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Tovah

I had failed to consider one important fact: I had no clean underwear. There was no way I was wearing my pink lace panties from yesterday; just the idea made me cringe. And I wasn’t going to class sans unmentionables, either. Or wearing a pair of Isaac’s boxer-briefs . Ugh.

I was about to collapse back on the bed in frustration, when a thought came to me, filling me with glee. Isaac might have given me rules, and I might have to play by them for now, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t find ways to get him back. I needed to show him I wasn’t a doormat he could walk all over, and I knew just the way to do it.

Grabbing my bright pink lace panties off the ground, I spotted his laundry hamper and carried it downstairs, searching until I found the absolutely ginormous, pristine laundry room.

“Rich people,” I muttered in annoyance.

I didn’t even have laundry in my building; I had to lug my dirty clothes all the way to the nearest laundromat. The huge difference between our lives had never been more clear. Isaac and I were polar opposites. My goal in life was to speak truth to power, he hid the truth so he could maintain his power and control. I’d spent my whole life poor, he was so wealthy he’d never known a day of struggle in his life. I only had my mother as my family and hadn’t even gotten to be around her for my teenage years, he had a huge family he could rely on—even if his father was an evil asshole. I tried to stick to the background in order to do my job without too much attention, he lived in the spotlight—and loved it. And I dressed like a pop punk princess—multicolored, ever-changing hair, torn jeans, nose stud and attitude—whereas Isaac looked completely preppy and straightlaced…until you saw all the tattoos he was hiding.

And there were a lot of them. There was a whole sleeve on his left arm, although I hadn’t gotten the chance to really study them. All I’d seen was a man with a gun for a face…horrifyingly, the mysterious violence drawn on his skin only made Isaac hotter.

Anyway, we were polar opposites. Who would not attract, even if I had to fight myself every single day until I got free of here and of him.

Opening the washer, I dumped his clothes inside. They were mostly faded jeans, white t-shirts and button downs. Then, with more than a bit of savage, vengeful glee, I tossed my pink underwear on top, threw in some detergent, closed the lid and hit start.

“Millennial pink one, Isaac Silver, zero,” I said with satisfaction.

That done, I turned to my next task.

Isaac said he’d locked his office door, but he obviously didn’t know that I had learned how to pick a lock at a young age. I didn’t have my lock picking tools with me, or even a bobby pin, but I was sure there was something in his house that would be a good substitute. Heading into the kitchen, I went through the drawers, looking for a thin, pointing object, and settled on two metal skewers he must use for grilling kabobs. Or his housekeeper did; I still didn’t believe that Isaac was self-sufficient enough to cook for himself.

I wandered the house, testing each locked door. I didn’t know how much time I had until Isaac got back from practice, so I listened carefully for him as I used my makeshift lock picks to open all the doors. Bedrooms, a gaming room, a workout room—I wasn’t sure why he’d locked them all, but I didn’t care about the rest. Finally, I found his office. It was modern—white walls, white, L-shaped desk with two monitors. The bookshelves were filled with foreign language and linguistics books and novels in their original languages. It made sense: I’d learned that Isaac was a linguistics major, with minors in French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Hindi, Urdu…the man was a polyglot, and I assumed it had to do with the work he was planning on doing for his father down the line. It did force me to respect him; he was by no means a dumb jock.

There was nothing on the walls, except an MVP plaque for the Kings and a photo of him, Jack, Judah, and Levi, arms slung around each other. The Core Four, ruling over Reina without a care in the world. They looked casual and happy, Isaac’s dimples out on full display.

An annoying part of me wished he’d direct those dimples at me.

But I knew it would never happen, nor did I really want it to. He was my enemy, and chai lattes aside, I needed to remember that before I did something stupid. Like forget my mission and act like a lovesick idiot.

Turning back to my task, I started carefully opening drawers in his desk, only to be stymied by how empty they were. No paperwork, no bookkeeping, nothing. On some level, I’d known it was stupid to expect that he’d have papers with obvious ties to his father’s business, but I certainly had hoped.

The bottom drawer was locked with a code.

Jackpot.

There had to be something useful in here. Maybe even his laptop. Unfortunately, I had no idea what the code could be. I started testing a few options: his birthday, the day his mother had died. Neither worked. I was wracking my brain for other ideas when the alarm beeped off.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered.

“Honey, I’m home,” Isaac called. I heard footsteps.

Oh, fuck.

Abandoning the locked drawer, I made sure all the others were closed before hurrying out of his office, locking the door behind me just in time.

He appeared at the top of the steps as I stepped out into the hallway.

“Miss me?” he asked.

“Like a toothache,” I said.

He snorted. “Nice to still see you in my clothes, but I brought home some of yours. Here,” he said, handing me a small duffle bag.

Unzipping it, I found jeans, hoodies, tank tops, a dress, two bras…and no underwear whatsoever.

“What the hell, Isaac?” I said, appalled.

A sly smile slid across his face. He knew exactly what I meant. “You don’t need them.”

“Fortunately, I washed mine,” I told him, so annoyed I decided to spoil my surprise. “And I was nice enough to wash some of your clothes, too.”

His smile dropped away, his gaze suspicious.

“What did you do, Tovah?”

I shrugged, unable to conceal my grin. “See for yourself.”

Isaac headed back down the stairs, and I followed him, needing to see his face. He walked into the laundry room, opening the washing machine. And like I’d planned, every single item either had pink spots on it, or had turned completely pink.

