Chapter Thirty-Five
Phoenix
Fucking livid, at Helios, at her, at myself, I gripped her throat. “Who the fuck gave you the money, intruse?”
“A-a friend.” Her swallow pushed against my palm.
My cock hardened. “Is that what you call it?”
Horripilation fanned out over her arms and shoulders. “Wh-what?”
I enunciated. “Did you fuck him?”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
I gripped her tighter. “Is that the cost for your tight cunt?”
Her spine stiffened.
“Ten thousand dollars?” Applying more pressure, I whipped the red material off her shoulder. “And a new dress?”
Those lips parted. Her gasp sounded.
I threw the dress down. “Did he pay you to suck his cock as well?”
Panting, short and shallow, her face turned red, but not from my grip.
“Did you swallow his cum?”
Her anger erupted. “Fuck you.”
Mine had already detonated. “How did it feel?”
“You sick fucking bastard.”
She had no idea. “Did you get wet? Did you come?” Digging my fingers into her neck, I pulled her up until she was on her toes.
“Let go of me.”
Not a fucking chance. “Do you like getting paid to fuck?” I ripped off her towel.
Dropping her sandals, she grabbed my wrist and yanked.
Her strength no match for mine, my thumb under her jaw, I shoved her head back. “You think that cunt’s worth ten grand?” I leaned in. “Do you get off on the fucking?” Watching every breath of her abasement, I drove it home. “Or is it the money that makes your cunt wet?”
The slap echoed a split second before I felt the impact.
“You want to hit me, intruse? You want to feel that pain on your hand? Then by all means.” I let go of her.
She fell flat-footed and swayed.
“Do it. Slap me again. But put some fucking force behind it because this’ll be the last time I give you leeway.” The last time I gave her any part of me.
She didn’t hit me.
The woman kicked.
Fast, precise, her foot came up, aiming directly for my balls.
I was faster.
Grabbing her shin, yanking her leg up and into her momentum, I pivoted ninety degrees, shoved an arm under her back, and caught her as I jerked her off her feet.
She landed in my arms with a grunt. “You asshole!”
Already throwing her over my shoulder, I was Oscar Mike, striding down the hall.
She kicked my abdomen and punched my kidneys. “You fucking asshole.”
My palm cracked across her ass.
She shrieked.
I strode into the main bedroom. “I gave you permission to slap. Not kick. Not punch.” I threw her on the bed. “But that was always your problem, intruse, wasn’t it?” I leaned over her. “You don’t listen to directions, do you?”
Face flushed, nipples hard, she yelled. “You hit me, you fucking bastard!”
“Spanked,” I corrected. And she was turned on by it. “How wet are you?” I wasn’t into sexual corporal punishment. Debasement, degradation—to get what I wanted, to get answers—that was another story. But for this woman, if she wanted to hit me again, I’d spank the fuck out of her.
“Is this how you get off?” she spat, jerking back on the bed. “Is that why you didn’t fuck me on your stupid boat? Because you can’t get hard, you need to hit women?”
Oh, I was fucking hard all right. “Come here.”
“Fuck. You.”
I gripped her ankles and yanked. “Directions.” I shoved her legs wide. “Follow them.”
She grabbed a handful of my shirt with one hand as the other reared back, fist clenched.
I cocked an eyebrow.
Her face twisted, her arm swung, and she roared with a battle cry.
Her punch landed.
My jaw smarted, and I tasted blood. I smiled. “How much did that cost me, prostituée?”
“I’m not—” She swung again. “—A FUCKING—” Her fist connected a last time. “—HOOKER.” Jerking both legs out of my grasp, she flipped over to all fours and aimed for escape.
I slammed down on top of her, gripped her hair, and yanked her head to the side.
Then I got in her face and yelled. “Who’s the sniper?”
“My brother!”
I sank my tongue into her mouth.