20
Liv
What the hell is wrong with me?
I can’t even think straight.
My whole body’s overheated, like I’m running a fever I can’t break.
Shame crawls up my neck, making my skin feel hot and gross.
How the hell did I end up like this?
Snooping one second, bent over Alessio’s stupidly strong, solid muscle-thick thighs the next.
I groan, standing on shaky legs and yanking my dress down, refusing to look at him.
The mortification doesn’t let up when I let out a hiss the second the fabric drags over my ass.
It’s still throbbing from being spanked within an inch of its life.
Awesome, just what I need.
And he actually got me close.
That never happens.
Well, unless we’re counting that time in Chicago when my kitty practically swallowed his knife…
but both times he stopped be fore I could finish.
I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that he left me hanging like some desperate idiot or that his spanking damn near had me humping his leg like a bitch in heat.
My cheeks burn just thinking about that smug bastard as I scramble out of his room of sin like my ass is on fire, which basically is.
I nearly slam into the door, my hands fumbling for the handle like I’ve forgotten how to function.
My legs can’t move fast enough, and I don’t even know why I’m so desperate to escape.
I’m pissed at him, obviously, but more than that, I’m pissed at myself, too.
Alessio acted like he was in charge, but…
why do I feel like he would’ve stopped if I had asked him to?
He was testing me, pushing me past my comfort zone, and the worst part?
I didn’t ask him to stop, not really, and I didn’t want him to stop.
Some traitorous part of me wanted him to keep pushing me.
Alessio’s one of the only people I’ve ever met who doesn’t treat me like I’m broken, like I’m going to shatter if someone raises their voice or looks at me the wrong way.
Clover was the best fill-in parent I could’ve asked for, but he kept me wrapped in bubble wrap, always trying to protect me from the world like I was made of glass.
And maybe for a while, when I was first brought to him, I would have.
But Alessio’s not afraid to toss me over his shoulder and get rough with me.
He’s got the whole bad-boy-gone-rogue thing down, covered in tattoos, a fiery attitude, and a body that’s enough to make angels sin.
Maybe that’s partly why I keep ending up in these compromising positions with him.
I’m powerwalking down the hall, the extra-long walk of shame.
But I don’t look up or check to see if anyone’s watching me, I keep moving with my head down.
His stupid, arrogant grin flashes in my mind, and I swear I want to punch him right in the throat.
I take a few steady breaths, forcing myself to calm the hell down.
I need a shower.
A cold one.
No, a hot one.
Maybe both .
Something to cool my ass and the heat between my legs and burn the embarrassment right out of me.
My body’s still pulsing from his touch, his fucking handprint practically branded on my ass, and I hate it.
I shove my bedroom door open and nearly face-plant over a pile of boxes that look like they were kicked in here.
This isn’t how I left the room earlier.
Packages are everywhere.
Some are stacked neatly, and others are half-open like someone ripped through them looking for something.
A few bags are toppled over, garment bags slung across the bed like they’re trash, and an ungodly amount of tissue paper spills onto the floor.
The whole place smells like a department store filled with new leather, and the kind of money I absolutely didn’t earn.
I step over a rogue shopping bag, nudging it out of my way with my foot to dig through one of the smaller boxes, ripping the tissue paper out like a raccoon going through a dumpster, until I find a silk robe and lace panties.
This is good enough for now.
Paola’s definitely behind this and probably grinning like the shopping-obsessed spender that she is.
I weave around the mess, making a beeline for the bathroom to scrub off my shame and question all of my life choices.
My room is wrecked, but that’s a later problem.
The ensuite is ridiculous.
It has marble floors, a soaking tub big enough to fit five people, and a rainfall shower that probably costs more than my rent.
Built-in speakers line the ceiling because, apparently, even bathing in this place requires a soundtrack.
I crank the volume up, blasting Eminem’s “Not Afraid.” It feels fitting, and if there was ever a time I needed a motivational anthem, it’s now.
Motivate me, Marshall.
I need it, while I soak my bruised ego.
The steaming water pours into the massive tub, fogging the mirror and turning the whole room into a sauna.
The second I sink in, I let out a hiss.
Holy shit.