“You. Goddamned. Brat,” he said slowly.

“What, is it not your color? I think it brings out the evil in your eyes,” I said innocently.

He turned toward me, holding one of his hockey jerseys. Although the majority of the jersey itself was still red, the white lettering had turned pink.

“Tovah…” he began.

“Oopsies,” I said, then collapsed into giggles at the sight of the shocked anger on his face. And, if I wasn’t wrong, there was even a little bit of respect there, like he was impressed by my ballsiness.

I was, too.

“…run,” he finished.

Still gasping with laughter, I turned on my bare feet and raced out of the laundry room, down the hallway, and up the stairs. His feet thudded after me as he followed.

I ran into his bedroom, slamming the door shut—or trying to, but his hand shot out, catching the door and forcing it open.

As he advanced on me, I retreated, my next plan to lock myself in the bathroom. But before I could reach it, I was being lifted in the air and thrown on the bed.

Oh no, not this bullshit again.

I tried to crawl away, only for Isaac to grab me around my right calf and drag me backward. Shoving a hand between my shoulders, he delivered hard swat after hard swat to my bare ass—because my underwear was still in the dryer.

His slaps burned , like yesterday’s spanking had been nothing more than a prelude to the real thing. He went at my ass brutally, like it had personally offended him and the only possible response was to leave painful handprints.

I screamed and fought, kicking and trying to get away.

He just spanked me harder.

“This is what you get for being a smart ass brat,” he said sternly as he peppered my ass with pain. “And it’s only the beginning. You’re going to hurt when you try to sit in class, and you’re not going to forget what happens when you try to fuck with me. I know you like it, though, don’t you? I don’t even have to touch your pussy, I can smell how wet you’re getting.”

“Fuck you,” I said, even though it was muffled against the comforter.

“Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Slap. “But you certainly haven’t earned my cock yet.” Slap slap. “You’re going to be begging for it like a little whore before I give it to you.” Slap slap slap slap slap.

“Stop!”

“Say you’re sorry.”

“No!”

“Then you’re going to miss class,” he threatened. “And I’ll turn your ass black and blue.”

“Fine, fine. I’m sorry,” I cried.

Immediately he stopped, cupping my ass like he was trying to contain the heat that centered there.

“Stay there,” he ordered, disappearing for a moment.

The burn in my ass had relocated to my pussy, my core clenching with the need to come. I tried to ignore it. I certainly wasn’t going to let him know how good it felt and how badly I needed his touch.

When he reappeared, fabric brushed my ankles. He was working underwear up over my legs. I relaxed slightly, until elastic strings swept over my ass, only to settle around my hips.

A thong?! Who the hell still wore thongs?

He pulled the elastic, releasing it so snapped back into place, making the burn worse. I yelped from the shocking pain.

There was a weird bump at the front of the panties, right over my clit.

A moment later, I heard a buzz.

And the panties started vibrating.

All the arousal I’d tried to dampen returned with a vengeance, driving me up toward the cliff I was terrified to fall over. My core tightened, a coil of need within me…

And then it stopped. Right before I came.

“What the fuck, Isaac?”

The vibrations started again.

“On my way back from hockey practice I stopped at that sleazy sex shop,” he said conversationally, over the buzzing and the horrible pleasure. “I realized that even if spanking wasn’t a real punishment, edging you—in public—might be. Congratulations, Tovah, you’re about to slut it up in journalism class today.”

“You wouldn’t,” I gasped.

Pain lashed through my scalp as he gripped my hair in a ponytail and pulled me up and backward, until I was kneeling up on the bed, my body arched in a bow, my head craned back to look at him.

“Oh, I would, little snoop. You don’t even know the beginnings of what I’ll do to put you in your place and keep you there.”

Releasing me so I fell forward on the bed, he walked toward his closet. “I guess I’m going to be matching your hair today. What color pink is that, anyway?”

“Millennial pink,” I said, flipping onto my back and glaring as he ripped his shirt off over his head, exposing delineated muscles on the most beautiful back I’d ever seen. The sleeve tattoos on his arm of shadows, guns, blood and death stopped, interrupted by a stone wall with a dying vine crawling across his back. I was curious what it meant but didn’t want to ask. The tattoos were just more proof that the good, straightlaced guy he presented in public wasn’t who he was in private. I hated to admit it, but they were also fucking hot.

He pulled one of the now pink long-sleeved shirts over his head, and the tattoos disappeared like they’d never existed. It felt like a secret between us. They weren’t, obviously—his teammates would’ve seen him shirtless, and so had probably plenty women when he’d fucked them. But I couldn’t help but feel like I held the keys to Isaac Silver.

Turning to me, he rolled his eyes. “That’s stupid.”

I’d lost track of the conversation. “What is?”

“Millennial Pink. You’re not even a millennial.”

I rolled my eyes right back at him, trying not to show that his insult hurt. I hated being called stupid. “Well, sucks for you, because now you look as stupid as you think I do.”

He paused. “Tovah, I don’t think you’re stupid,” he said. “Or look stupid. Far from it. I just think it’s a dumb name for the color.”

“Oh.”

It was actually the nicest thing he’d ever said to me. But then the bar was in hell.

He nodded to the duffle bag he must have brought in here at some point. “Get dressed. We’re going to be late for your class.”

I gaped at him. “We? You’re not actually coming with me.”

“Oh, I am. I’ve always wanted to learn about journalistic…ethics. Especially because I’m not going to learn them from you.”

Ouch.

Like I said, the bar was in hell.