Chapter Fifty-Eight
Poppy
M y pulse roars as Frederic leads me away, his grip firm and unrelenting as he steers me through the sleek corridors.
I should stop him.
I should dig my heels in and demand answers.
I should snap back at him for the way he just claimed me in front of everyone.
But I don’t.
My brain is short-circuiting, my skin is flushed, and my entire body is thrumming with a mix of adrenaline and something far, far more dangerous.
Something hot and needy and impossible to ignore.
What the fuck is wrong with me?!
I should be furious. I should be humiliated.
I should be storming off in the opposite direction, leaving him behind and making it very fucking clear that I’m not something he gets to control.
And yet, here I am .
Like a moth to a flame, I’m following his lead.
The corridor is quieter back here. We’re far from the media, far from the spectators, and far from the general noise of the venue.
It’s just us.
The tension crackles so thick, so sharp, so unbearable that I almost stumble. I feel feverish, my breath shallow, my skin flushed -
My thoughts too chaotic to pin down.
I shouldn’t like this.
I shouldn’t be following him.
I shouldn’t be desperate for whatever’s about to happen next.
The air is cool, but it does nothing to soothe the heat rolling over my skin. My nerves are alive, each breath shallow as he walks us towards a door at the very end.
He swipes a keycard and the door clicks open. Then, before I even register what’s happening -
I’m pinned.
Hard .
His hands slam against the door beside my head, trapping me, crowding me. His body is all heat and power and sheer dominance as he cages me in.
My fingers clenching into fists by my sides, my entire body stiffening as his scent overwhelms me - sharp, masculine and intoxicatingly him .
He’s so fucking close.
Too close, even.
Fuck .
Fuck.
Fuck.
His chest almost brushes against mine as his hard, solid body moves slightly forwards. The hard, solid length of him presses between my thighs, igniting a violent, impossible-to-ignore spark of electricity between us.
My lips part, and my mind screams at me to be angry - to fight back, to shove him away, to say something sharp and scathing.
But my body?
My body remembers.
The exact way he felt the last time he had me like this, on the yacht.
Pinning me to the door. Dominating me. Taking what he wanted.
Giving me everything I didn’t even know I needed.
The memory floods my senses, making my head spin, making my lungs collapse, making my entire fucking body react before my mind catches up.
A sharp, involuntary whimper escapes my lips before I can stop it, and his mouth curves into a cocky, knowing smirk.
Bastard.
He knows exactly what I’m thinking about.
His body presses closer, his heat licking over my skin like wildfire, his voice dangerously low, rough with something I can’t name when he murmurs against my ear.
"You’ve got quite the attitude today, mon ange ."
I should roll my eyes. Should snap something sharp and cutting in response. Should shove him away and tell him exactly where he can shove his goddamn dominance.
But I don’t.
Instead, my breath catches and my stomach tightens with anticipation. The way he says it - all low and teasing, almost threatening - has a humiliating, traitorous thrill rushing through me.
I glare, but it’s weak, and we both know it.
"You think you can just ignore me? Push me away?"
His voice is a smooth, velvety taunt; each syllable deliberate and indulgent, meant to unnerve me. His hand lifts, his fingers dragging over the side of my waist in slow and calculated stokes.
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I think I might bleed.
"Act like you don’t belong to me?"
There it is.
His audacity. His arrogance.
His infuriating, insufferable, relentless need to push me to the edge.
I swallow hard, my heart slamming against my ribs, the heat of his gaze turning my insides to liquid.
"I don’t belong to you," I force out.
His lips ghost over my jaw, just barely touching, but I feel it like a fucking brand.
"You sure about that?"
I hate how my breath stutters. I hate how I don’t shove him back.
I hate how my body reacts before my mind even catches up .
His smirk deepens, his head tilting like he’s considering something -
No. More like he’s already decided something.
And then he presses harder.
The thick, solid length of him is unmistakable, hot and unrelenting as he presses between my thighs.
A violent shiver rips through me. My spine locks up, my entire body on fire from just this alone.
Oh, god .
"I should punish you for today," he murmurs.
His voice is pure silk-wrapped sin, and a bolt of heat slams into me so hard my knees threaten to buckle.
I should say fuck you .
I should tell him he’s delusional.
I should tell him he doesn’t get to punish me for anything .
But then he leans in even closer, until the tip of his nose brushes against mine. His breath is warm against my cheeks, controlled and calm and measured -
The complete opposite of the chaos he’s wreaking inside of me.
"Do you want me to punish you, mon ange ?"
I should say no.
I should walk away.
I should remind him that I am not something to be tamed, to be owned, to be controlled.
But instead, I shiver.
And his smirk ?
It’s devastating. It’s victorious.
It’s a warning.
He inhales a long, deep breath before he moves back slightly, putting enough distance between us that I’m no longer completely overwhelmed by his presence -
Enough so that I can breathe again.
But then he opens his mouth, and I feel my head spin.
"Get on your knees for me."
His voice is low, lethal, unwavering.
It’s not a request, or a suggestion.
It’s a command. A test.
A lesson .
My entire body tenses even as heat coils low, my pulse hammering, hammering, hammering .
He might have stepped back, but the weight of his dominance presses down on me, and my nails dig into my palms as my breaths come too sharp, too shaky.
It’s my mind battling my body all over again.
What I should do, versus what I instinctively do.
I should refuse. I should push back.
I should walk away and remind him that he doesn’t get to pull me away from my friends, drag me into a private room, pin me against the wall and order me to my knees like I belong to him.
But I don’t.
Because when it comes to this, when it comes to him -
I never fucking do .
So, I sink.
Slowly. Smoothly.
My dress glides against my thighs as I lower myself to the floor, my breath shallow, my chest rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm.
My eyes lock onto his, refusing to waver, refusing to give in completely.
But the way he looks at me then - like he’s about to fucking devour me whole - I know, without a doubt that I am so, so gone.