While I’m off balance, Priscilla shoves me again. I wobble into the wall between the workout area and the sauna, and she giggles then whistles seductively. “I think I’ve figured out what you like, big guy.”
I feel the trembling start in my chest, and I want to throttle her. I don’t care if she’s a woman. I want to grab her hair and throw her against the wall and tell her to go fuck herself—and extra fucks for trying to dig into my family’s past.
“You don’t know shit,” I tell her, struggling to breathe as I lean against the wall.
“I know you’re nice and hard and I like to slap you around.” She grins and slaps me again, and it takes all the self-control I have not to lose my shit.
My heart is racing. Fucking flash-back land. “You’re a cunt—you know that, right?”
She bites my neck, the sting hard enough to draw blood, and I push her head away. I scoop her up in one arm, shove through the glass door to the darkened sauna, toss her onto one of the benches that line the four walls of the room, and start the steam. I turn her over and spank her again, hoping to ward off what I know we’ll end up doing, but of course it only makes her shriek and pant.
She glances back at me and I can see it in her eyes that all she really wants is to be hit. A domme who wants to be dominated. It’s what she thinks she deserves, and I know all too well the reasons why.
One night at my house she drank too much and spilled the story. How her mom left her with an uncle who sold her to his friends, and when she was old enough to change her fate, she ran off to a brothel where she made her own money and set her own rules. Later, she started making films. Got herself a C-class ticket to the Hollywood shindigs and fucked some desperate actors, desperate politicians, desperate gamblers. Got herself a red Jaguar and tattooed eyeliner, eyelash implants, breast implants. God knows what else on her is fake.
She leans closer, giving me a nose full of expensive perfume, and whispers something in my ear. Not understanding it, I blink at her. As much as I loathe her—even loathe her beautiful face—I wonder for the first time if perhaps I should try to make the best of this: our fucked up coupling. I don’t do sex with regular women, because too many of them expect a relationship in return. I quit going to the brothels months before the night with Sarabelle; escorts don’t excite me anymore.
“What did I say?” she purrs.
“I have no idea,” I tell her, squeezing her big, fake tits.
“I said who’s your mama now, you son of a bitch.”
My heart pounds in my chest, and for a second it doesn’t seem real. That I’m here with Priscilla Heat. That Sarabelle is gone, Sarabelle who always did what I wanted and never asked questions. I didn’t know her well, but she was always pleasant to be around.
“It’s sure as hell’s not you,” I growl.
“Oh, you better not back talk Mama.” She squeezes my balls, and I let out a moan. I lay her down and thrust three fingers into her, stretching her as she writhes against my hand.
“You know who’s a little slut?” she pants. “Elizabeth DeVille. I want to hear you say Elizabeth is a slut.”
Shock like a bucket of ice water slides through my veins, and for the first time I’m actually worried for Libby. True, Priscilla’s been following her, but I’d begun to assume that was to keep tabs on me. Now I wonder if she knows what happened between Libby and me at my vineyard shindig. Maybe she’s jealous?
She sinks her nails into my wrist. “I’d like to fuck that little bitch. Shove a dildo right up that tight ass just like Marchant did.”
I tense, and Priscilla grins—more a leer. “Hunter West, jealous,” she says. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“You think I’m jealous of that?” I am. Blindingly so, even though I’m sure she’s just lying to bait me. I bite her mouth, and Priscilla moans. “I don’t give a damn about Elizabeth DeVille.”
“You lie,” she hisses. She puts her hand over mine, and she guides it to her throat. She wants me to choke her. I’d like to, because I’m angry, but still I hesitate, a crime for which I receive a slap.
I see Rita’s angry face and am too disarmed to do anything but gasp for air.
“What a little bitch,” she hisses.
As our night winds to an end, I’m on top of her again with my hands around her neck. I can feel her tendons strain under my fingers as she jacks me off, and it’s everything I can do to stay hard. There was a time, a few months back, when all I could do was look down at Priscilla, worried I was hurting her throat, but I’ve had to stop that. I can’t get off if I’m worried, and she demands that I do.