuck around behind my back, told me to fuck off, the way she's kissed that spineless bastard of a boyfriend, and I make a split second decision to break every goddamned rule. To cross that line between protector and something deeper... more intimate... more erotic.
I sweep my arm across the table and send papers and pens and menus fluttering to the floor, march her to the edge, spin her around, and push her belly over the edge.
"Hey!" she protests, pushing against me, but her efforts are laughably fruitless. With one hand, I overpower her, pressing the small of her back down so she's helpless to resist me. She knows what I've threatened. She knows what has to happen now.
"Don't!" she tries to order me. "I'm sorry!"
I ignore the way she pleads, while I gather the skirt of her dress and press her down with pressure on her lower back. I stifle a groan at the sight of the thin strip of fabric she calls panties. If I knew she wore a sheer thong under that dress—
I make myself focus on what needs to happen next. Marissa will learn to obey me.
Without another word, I slam my palm against the full, voluptuous curves of her ass. It feels so damn satisfying to spank her, I do it again.
And again.
And again.
At first, she takes her spanking in stunned silence, the only sound in the room the smack of flesh on flesh, but as I continue her punishment, she whimpers.
I don't stop. I can't stop. I've wanted to do this so long, the taste of dominating her makes me hunger for so much more. I'm a starving beast who's longed to taste this, to command and control and overpower.
To chastise.
Correct.
Punish.
"Stop!" she begs, her voice choked with tears. "Please, Nicolai. I'm sorry." She's crying in earnest now, and I don't want to let on that it affects me. I'm torn. I want to punish her further, until I've marked and claimed her, and her body bears witness to the lesson I've taught. And the beast in me wants to tear that thong off her and slide my fingers through her swollen folds, expertly working her to orgasm on my hand, on my cock, on my mouth. To make her first lesson indistinguishable between pleasure and pain.
I blink, my hand raised to strike again in mid-air.