Page 65 of Riot’s Thorn (Sons of Erebus: Reno, NV #4)

“I know this place was old and ugly; you don’t have to lie. I just didn’t see the point in fixing it up.” His expression turns sheepish. “Plus, after you left, I sort of destroyed the place. I didn’t really have a choice but to remodel.”

“You did?”

“I was upset.”

“I don’t think I ever said I was sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’ll never apologize for everything I’ve done.”

“You mean kidnapping me.”

“If you want to get technical,” he says, and I swear, there’s a joking lilt to his voice. “You should check out the other bathroom and the rats’ atrium.”

“Or we could try out the new bed.”

His hands fall to his side. “Not yet. Bones is coming at the end of the week to make sure your wrist, ankle, and gun graze are stable. Then we can talk about it.”

I roll my eyes. “I feel fine.”

“Roll your eyes again, Little Thorn. I dare you.” His dark eyes turn stormy, making my clit tingle.

I roll them again. “What are you gonna do about it?”

He growls. “Don’t push me. This is supposed to be a good day.”

What he doesn’t realize is that whether he’s delivering pain or pleasure, the intimacy we share is like my version of heroin. I’m addicted to everything he gives me, and it never feels like enough. Even when I’m boneless and depleted of all energy, I still want him.

“If you won’t fuck me, I feel confident you won’t punish me either.”

“Oh yeah?” Even though it doesn’t hurt anymore, he still grabs the wrist I didn’t injure and drags me into the bedroom. “Shorts and panties off. Now.”

“Riot.” My cheeks heat. I can’t just get half-naked in the middle of the room while he’s watching me.

“Oh, no. You asked for a punishment, and now you’re getting one. Take off your panties and pants, or I’ll take them off for you.”

“Aren’t you going to undress?”

“No.”

“I don’t want to be—” He cuts my words off by pulling his knife out of its sheath on his belt. I watch in stunned surprise as he pulls the waistband of my loose-fitting cotton shorts away from my hip and proceeds to cut them down the seam.

“Always gotta earn your nickname,” he mumbles as he moves to the other side. I’m too shocked to do anything but allow it. The shorts fall to the ground, completely destroyed. “Are you going to remove the panties, or should I cut those off as well?”

I look down at the black lacy thong from La Perla. I might’ve been wearing shorts and a tank top, but I knew today could be the day he gave up on the celibacy strike, so I wore my favorite set. “These cost a hundred and eighty dollars.”

He walks in a circle around me before grasping the dainty string on my hip and slicing through it. “You were overcharged. Maybe this will teach you to be more frugal.”

“No,” I whine, drawing out the word.

“You had your chance.” One more cut, and my pretty panties are on the ground.

I lower my arms and clasp my hands together, feeling very exposed. I don’t know why, but only having my lower half on display is worse than being fully naked. This is strange and feels all kinds of wrong.

“Riot.”

“Hands at your sides,” he demands. When I don’t comply, my nerves kicking in, he walks over to the dresser and pulls out a pair of metal handcuffs I recognize well.

Moving behind me, he cuffs my hands, leaving a lot of wiggle room on my wrist, proving no matter what, he’ll always take care of me. “There you go.”

“This is weird,” I say.

“It’s not weird for me to want to see my pussy.” He cups my sex, getting nose-to-nose with me. “She looks neglected.”

“I tried to keep up with the shaving, but I cut myself.”

“That’s okay. From now on, I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.

” The heel of his hand grinds against my clit, and I moan, our gazes locked as his warm, panting breaths caress my face.

His fingers stroke along my slit, not penetrating, just teasing, and I say a little prayer that his punishment isn’t orgasm denial.

I’m too keyed up and desperate. “Goddamn. You’re soaking my hand. ”

“I missed your touch.”

“I better give you whatyou want then, huh?” He steps back, his hand falling away, and I whine. “Stop that. You wanted this, remember?” He points to what looks like some kind of ergonomic chaise lounge in the corner. “Do you like our new chair?”

“It looks. . . comfortable.”

“It is. Let me show you.” He pats the top of the curve. “Come here.”

I take slow steps, not knowing what he has up his sleeves.

He’s acting bizarre, which tells me the chair isn’t just a chair.

It’s curved into an S shape with a separate wedge pillow that fits perfectly into the lower dip.

For the life of me, I can’t figure out why he’s making such a big deal about it.

“What now?” I ask.

He pulls off the wedge pillow. “Kneel in the center and lean forward.”

My ribs took more time to heal than anything else, but since they hardly hurt anymore and it’s only been a couple weeks, I’m assuming they were only bruised and not cracked.

I’m grateful for that when I drape my body over the top curve, a position that pushes my ass out.

Okay, I finally get it. This is some kind of sex furniture.

Unlocking one of my wrists, he moves my hands to the front, cuffing them underneath the top arch of the chair.

Nothing is keeping them there, and I could easily pull them up and over, but it still has the mental impact of helplessness.

This is the aspect of our play I love the most—that tingling fear deep in my belly.

“Is this a sex chair?” I ask.

“It is, and fuck, seeing you like this makes the grand I dropped worth it.”

“How does it work?”

He places a hand between my shoulders, pushing me forward before pulling off my glasses and setting them on the nightstand. Even craning my neck, I can’t see him, but after the first swat lands, I understand what my punishment will entail.

Spanking.