Page 10 of Crushing Clover

He slid his hands up the outsides of my thighs.

I was startled but held still, not fussing even when he hooked his fingers into my borrowed panties and drew them off.

My pulse felt like it was crawling up my throat, jerky and independently sentient.

He knelt me on the seat of the couch and pushed my upper body down on the back of it until my face was almost pressed up against the wall.

The breath he blew out sounded like either a groan or a curse.

He swept up the back of the dress shirt I was wearing and stood there for a long moment. I thought I knew where this was going, and waited for the sound of a zipper, but instead he pulled his belt from its loops.

“What are you doing?”

“Reminding you that you’re not here to think, just obey.”

My mind automatically slipped back to being in a similar position at a much younger age, albeit with more clothing.

“I understand who’s in charge here, sir,” I said quietly. If life had taught me anything, it was that tears and hysterics didn’t earn me respect.

He grunted, but it was obvious he’d already made up his mind when he wrapped the buckle end of his belt around his hand. The sound of his belt swishing through the air made me wince in anticipation.

The first lick of the leather on my ass stung but didn’t precisely hurt.

I gritted my teeth, determined not to embarrass myself.

The next one was harder, a thud against my right ass cheek.

That one was going to leave a bruise. A loud snap sent a lick of red-hot fire across both cheeks, and I yelped despite my determination not to be a little bitch about it.

He covered my body with his and growled, “I thought I told you to shut the fuck up.”

Without meaning to, I shivered. Why was my body reacting to his proximity even though the only thing he was offering was violence? His hair brushed my cheek, feather soft. His breath against my ear made my insides squirm.

He stuffed two fingers into my mouth, and I choked on them in surprise. They tasted like soap with an undercurrent of spice.

“Be quiet, now.”

He pulled his fingers out of my mouth, then shoved a wad of cloth into it to take their place.

“If you spit those out, this is going to go on longer than you can imagine.” Something in his pocket was digging into my already burning ass. It felt like he had a rolling pin jammed in there. What kind of chef would…

Lord, I hoped it was a rolling pin.

It wouldn’t be fair if all three of them were hung like donkeys. The girls at the strip club always joked about how great it was to fuck a guy who was big, but I failed to see the attraction of having my insides churned.

He got off me and backed away.

The next strike made me gasp so hard I almost inhaled the cloth in my mouth. The fabric was rough against my tongue and not very bulky.

Ugh.

Were Arabella’s panties in my mouth? My tongue tried to reject them and spit them out, but pissing off Saint John when he was already punishing me would be a stupid idea.

It went on and on.

He laid into my ass until it was throbbing. I couldn’t hear anything except the belt, my hectic breaths, and the quiet sounds of distress that escaped the makeshift gag.

Could everyone in the kitchen hear what he was doing to me?

My body stopped fighting it and melted against the back of the couch, every scrap of defiance and dignity drained from me.

Eventually, he stopped, but my thoughts were too fuzzy to realize it had ended.

He grabbed a handful of my aching, overheated flesh. His words had trouble penetrating the cotton my head felt stuffed with.

I stared at a piece of lint on the back of the couch.

The door clicked. I let myself slide sideways until I was lying on the couch, vaguely aware he’d forgotten to reattach the ankle cuff. Fingers trembling, I pulled the sodden, wadded lace out of my mouth, too exhausted to be grossed out.

I could probably escape right now.

I hadn’t heard him lock the door.

Where could I go?

I supposed I could go anywhere—lose myself. Hitchhike to a place I didn’t recognize the name of and start another life there. But how safe would I be in my new life and for how long? I didn’t have a cent.

Breathless, I lay there feeling sorry for myself. What the hell had I gotten myself into?

Wasn’t there a rule that a rich man who could afford to own a girl really just wanted someone he could talk to and shower with gifts? Maybe it depended on whether the guy had wanted the girl in the first place.

The door clicked open again, and I cringed, bracing for whatever came next—if by bracing, I meant lying absolutely still on the couch and playing dead.

When the person didn’t say anything, I got nervous and turned my head. Rush stood there. His gaze was unreadable.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I replied.

“I hear you pissed off Saint.”

I nodded. There was no point in telling him my side of things.

“Let me guess. Spring came in and introduced herself and got sketched out about the ankle cuff?”

I didn’t bother answering.

“So, you were screwed either way. If you hadn’t broken the no-talking rule, she might have freaked out.”

I shrugged, and he grimaced.

“I’ll admit, we didn’t really think this through, but we didn’t have time to figure out what to do with you tonight.”

I sat up and sucked in a breath, then managed to settle on one hip so that it didn’t hurt so much.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m a bit sore,” I admitted reluctantly.

“I can see that.”

“I’m not sure how to get him to stop hating me.”

I could see in his face that he didn’t know either. “Did he give you a safeword, at least?”

I snorted.

“Is that how you talk to me, girl?”

I set my jaw and tried it again. “No, sir. He didn’t give me a safeword.”

Fuck, this was starting to remind me of high school, where every authority figure was unfair and still expected you to treat them like royalty.

“I’ll talk to him. Choose a safeword, and we’ll talk about it later.”

The bastard patted the flaming hot skin of my ass before brushing the dress shirt down.

“What happened to your underwear?”

“Saint John stuffed my mouth with them.” I added indignantly, “Sir.”

His lips twitched, and he narrowed his gaze as though appreciating the mental image.

“I hate him.”

“You barely even know him.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Give him some time. In a few days you’ll hate him more.”

Fucking great.