Page 3

CHAPTER 3

Ophelia

A shiver tears through me. This man is dangerous. My mom owes him an outstanding debt. I am to be the payment. She disrespected a Bachman.

Now, my body is his to disrespect.

His eyes are fire, his jaw set with steel. He is a powerful, dangerous man—a man to be obeyed.

But he hasn’t tested me yet.

I have to get away as quickly as possible. His strong arms are a prison, holding me so tightly that I can feel his cold heartbeat, probably pumping ice through his muscular body. His men are outside the apartment. I think of the escape ladder leading from the upper flats past my window to the ground. I can climb it, knocking on the windows of higher apartments until I find help.

There’s no way out but up.

Deciding between stomping on his foot or kneeing him in the groin, I begin to push my way out of his arms. I’m surprised at how easily he lets me go. I run to the window Carter just disappeared through. There’s no one outside. The street is quiet; there’s no reason I can’t climb down and run to Ms. Alfano’s first-floor flat.

I grip the window, throwing it open. The night air rushes in, cooling my face.

“What about your family?”

His words make my body and blood freeze. My heart drops to my bare feet. I think of my mom, Granny, and Grandpa. He’s said they’re having dinner at the Villa. I picture them tied up, bound, being held by his men somewhere in the dark.

Fingertips digging into the window frame, I turn to face him. “Would you hurt my family?”

He doesn’t answer. He only stares back at me, letting me determine what I can from his dark eyes. I don’t know what he’s capable of, but I’ve heard whispers about how dangerous the Bachman family is, and I’ve already seen him do something to Carter. It’s not worth the risk of running.

I let go of the window, padding warily over to him. I stop a good enough distance away. “What do you want me to do?”

“Good girl,” he croons. “I’m glad you’re coming to see things my way.”

“Don’t hurt my family.” I hold my hand behind my back, crossing my fingers. “And we’ll do things your way.”

For now.

He takes a step toward me, closing the space between us. He reaches out, his big hand cupping my face. I’m surprised by its roughness—the skin of a man who works outside. The gesture is so intimate that it makes my heart race and my breaths shallow.

Having him this close, I’m surrounded by his warm scent, like leather and sandalwood. I could smell it when he whispered in my ear; now it’s intoxicating me again. My nipples harden, and I hate myself for it. He can see my body’s reaction underneath my thin shirt. Why? I should kick, run, fight.

Only the threat to my family keeps my feet planted on the carpet.

His pull is magnetic, holding me near him with an invisible force. He is old, rich, and intoxicating—my polar opposite.

I can’t not stare up at him.

He leans down, his mouth close to mine. Is he going to kiss me? That crosses a serious line.

I’d have to respect myself enough to choose my earlier defenses of stomping on his foot or giving a knee to the groin.

What is he doing?

His lips are on mine.

My world slowly expands and shrinks at once.

The kiss is like nothing I’ve ever felt.

His body is ‘ robuste,’ as we say in French. A man, not a boy. Why am I letting him kiss me? Now, as he holds me, one hand strokes my hair, running down my back, and the other still cups my face, his thumb brushing over my chin. My knee should indeed be rising to his groin and ending this.

Instead, my knees grow weak as I let the kiss deepen.

There’s no messiness to it. He has a clean mouth, and his straight, white teeth don’t bump into mine with teen awkwardness.

He French-kisses with précision , giving me a newfound respect for Madame Rossi’s weekly language assignment. His tongue caresses mine as he presses his sturdy body against me. The word immense comes to mind as I feel his cock pressed against my belly—it feels enormous and ready.

It's way bigger than Carter’s felt when he rubbed it against me.

What would it feel like to have this man, to have his immense cock inside of my virgin body? Wetness pools between my legs, my muscles clenching to stop it, but that only makes me more wanton.

I feel empty inside, needy. His firm erection makes me crave something to fill me, to build friction, to rub away this deep need inside me. The thought of having him inside me almost breaks my wee virgin brain. I haven’t even let Carter inside me.

How did I let the sick thought of this stranger robbing me of my virginity after threatening to hurt my family into my brain?

We’re still kissing; his thumb drags along my chin, then slips between my lips. His mouth leaves me so his eyes can find mine. A wicked grin curls at the corners of his perfect lips as he slides his thumb against my tongue.

Salty and warm. I wrap my lips around it and suck. This surprises him, and I see a look in the same vein as respect flashes through his eyes. He’s pleased with me, with my sexual obedience. He thinks he has me in the palm of his hand.

And for a moment, with that perfect kiss, he almost did.

I sink my teeth into his flesh.

He gives a clipped groan of pain, withdrawing his thumb. The satisfaction I feel instantly turns to regret. He grabs me around the waist, strong arms locking around me, dragging me over to the bed.

Panic fills me.

The heat of retribution comes off him.

What’s he going to do to me?

