Page 20 of The Villain

“Good. You should,” I say more seriously, holding her tight and spanking her properly until her ass and the tops of her thighs are red with my handprint and she’spanting and whimpering, and my dick feels like it’s going to rip right through my jeans.

When I release her, she stands with her forehead against the post, sniffling, her shoulders shaking with her breaths.

“Why would you do that?” she says into the post.

“Really? You fucking stabbed me, remember?” I take hold of her hips and press myself against her. Her entire body goes rigid when she feels me and the only sound in the room is that of her breathing. “Now apologize.”

Crickets. Did I expect anything else?

“Moth,” I say, drawing out the nickname I’ve given her. “Say you’re sorry and it’ll be over. Unless you’d like more?” I say and spank her ass.

She yelps. “Sorry! Asshole.”

I chuckle. “Good girl.”

I turn her to face me, keeping my hands on her hips. Her cheeks are stained with tears, but her pupils are still dilated and I see the gold in her amber eyes. I tilt my head, studying her, and slowly crouch down in front of her.

She has her legs pressed together, but I take hold of her thighs and draw them apart to find her inner thighs are slick with arousal.

I grin, look up at her, slide my hands along the backs of her legs to cup her ass before licking the length of her pussy.

Her gasp is an audible breath of surprise followed by a cry, but she doesn’t get to come tonight. Not after what she did.

I straighten, reach up to undo her bonds. I slide herarms which I’m sure are numb to her sides and lift her, carrying her to my bed. I draw the blanket back and lay her down, our eyes locked all the while, hers accusing, even as her face is flushed pink. The moment I release her, she tugs the blanket up to cover herself.

“I fucking hate you, Cassian Trevino.”

“Like I said earlier, that may be true, but your pussy does not.”

“Fuck you!” She turns abruptly away. Her hair falls over her shoulder exposing the back of her neck and I’m about to say something just to irritate her, to fuck with her a little more, when I see something that stops me.

I brush her hair farther off her neck.

“Don’t touch me!”

I grab her arm to stop her. “Be still.”

Her entire body goes rigid. She must realize what I see because she reaches back to cover her neck. I stop her.

“I said be still,” I say, all the playfulness gone from my tone.

I’m surprised when she does as I say. I release her arm and push the hair away to take in the marks on the back of her neck. Little circles. Dozens of them. Some old some new.

Cigarette burns. I know how they look.

Reaching out, I touch one.

She gasps, jerking away, turning to me. She’s holding tight to the blanket, her eyes soft like whiskey again, the skin around them wet.

“Don’t touch me!”

I study her, those pretty eyes. Vulnerable eyes. “Who put those marks on you?” I ask, tone serious.

She doesn’t answer. I’m not sure she can.

“Same person who cut off your finger?” I take a guess.

Panic fills her eyes, and she just stares up at me like a tiny deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming freight train. She shifts her gaze to a spot over my shoulder.