Page 60 of Twisted Proposal

Another whimper broke from my throat.

His threats should have sparked rage in my blood but instead they stoked my desire.

I envisioned it, kneeling beneath his desk, forced to service him while he commanded his empire. Bent over that same desk, spanked while he pounded into me, only to clean him with my tongue afterward.

Something inside me fractured because I craved it. Some dark, twisted part of me yearned to be owned by him, used, punished. Pressure built faster, hotter than before.

"Come," he commanded. "Come on my cock like a good girl."

His words triggered my release.

My back arched beneath him, thighs widening, taking him deeper as another intense orgasm tore through me. I clung to him, his face buried in my neck as a prolonged groan rumbled from his chest and he shuddered above me.

If sex always equaled this, then every reckless decision made in its pursuit was suddenly understandable.

If fucking Artem always felt this way, I feared what I'd sacrifice to keep it.

He pulled me against his chest, tucking me under his arm, my head resting on his shoulder as sleep claimed us both.

* * *

I woke hours later.

Sunlight bathed the city, the world appearing pristine and hopeful under its rays, at least from this distance.

Artem had vanished, his side of the bed cold, but movements in the next room betrayed his presence.

Wrapping the sheet around my naked, deliciously sore body, I padded into the kitchen to find him dressed in an impeccable suit and tie, reading the news on a tablet.

"You have a few hours before classes start if you want to shower," he stated without looking up.

Too domestic. He knew my schedule and soon would know my coffee preferences, and expect to greet me each morning like this. Anxiety clawed at my throat as I retreated to the bathroom.

The bright tiles gleamed. I stepped into the shower, attempting to calm my racing thoughts.

This was temporary.

Meaningless.

Great sex doesn't equal commitment.

You'll never experience him like that again.

The mantra repeated as I scrubbed away every trace of his fingers, mouth, and body from my skin.

Almost like it never happened, I convinced myself as I exited the shower and headed for the closet. I'd borrow a T-shirt and sweatpants, return them later through one of his men. Problem solved.

I opened the closet to discover it half filled with bespoke suits, the other half with clothes identical to those he'd provided at the apartment.

Soft, luxurious fabrics, impeccable designs. Chic, stylish, understated. All in my exact size.

Even the double drawer set beneath my hanging clothes contained lingerie that would fit perfectly. With trembling hands, I selected a soft gray turtleneck, black slacks, and matching black underwear, placing them on the bed.

Breathing became laborious as the walls constricted around me. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose, holding, then exhaling through my mouth.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

I battled to slow my hammering heart and focus my scattered thoughts.