Jonathan's pace slows, but he doesn’t stop. “You like this.”
I remain silent, refusing to admit my depraved thoughts.
He grips me by my sex, making my eyes shoot open. The intensity that greets me in his darkened features turns me breathless.
“If you like something I do to you, I expect you to say it. You don’t get to deny it while still enjoying it. We’ve already established that you belong to me.”
“You’ve established that. I never agreed to it.”
“Yes, you did. Not with words, but it was written in big capital letters when you screamed my name as your cunt strangled my dick. It’s right here with the way your folds are inviting me inside even when sore.”
My cheeks redden at the explicit image he paints in my head. Damn him and how easily he can rile me up.
When I say nothing, Jonathan removes his hand from between my legs and stands up. He pulls out a towel and dries his hands on it with sure, firm movements.
“T-that’s it?” I don’t know why the words escape my mouth. I was supposed to ask that to myself.
“That’s it. You don’t deserve something you don’t admit to enjoying.” He throws me an indecipherable glance. “I expect you in the dining room in fifteen minutes. Every minute you’re late will be taken out on your arse.”
And with that, he leaves the bathroom.
A frustrated scream bubbles up in my throat, but I trap it inside and flop under the water, letting it cover me whole. Not that it does anything to cool the flames he left behind.
Damn Jonathan King to the darkest pit of hell.
And because I want to strangle him — not in a sexy kind of way — I waltz to the dining room five minutes late.
The bath actually helped. My muscles are less sore, but they still ache and I feel him inside me with every step I take.
I’m dressed in my light pink sleeveless dress, my hair is loose, and I put on red lipstick. I need all my confidence today. And maybe I want to get on Jonathan’s nerves as much as he gets on mine. After all, he does stop and stare whenever I paint my lips red.
By the time I join Jonathan, he doesn’t appear in a good mood. He watches me with that furrowed expression that usually means disapproval.
“You’re five minutes late.”
“I had to get ready.”
“Excuses only make your case worse, not better, wild one.”
I lift a shoulder and pull my seat. Jonathan tuts and I sigh. Of course.
Making a detour, I go straight to him and sit on his lap. I hate how familiar — and dare I say, comfortable — this seat has become.
“Why do you always call me that?” I murmur in an effortless attempt to not focus on his presence at my back.
“What?”
“Wild one.”
“You’ve been wild since you were a child.”
“I was not.”
His lips twitch in that almost-smile of his, but he returns to a neutral expression soon after.
Jonathan grabs a small piece of bread and places it at my mouth. “Now, eat.”
I wrap my lips around it, but when they brush against his finger, a jolt of electricity blooms between us.