Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
He’s too stunned to fight. If anything, a soft gasp spills out of him when I pin him to the surface, my hand secured firmly around his nape, but not choking him.
I kick his legs open with my knee and land my palm on his ass. Hard.
Even though he’s still wearing his briefs, the slap echoes in the air, and Preston releases a muffled groan.
Or more like he sinks his teeth into his lip to muffle his groan.
Pulling at the elastic band of his boxers, I slide my hand inside and knead the firm yet somehow soft muscles.
My voice drops to a rough growl as I speak close to his ear. “You want to be hurt by me, baby?”
“Isn’t that what you want?”
I love how his words become breathy when he’s turned on. He’s the embodiment of fucking temptation, my prince.
And I’m no saint.
“That’s not what I asked, is it?” I pull down his boxers to his mid-thighs and land three consecutive strikes to his ass cheeks.
A moan slips out of his mouth, still muffled, and it irritates me.
He also did this the last time, not letting me hear his sounds of pleasure properly.
But at least he let me listen to him when he begged and blathered, on the verge of exploding all over my hand.
Maybe that’s what I need to do. Push him to the edge again. Repeat that moment.
Drag that abandon out of him, even if it’s the last thing I do.
“Answer the question, Preston.” I stroke his ass where I just hit him, and he stiffens a little.
It’s strange that he welcomes spanking with open arms, but I try to soothe the ache, and he’s so not into it.
Who hurt you, my toy?
Who dared to hurt my toy?
“What question…?” He trails off, looking like my own fucking piece of art, cheeks red, mouth parted, and so overrun with desire, I’m sure if I touched his dick, it’d be standing at attention.
“I asked if you want to be hurt by me.”
He purses his lips, slowly retreating into that head of his and keeping that wall I’ll break the fuck down in place.
I release him and step back, creating some distance I most definitely don’t want.
And for a moment, I admire the sight of my handprints on his fair skin.
Fuck me.
I didn’t get a proper look at him the last time, with him on the run and everything, but he wears my bruises so well.
The animalistic need to mark him permanently rears its head.
Take him.
Own him.
Make him mine.
I clamp down on those thoughts, trying to shove them back because they’re absolutely preposterous.
I don’t want to own others, especially not an elusive little shit like Preston.
“Why did you stop…” He stares back at me, but both his hands are still planted on the locker, his legs as parted as I left them, like a very good boy.
The view of his boxers stretched between his thighs is so fucking erotic, I want to fuck him right here and now.
Thrust my cock in his ass and make him take it, listen to his groans and moans as I fuck and fuck and fuck—
No.
Slow down.
I don’t want him to get spooked and run off on me.
My hand wraps around my wooden stick, and I finger the smooth sanded surface of the shaft.
“What…” He swallows, staring at the stick, but instead of discomfort or fear, his eyes brighten with excitement, my naughty prince. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you to answer my question.”
“Why does it matter? Just…” His eyes dart to the stick, then back to me. “Go on.”
“Not until you answer.”
“You—”
“Do you want to be hurt by me, Preston?”
He nods once.
I shake my head. “Use your words.”
“Yeah.” He gulps, the word barely audible.
“Full words.”
“I want to be hurt,” he grumbles. “Happy now, you piece of shit?”
“Very.” I grin, stepping toward him, and he holds his breath.
“Are you…going to use the stick?” There’s a certain awe in his words, as if he can’t believe it himself.
“Yeah.” I grab a fistful of his ass, and he gets on his toes as I bring my palm down on the red flesh in a violent slap. “What’s your safe word, baby?”
“F-friends.”
I chuckle darkly in his ear. “We’ll never be friends.”
“Thank fuck for that,” he grumbles, but his eyes are bright and expectant.
Alive.
And it makes me feel alive.
Complicated. Everything about him is complicated.
And the harsh reality is—I can’t stay away.
12
PRESTON
Iknow what you’re thinking, brain, and I swear it’s not what it looks like.
Says me…to my own brain…which means it’s literally my brain arguing with itself, trying to spin this into something less apocalyptic than it actually is.
Because how the hell am I supposed to explain this disaster to myself?
And it is a disaster. A catastrophic, end-times mess.
First, I have a full-blown panic attack in front of Marcus because of issues. The same issues Dr. Duret and Dr. Fenwick are failing to fix because they’re apparently using Pinterest mood boards instead of medical degrees.