Jonathan. It’s just Jonathan.
I don’t know why I felt like the character from the book would jump out from the pages and strangle me.
Or drag me to one of those holes he was digging up.
“You scared me,” I breathe out.
“So you realise you’re doing something wrong. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be scared.” The disregard in his tone throws me off.
It’s almost like a completely different man from the one who pushed my buttons until I unravelled all over his lap.
The man who made me feel after I’d come to the acceptance that I never would in this lifetime.
I hate him for it, a
nd I’ll never forgive him for resurrecting that part back to life without my approval.
“Do you have trouble following instructions, wild one?”
“What?”
“Margot must’ve told you not to come up here.”
I stand, steady my breathing, and grab the books from the floor and place them back on the bedside table. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“I do not care for being defied, Aurora. Is that understood?”
“Then you shouldn’t have gotten me.”
He grabs me by the arm and spins me around so fast, I gasp as I crash into his chest, my hand landing on his shoulder for balance.
Jonathan stares down at me with darkness so tangible, I can feel the smoke emanating from him and surrounding me in a halo.
That’s what Jonathan is — smoke. You can’t grasp him or escape him. The moment you think you’re safe, he comes out of nowhere and thickens with the intent of suffocating you.
“I have already said this and it’s the final time I’ll repeat it. If I ask a question, I expect a direct answer.”
“And if I have none?” My voice is breathy, small, wrong.
Damn you, voice.
“Then —” he reaches his other hand and grabs my arse cheek “— I’ll spank this arse.”
I instinctively push against him. Memories from last night flash before my eyes and it takes all my will to hold in the foreign sound fighting to get free.
“Now, is that fucking understood?”
“Yes,” I mutter so he’ll let me go.
It’s not about being spanked, it’s about the damn pulsing between my legs since he touched me or the promise that he’ll repeat what happened last night.
It’s about how I can’t stop thinking about the same fingers that are now clutching my wrist being inside me. Or that veiny, strong hand coming down on my soft flesh.
“Good girl.” Jonathan lets my arm fall and I step back on damn wobbly feet.
Why the hell did he have to say those two words using that raspy tone? He’s toying with parts of me I didn’t even think could be toyed with.
“I’m not a girl.”