Chapter 13 #3
It’s not the first time, but my reaction is different now, without the audience, without the dire consequences. I’m not his prisoner now. I’m his wife. My clit throbs. Part of me likes it. The wrong part of me.
No, Katya. Bad Katya. This is your enemy. Your kidnapper.
With that reminder ringing in my mind, I try to nail him in the groin, but he’s too quick.
“I’m beginning to think you want to be handcuffed to the bed again,” he growls.
“Not unless you want me to kill you in your sleep,” I say sweetly.
He spanks me again.
It stings, but then he rubs his palm over my ass, and the sting turns to something else. Something like an ache deep inside me.
Oh God.
I’m wet.
I have to suppress the urge to grind myself into his shoulder, to seek that palm.
I want him to touch me there so badly, and I hate myself for that need, that weakness, but the self-loathing changes nothing.
Something about Scorpion calls to me in a primitive way.
My body wants his. Screw everything else, even my sense of self-preservation.
He reaches the top of the steps and starts down a hall. The hardwood is polished and gleaming, but the truth is that I barely notice it because I’m staring at his ass and how well-formed it is. The man’s suit fits him like a glove. I pinch a cheek, and he smacks my butt, harder this time.
“Ouch!” I protest. “That hurts.”
“So did that pinch. I know my ass is irresistible, but try to keep your hands to yourself, cara mia.”
He’s laughing at me.
Enjoying this.
I land a kick in his stomach, but it’s like trying to punt concrete. The man’s a wall of solid muscle. He grunts and absorbs the blow, banding an arm around my legs to keep me from doing it again.
“That wasn’t very nice of you,” he warns, throwing open a door and striding through.
“If we’re comparing notes, it’s a whole lot nicer than most of the things you’ve done to me.”
“We were at war then, cara.” Without warning, he dumps me off his shoulder.
I suck in a breath and tense, prepared to land on the floor.
But it isn’t hardwood that I land on, enveloping me with firm softness.
It’s a mattress. He threw me onto a bed.
A super-comfortable one. My God, what is this thing made of?
The souls of puppies and clouds imported from heaven? It feels amazing.
He looms over me, tall, dark, and dangerous. “Now, you’re my wife.”
Scorpion reaches for me, but I’m too distracted by the bed to move in time. He catches my ankle. I try to kick out of his grasp.
“We’re still at war, Andriani.”
He pulls off my pump and throws it over his shoulder.
The Manolo lands with a thud.
“Those shoes are very expensive,” I say, trying to land a kick with my other foot.
But he grabs it. The wine has fogged my mind, making my reactions sluggish. He tugs off that shoe too, throwing it away like it’s a worthless heel from the clearance section at a discount store. The kind of place I ordinarily shop.
“Hey,” I protest. “I’m planning on selling those.”
He’s holding both my ankles in a firm grasp I can’t escape, his hands burning into me like a brand. “You don’t need to sell them.”
“Yes, I do.” I’m breathless now, twisting on the bed, trying to get free of him. “Misha forced me to quit my job. I’m going to need to earn money somehow until I figure out what’s next.”
He yanks me the rest of the way down the bed and then grabs my hands, pulling me to my feet so quickly my brain takes an extra few seconds to register what’s just happened.
Scorpion looks down at me intently, his expression unreadable, his eyes bluer than the sky on a clear fall day. “I’m a wealthy man, cara. You can have whatever you want.”
“I don’t want your money. I just want my life back.”
He spins me around so fast, I almost pitch forward onto the bed. He catches my waist. “You think I wanted to marry you? I didn’t want this any more than you did.”
I don’t know why his sharp admission cuts so deep. It shouldn’t. He’s only being honest, and he’s not telling me something I don’t already know. Our marriage was decided by others. His brother and mine. Don Andriani and Pakhan.
I reach for Scorpion’s hands, trying to pry them off me. “Let me go.”
“Cazzo. Hold still.”
I ignore him, continuing to struggle, but even though I’m strong, he’s so much more powerful. I’m no match for him, especially not when I’ve spent the past few hours treating wine-drinking like an Olympic sport.
I dig my fingernails into the top of his hand, and he hisses out a breath, along with a string of what I’m sure is Italian profanity.
“Quit manhandling me, Andriani.”
“I’m helping you with your zipper,” he snaps. “Stop moving.”
“Oh.” I go still, feeling his finger brushing against the bare skin of my back. As with each other time he’s touched me, it’s electric. Then I hear the familiar sound of metal teeth opening as he unzips my dress. “Thanks.”
He releases me like I’m made of fire, pushing me away from him so that I almost fall back onto the bed. I catch myself at the last second, staying on my feet and holding up the tattered shreds of my pride.
“I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” he says coolly.
My head swivels in his direction in time to watch my new husband sauntering out the door.