“Stop! Let me go!” I push at his hands, trying to free myself. I can’t even move them an inch. He sinks onto the bed, spreading his long thighs. He flips me over his lap. Kicking one leg over mine, he locks me into place. I wriggle against him, trying to get loose, but it’s no use. His arm is like a vice around my waist. My hair falls over my face.

“What are you doing?” I scream.

“Punishing you. Teaching you who rules your world now. Disrespect will not be tolerated.” His tone is calm but laced with threat.

His hand slides under the loose waistband of my pajamas, and his palm feels rough against my skin. He grabs my naked ass, kneading and squeezing. He digs his fingertips into the curve of my butt cheek where it meets the top of my thigh.

“Mine,” he says. “Every inch of you will belong to me. I’ll enjoy owning every bit of you.”

“Belong? Own?” I snap back.

His archaic words give me the anger I need to fight. My legs and torso may be imprisoned, but my arms remain free. With my upper body resting on my bed, I ball my hands into fists, reach behind me, and begin punching him and yelling, “I’m not going to marry you! Let me go!”

My hand swipes at his side. His hand leaves my ass, slipping out of my pants. He grabs both my wrists easily in the circle of his thumb and fingers. My shirt has ridden up in my struggles. He pins my hands to my bare lower back.

God, this man is strong.

“Since I have to keep your naughty hands in place, I can’t pull down your pants to spank your ass.”

Heat flashes over my face. I’ve heard him wrong.

I stutter out what he’s just told me. “S-s-spank me?”

“Yes.” I can practically feel his eyes looking me over, and then he says, his words menacing, “I want your clothes off. Now.”

I feel faint. My voice is barely a squeak. “And if I don’t?”

“I take off my belt.”

Ice creeps through my veins, and my limbs freeze. I do not want that to happen.

I think of him standing in the doorway when he first burst into my bedroom—the thick, black leather belt around his waist. I’ve never, ever been spanked. His hand is strong, digging into my wrists. I can’t imagine how much that would hurt. He’s not one to bluff, and I can’t handle a leather belt.

I have to remove my clothes with his dark eyes watching my every movement, and then I have to stand in front of this man, fully naked, my entire body exposed, bared, and trembling. The thought of this is frightening.

The belt is even more terrifying.

He kicks his leg out from around mine. “Are you ready to do as you’re told?” he asks.

With his weight gone from me, I momentarily think of running. I’m clumsy; I’d trip over my two feet, and he’d catch me.

A shiver tears through me, imagining what could be worse than his belt.

Pushing the balls of my feet into the carpet, I clench my teeth. “Fine.”

“I think you meant to say ‘Yes, sir.’”

I can hear the pleasure in his voice. Why do I get the feeling this man is going to enjoy making me feel shame? I should fight him.

But the belt.

I force myself to utter the humiliating phrase of surrender. “Yes, sir.”

“There’s a good girl.”

I moan at his dastardly pet name.

He lets me up.

I stand before him, my face hot with shame, my stomach knotted with anxiety. His face is stern, like what I imagine a father’s would be. Did I really just think that? What is wrong with me?

Gross, Ophelia. Now is NOT the time for your daddy issues to come out and play.

I look away.

Clasping my hands before me, I shift my weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Um…”

“Look at me.” His eyes cut to mine, demanding obedience. “Do as I say.”

“Now?” I ask.

He nods. “Right now.”

I close my eyes, blocking him out of my vision, but I can still feel him watching me as I grab the hem of my shirt. Cool air rushes over my naked skin as I pull the shirt over my head. I hold the clothing in front of my breasts, attempting to hide them, but my nipples tighten under his stare, betraying me.

His hand brushes against mine, making my eyes snap open. Gently, he takes the shirt from my hand, leaving me fully topless.

“Now, the pants,” he demands.

The bottoms are even more challenging to lose. My fingers tremble under his heated stare as I grip the waistband. I tug them down over my hips, letting them slide to my ankles, and step out of them. Now fully naked, cold night air caresses my skin, goosebumps rising, and my nipples grow even harder under his studious gaze.

I want to hide my body with my hands, but as I go to, he’s pulling me over his lap with a growl, and I’m back in that humiliating position, only now naked with the feel of his clothing, the heat of his figure, against my exposed skin. My upper body rests on the bed. He leaves my arms free.

“Such a beautiful form. I’ve never seen anything so exquisite in my life.”

My stomach flutters at his compliments. I’m not beautiful—far from it. But now, he’s stroking me with his confident, rough fingers.

“You’re gorgeous.” His voice grows low and husky while observing my bare form over his parted thighs. “Gorgeous.”

Holding back a moan, I grab the quilt, pulling it loose from the corner I securely tucked it into this morning. I’m so exposed and need the comfort of something familiar as I grip the soft cotton between my fingers.

And wait for my punishment.