Page 33 of Twisted Proposal

"Send up a full coffee service and bread. My companion has had far too much to drink." My tone brooked no questions, and he nodded hastily.

"Yes, sir, and might I recommend a bottle of our signature hangover cure? It will surely help the young lady in the morning." His eyes flicked briefly to Viktoria's exposed legs in the short skirt before returning to my face, a mistake he realized immediately as my expression darkened.

I gave him a terse nod, and he showed us to the room, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead.

The suite was spacious enough, a sitting area with sofas and a desk, and a large king-size bed in the separate bedroom. This would do nicely. The thought of her sprawled across those silk sheets, her hair fanned out like dark flames, sent a jolt of heat through my body.

Viktoria was over my shoulder again, and her fight had come back. She struggled against my hold, her body writhing against mine in a way that tested my control. I put her down, then placed my hands on her thin, delicate shoulders and directed her into the very bright, white bathroom, my fingers digging into her soft flesh just enough to guide her.

"Strip," I demanded, my voice rough with an emotion I refused to name.

"What? No! I'm not going to strip for you. Who do you think you are?" Her cheeks flushed with anger, her eyes flashing defiance even as her body swayed slightly.

Her words were still heavily slurred, but the fire behind them was unmistakable.

"Suit yourself." I picked her back up and sat her in the large claw-foot tub. She scrambled to get up, her movements panicked and desperate, but I turned the shower tap on full blast, ice-cold spray hitting her like tiny needles.

She redoubled her efforts to escape the tub, only to slide back down the porcelain each time, her wet clothes clinging to every curve of her body, outlining it in excruciating detail.

If I hadn't been so pissed off, it might have been funny.

Instead, it was...something else entirely.

"How dare you," her screech bouncing off the marble walls as she pushed wet hair from her face, mascara running down her cheeks in dark rivulets.

"How dare I?" I laughed, a hot rage settling in my gut, spreading through my veins like poison. "How dare you. I was pulled from an important meeting because you were being careless and putting yourself in danger."

"I was not—" Her protest was weak, her words wavering under the shower spray.

"You're drunk, dressed like a slut, and surrounded by frat boys whose only mission in life is to get their dick wet." I may have yelled a little louder than I intended, but she had pissed me off more than her father ever had.

Rage colored my words, and I didn't mean them. Not entirely.

She actually looked beautiful, her chestnut hair down in soft waves, now plastered to her neck and shoulders. The skirt was short, and cheap, but with the white button-down top, it looked sexy in a dirty librarian kind of way. And that was before the shirt got wet, the fabric practically transparent, revealing every inch of skin beneath.

"Why do you care?" she shot back, her body shivering from the cold water, goose bumps rising on her exposed flesh.

That was a very good question, but not one I was prepared to answer.

Not to her, not to myself.

"Because you are my responsibility." It wasn't technically a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either.

"No, I'm not. You're not my father. I don't even know you. What gives you the right to embarrass me like that?"

Despite the water, despite the alcohol, her words were stronger now, laced with a defiance that made my blood boil and my dick throb.

"No, I'm not your father. I am the man who put him down like the rabid dog he was."

I lowered myself down so I could look her in the eye, grabbing her arm as I pulled her toward me, my fingers encircling her wrist like a manacle. "I am the man who controls you. Remember that the next time you decide to act like a brat. I won't just pull you from the party, I will put you over my knee and spank you until you learn how to behave."

"You wouldn't," she growled, fire in her eyes.

The flush of pink that started on her cheeks traveled down her neck and disappeared under the soaked fabric that clung to her chest, or at least it would have if the white fabric wasn't so flimsy and now completely see-through.

She wasn't even wearing a bra. Her dark-pink, taut nipples poked through her shirt, beaded and hard from the cold water, and I had the urge to wrap my lips around them until she screamed my name, to taste the water and her skin and mark her as mine.

Images of her with that skirt up around her waist as she rode my thigh and I devoured her tits flashed through my head. My cock pulsed with need, straining against the confines of my expensive pants.