Page 103 of Unrequited

“You said you’d spank me,” I murmur, looking down, wishing I hadn’t come here. Wishing I had. Wanting everything and nothing all at once.

“In detail, Zoya. That’s not what I said.”

Oh god.

“You said you’d take your belt to my ass,” I whisper, my face burning. The shame rolls through me like a wave of fire, but underneath it, something else pulses—hotter and more dangerous.

It’s humiliating. It’s terrifying.

It’s arousing.

He’s so massive. So dominant. Every movement is careful, calculated. There’s no hesitation in him, no second-guessing. He doesn't bluff. He executes.

“I did, didn’t I?”

His voice is soft now, almost amused. “And it seems like my new wife needs to learn how to obey her husband.”

He’s in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, and the fabric clings to his chest and arms like it was made to showcase how lethal he is. He reaches down, unbuckles the belt at his waist, and slides it free with a long, slow pull that makes my stomach drop.

The sound is loud. Final. Like a door slamming shut. Rain pours outside. It’s warm in here, though, and I’m onfire.

He shakes his head once, deliberately, then stomps toward me.

“Hands above your head, where I can see them.”

I obey without thinking.

My arms fly up. I’m trembling. Every instinct in me is screamingrun, but every nerve is screamingstay.

“Good,” he says.

But he doesn’t say good girl.

And that, god, it hurts. Like a phantom limb, like I’ve been denied something vital. I ache for it. I crave him telling me I’m his good girl.

His gaze stays locked on mine. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but there’s something behind them. Something dangerous. Something certain.

He loops the belt in his hands and snaps it once with a flick of his wrist.

The sound cracks through the room.

I flinch.

He walks to the bed and sits down slow, spreading his legs wide. He looks completely relaxed, like this is routine for him. Like punishing me is just another part of loving me.

He pats his lap.

“Anytime I have to punish you, it’ll be over my lap,” he says calmly. Like this isn’t a negotiation, it’s doctrine.

“If you’re not being punished, I’ll use my hand. If you are… something else.”

Oh god.

He’s thought this through. He has a plan he’s ready to execute.

“Okay,” I whisper. The word is barely there.

He points.