It burns—my poor, abused ass screams from the heat.
But at the same time, it feels good.
That deep, bone-melting kind of heat that makes me want to melt into a puddle and never get up.
Painful, but in a hurts-so-good kinda way.
I glance around, searching for something to add to the water because bubbles feel like the solution right now.
My eyes land on a fancy-pants silver tray filled with pretty glass bottles and soaps sitting by the tub.
Of course, Paola stocked this bathroom like I’m an influencer, about to film a ‘ Get Ready With Me .’
I grab the calming lavender oil and pour a generous amount in.
The scent hits me instantly, warm, kinda earthy, and way too relaxing for how messy my life is right now.
I sink deeper, letting the heat and lavender seep into my skin, my muscles unwinding with every second.
My brain is still loud as hell, but the water helps.
Minutes turn into…
well, I don’t even know.
I soak until the water isn’t hot and my skin’s gone full prune mode.
My ass doesn’t hurt anymore, but still, I don’t wanna get out.
With a dramatic, soul-crushing sigh, I drag myself out of the water.
I snatch the towel and wrap it tightly around my chest, the soft fabric clinging to my damp skin while I drip all over the floor.
I go to grab the robe I brought in, but I don’t see it anywhere.
I do a quick scan of the bathroom, but it’s not in here.
Crap, I must’ve dropped it in the room .
With my towel wrapped tight, I pad out of the bathroom, expecting to grab my stuff and head back in the bathroom.
What the…
?
How is it worse than before I got in the bath?
Boxes and garment bags are everywhere, piled on the bed and scattered across the floor.
It was a mess before, but now it looks like a department store after a category-five hurricane.
I’m still standing here with my mouth open and brain buffering, trying to process the crime scene, when—
BANG.
The door slams open.
I mean, it slams so hard it bounces off the wall with a crack so loud, I damn near jump out of my skin, my heart is fully trying to exit my body.
“Holy—” I flinch, my fingers clutching the towel like my life depends on it, eyes snapping to him.
Alonzo fills the doorway, and he looks pissed.
He’s holding garment bags and a box under his arm, and his face is twisted like he just smelled something nasty.
I mean, he always looks like that, but right now, he’s about two seconds from smashing something.
Sure enough, he tosses the bags to the floor like trash, muttering a string of curses I don’t fully catch but don’t need to.
Then his eyes find me, and his expression darkens .
I barely get a word out before—WHAM.
The box slams into my chest so hard it sends me crashing back into the wall.
Pain explodes through my ribs, and the air whooshes out of my lungs, and I crumple to the floor, gasping and wheezing for air.
I can’t even curse him out or get a single word past the burning in my chest.
I feel a bit dazed, but Alonzo doesn’t care.
He sneers, stomps on one of the boxes on the floor, and storms out, slamming the door behind him.
I sit here, still stunned and humiliated.
Tears well up, hot and unwelcome, but I’m too shaken to wipe them away.
My chest heaves as I force in breath after breath, trying to steady myself.
It takes a minute, maybe longer, before my trembling fingers find the robe on the floor.
With a shaky breath, I press my palm to the wall and push myself upright.
My hand drags along the surface for balance while my legs threaten to give out beneath me.
My shaky legs carry me back into the bathroom.
I slam the door shut, the lock clicking into place.
I face the mirror and stare at two angry red marks where the corners of the box jabbed into my chest.
Asshole.
I brace myself against the sink, then splash cold water on my face, forcing the anger and hurt down .
I slide on the panties and robe and realize dressed is a generous term.
The robe is more of a suggestion than an actual piece of clothing, and the panties are missing critical coverage in the crotch area.
The robe barely makes it past my ass, and my thighs strain against the fabric.
I let out an exasperated sigh, then press my ear against the bathroom door, making sure that asshole didn’t come back before I step out.
There has to be something in one of those boxes that fully covers my body.
I crack the door open and step out, but freeze when I realize I’m not alone.
My eyes, like the thirsty little bitches they are, shamelessly drink in every inch of my Warden’s shirtless, inked back and that annoyingly perfect ass, barely hidden by the grey sweats slung low on his hips.
The definition of every girl’s wet dream.