I gambled.
I’m still not sure if I lost or won.
I close my eyes and imagine it. The cold marble against my already-bruised knees. The air conditioning drawing goosebumps along my skin as adrenaline fades and takes its heat with it. Of the door opening and Jafar walking through. Of …
I’m not sure what comes next.
Will he fuck me right there on the floor again?
I shiver, and I can’t pretend it’s from anything but undiluted lust. Good girls aren’t supposed to want down and dirty fucking like that. They aren’t supposed to want to play on the dark side of desire, to push back until their partner forces submission, to love every second of the struggle.
I suppose I never was that good when it comes down to it.
Maybe that’s why I turn on my heel and walk down the hall to my new room. Jafar wants obedience? He’ll have to earn it. A single bargain does not a lifetime of servitude make.
It’s all excuses. I smile and shut my door, taking the time to flip the lock. Jafar won’t let this defiance stand, and he will more assuredly punish me, just like he threatened over the phone.
I can’t wait.
The sound of the door being slammed open jerks me into awareness. I never meant to fall asleep. Waiting for Jafar with a quip and a mocking smile is much preferable to this. I shove my hair out of my face and start to sit up, but he’s already there, bracketing my throat and forcing me back down.
“I gave you an order, Jasmine.”
He’s not hurting me. Not yet.
I push against his hold, my heartbeat picking up at the pressure of his rough palm against my neck, of knowing how easily he could crush me. “I didn’t feel like kneeling.”
“Why am I not surprised?” He doesn’t sound angry or out of control. No, he sounds just as coolly mocking as ever. It’s disconcerting when compared to the rough way he rips the covers from my body. Even pinned down as I am, I can feel his gaze rake over my nakedness. How can a man make me so hot from a single look? It defies explanation.
He trails a single finger down my chest between my breasts and stops just short of my belly button. “You aren’t in control, Jasmine. You want me to come here in a rage and take it out on that tight little pussy of yours while you scream that you hate me and yet pull me closer all the while.”
Yes, that’s exactly what I want.
I press harder against his hand, needing the roughness, needing him to touch me. “It’s not like I can stop you.”
“No.” For a moment I think he’s agreeing with me, but he releases me instead. “That’s not how this works.”
I scramble up against the headboard, lust giving way to shame and embarrassment. He doesn’t want me? The wild seesaw of emotions hasn’t slowed down once since he walked into my room earlier this evening—or is it technically last night now?—and it doesn’t show any evidence of doing so anytime soon. “What game are you playing?”
“One that requires clear rules.” He gives me a contemplative look. “You’re just a baby, Jasmine. You think you can throw a fit and flout the rules and still get what you want, to pretend I’m forcing you.” Jafar shakes his head slowly. “Fuck that.”
“Excuse me?”
“That play may have worked with your father, but it won’t work now.”
Frustration overrides my caution. “What is it you want from me, Jafar? Is it to have Balthazar’s daughter waiting on you hand and foot? Is it to fuck me whenever you please and know each time I come for you that you’ve beat him?”
His slow smile does nothing to comfort me, but I doubt it’s meant to. Jafar is hardly the comforting type. “What do I want from you?” He leans down until we’re eye level. “Everything.”
Everything.
“No,” I whisper. I have so little that’s mine and mine alone. I won’t share it. I refuse to. How dare he ask me to crack myself open for his pleasure? Sex is one thing, even unconventional sex. This is something more and I want no part of it.
He glances at his watch as if he has somewhere to be. “Sleep for now. This afternoon, I’ll have clothes brought in. Tonight, we’re going out.”
Under different circumstances, the possibility of going out might leave me breathless. Not now. Not like this. “I don’t feel like going out.”
“It wasn’t a request.” He turns and walks toward my door, which is when I notice it hangs at an angle from its hinges. It won’t shut now, even if I try to force it. How he could display such violence and then switch gears to be calm and collected?
But then, Jafar has always had better self-control than I have.