Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“Come with me,” I say, making my voice more gentle. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to spend time with you.”
She comes reluctantly.
I take her up to my suite. The alpha suite is a beautiful place. It was architecturally designed by a very intelligent woman whose understanding of space and aesthetics are paramount. It is made in such a way that it blends into the environment. Wood walls give the place a cozy, midcentury charm. The bed is large and the spread is green, and so is the carpet. The hues are picked to mimic the space around us. Most of the furniture is low slung and understated.
She sits on the very large bed in my very large room with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the forest and the plains and the mountains, and she just looks small.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
The inquiry is a little silly given I have wrapped my arms around her, picked her up, and am holding her to my chest. She fights me at first, then weakens against me as I keep her where I want her to be.
“I am hugging you, little one. Haven’t you ever been hugged before?”
“Of course I’ve been hugged before,” she mutters against my chest.
“Recently?”
“Yes.”
“By who?”
“By my friends.”
“It’s not the same as being embraced by your mate, is it.”
“How would you know? Got a lot of mates, do you?” There’s a delightful hint of spite in her response. She really wants me to fight with her, pin her down, beat her ass, make this easy for her.
That’s not on my agenda tonight. Tonight, she talks to me.
“Tell me more about you,” I say, setting her back on the bed. “You’re something of a mystery. Your ID doesn’t check out past a certain point. Nicky Love isn’t a real name.”
“It’s as real as Rex Regent,” she snorts. “Maybe more.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“In a small town,” she says. “I forget where. Doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t think anybody lives there now. It was one of those places that had a mine that ran dry and then everyone left and the people who didn’t sorta rotted with the houses.”
“Poetic,” I note.
“Accurate,” she says. “Ever seen an old lady with wood rot?”
She is, of course, fucking with me.
“Do you remember the name of the town?”
“I don’t remember the name of the state,” she says. “We packed up and traveled a lot when I was still small. I grew up in the bed of a truck, really. My dad would pick up odd jobs along the way.”
“How did you go to school?”
“I didn’t.”
“How did you learn to read and write?”
“Bold of you to make the assumption I can do either,” she says. She’s joking, but she’s also keeping me away from the truth of her life. I knew she’d have some hardship in her past. Every stray does. But I am starting to sense something more than simple poverty. I can almost scent something in the room, copper and iron.
Interesting.
“I didn’t grow up rich like you. But I got along. My dad taught me how to look after myself, and other people taught me what I needed to know from time to time. I’m good. I don’t need anybody to look after me.”
That last statement is such an inaccurate lie. I am looking at a young woman with a smashed hand and exhaustion from fighting her own instincts. I let the fact that I did not grow up rich slide. This isn’t about arguing with her. I want to understand her. I want to be here for her.
“You need to be looked after, Nicola.”
“Don’t call me that,” she hisses.
“It’s your name, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s Nicky. That’s what’s on my birth certificate. That’s how I file my taxes.” She scowls at me. “What do you even want? I thought we were going to fuck?”
I laugh. I can’t imagine a scenario in which I wouldn’t want to have sex with her, but she’s managed to find one. If mating with her means agreeing she doesn’t need to be cared for, I won’t mate with her.
“We’re not going to mate now, but you’re right that I do need to handle you,” I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean? More of you whipping my ass? You’re gonna beat me because I broke my hand and gave you some shit here and in the car, because you’ve got thin skin and you want to be in control, and I won’t let you be in control of me.”
I sit down in a chair and beckon her over.
“Come here,” I say, crooking my forefinger at her.
She gives me an angry look, but she gets up and comes over. There’s some part of her that craves the punishment she thinks I am going to give her. She’ll come to me to get spanked, to feel the heat and the pain and the arousal that inevitably follows even when she is sore.