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I push the gun in just a little deeper, watching Liv take a shaky breath, like she’s ready to break. Her body’s trembling, teetering on the edge, and her eyes are already half-lidded with need. But this is punishment, and she knows it.

Right when her body locks up and I know she’s ready to shatter, I pull the gun away.

Her eyes snap to mine, wild curls fall in her face, but her expression is desperate.

I brush the hair from her face, my fingers slow. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

“P-please,” she whispers, her blush creeping down her neck.

Olivia begging is music to my fucking ears! My dick is so hard it’s readyto rip through my pants.

“Look at you,” I murmur, dragging the barrel along her inner thigh, tracing slow, teasing circles before lifting it in front of her face. Letting her see exactly what she’s done. “So fucking needy for me.”

Her blush deepens, staining her skin an even deeper shade of crimson. It’s not fear in her eyes, no, it’s that stubborn streak, the one that refuses to give me the satisfaction of giving in. But I see it anyway. The way her lips part, the way her breath shudders, the way her tongue flicks out for just a second before she clamps her mouth shut.

She’s already lost this fight. I press the slick barrel against her lips. “Now, clean it.”

She stares at me for a second, her chest rising and falling. Then, slowly, she parts her lips and sticks out her tongue.

Good fucking girl.

20

Liv

What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t even think straight. My whole body’s overheated, like I’m running a fever I can’t break. Shame crawls up my neck, making my skin feel hot and gross.

How the hell did I end up like this?

Snooping one second, bent over Alessio’s stupidly strong, solid muscle-thick thighs the next. I groan, standing on shaky legs and yanking my dress down, refusing to look at him.

The mortification doesn’t let up when I let out a hiss the second the fabric drags over my ass. It’s still throbbing from being spanked within an inch of its life. Awesome, just what I need. And he actually got me close. That never happens.

Well, unless we’re counting that time in Chicago when my kitty practically swallowed his knife… but both times he stopped before I could finish.

I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that he left me hanging like some desperate idiot or that his spanking damn near had me humping his leg like a bitch in heat.

My cheeks burn just thinking about that smug bastard as I scramble out of his room of sin like my ass is on fire, which basically is. I nearly slam into the door, my hands fumbling for the handle like I’ve forgotten how to function. My legs can’t move fast enough, and I don’t even know why I’m so desperate to escape. I’m pissed at him, obviously, but more than that, I’m pissed at myself, too.

Alessio acted like he was in charge, but… why do I feel like he would’ve stopped if I had asked him to? He was testing me, pushing me past my comfort zone, and the worst part? I didn’t ask him to stop, not really, and I didn’t want him to stop. Some traitorous part of me wanted him to keep pushing me.

Alessio’s one of the only people I’ve ever met who doesn’t treat me like I’m broken, like I’m going to shatter if someone raises their voice or looks at me the wrong way.

Clover was the best fill-in parent I could’ve asked for, but he kept me wrapped in bubble wrap, always trying to protect me from the world like I was made of glass. And maybe for a while, when I was first brought to him, I would have. But Alessio’s not afraid to toss me over hisshoulder and get rough with me. He’s got the whole bad-boy-gone-rogue thing down, covered in tattoos, a fiery attitude, and a body that’s enough to make angels sin. Maybe that’s partly why I keep ending up in these compromising positions with him.

I’m powerwalking down the hall, the extra-long walk of shame. But I don’t look up or check to see if anyone’s watching me, I keep moving with my head down. His stupid, arrogant grin flashes in my mind, and I swear I want to punch him right in the throat.

I take a few steady breaths, forcing myself to calm the hell down. I need a shower. A cold one. No, a hot one. Maybe both.Something to cool my ass and the heat between my legs and burn the embarrassment right out of me. My body’s still pulsing from his touch, his fucking handprint practically branded on my ass, and I hate it.

I shove my bedroom door open and nearly face-plant over a pile of boxes that look like they were kicked in here. This isn’t how I left the room earlier.

Packages are everywhere. Some are stacked neatly, and others are half-open like someone ripped through them looking for something. A few bags are toppled over, garment bags slung across the bed like they’re trash, and an ungodly amount of tissue paper spills onto the floor. The whole place smells like a department store filled with new leather, and the kind of money Iabsolutely didn’t earn. I step over a rogue shopping bag, nudging it out of my way with my foot to dig through one of the smaller boxes, ripping the tissue paper out like a raccoon going through a dumpster, until I find a silk robe and lace panties. This is good enough for now.

Paola’s definitely behind this and probably grinning like the shopping-obsessed spender that she is. I weave around the mess, making a beeline for the bathroom to scrub off my shame and question all of my life choices. My room is wrecked, but that’s a laterproblem.

The ensuite is ridiculous. It has marble floors, a soaking tub big enough to fit five people, and a rainfall shower that probably costs more than my rent. Built-in speakers line the ceiling because, apparently, even bathing in this place requires a soundtrack.

I crank the volume up, blasting Eminem’s “Not Afraid.” It feels fitting, and if there was ever a time I needed a motivational anthem, it’s now.