Chapter Thirty-One
Locke whisks us straight to our hotel once the plane touches down.
The lobby is beautiful and timeless; a doorman in a tailcoat opens the brass-handle door for us, unearthing the scents of beeswax, old books, and Earl Grey.
Mosaic floors lead to a marble reception desk flanked by oil portraits and a fireplace where coals burn, crackling and popping.
A sweeping staircase sits proudly beneath a chandelier in the shape of a crown; coffered ceilings float above velvet sofas and little tables set for tea.
Silver clinks, voices are soft, and a grandfather clock marks the quarter hour.
My appreciation of the gorgeous hotel evaporates when the receptionist tells us that Killian booked one room—with an attached living room, dining room and office—but only one bed.
I slide Killian a panicked look that he ignores. If word gets out that we’re sharing a hotel room…
Well. It won’t be a hit to his reputation, but it’ll certainly harm mine.
I force myself to stay silent while we take an elevator up to our floor, and Killian taps his keycard against the room’s scanner. He has two suitcases waiting for him in the narrow entryway, but my suitcase is nowhere to be seen. I frown, toeing off my shoes.
“Where’s my suitcase?” I ask, stepping out of the entrance and into the lavish living room.
My gaze rises towards a chandelier dripping jewels, which casts a kaleidoscope of colors across the room.
Napping on the plane was definitely the right move—I’m still sleepy but not completely jetlagged, even though I know that after a 7-hour plane ride, it should be night instead of day.
“In America,” Killian responds, following me into the living room. He leans against the wall, folding his hands into his pockets and giving me a predatory gaze that raises the hairs on the back of my neck… and makes my clit tingle with excitement.
“W-what do you mean?” I stammer, losing my nerve. I glance down at my traveling clothes; old jeans that are probably a single wash away from falling apart and a long-sleeved sweater. I’m not dressed to go out. “Killian, I need clothes.”
“They’ll arrive by the time we’re done,” Killian says.
My frown deepens. “You said we’ll have things to do from the moment we touch down.”
“And I meant it,” Killian agrees, nodding. “But I didn’t specify which tasks will need immediate tending to.” A cruel smile slants his lips. “My mistake.”
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I say quietly.
His smile widens. “You’re right,” he agrees, walking forward.
For each step he takes, I match him with a step back, until my legs hit something and I go tumbling down.
Soft, velvety couch cushions swallow me, and Killian stops a foot away from me.
His tall, muscular form towers over me. I shrink back, unnerved.
“Just like me pushing back my meeting for the day to 11pm wasn’t a mistake,” Killian says. He glances out the windows, watching the setting sun. “That gives us plenty of time to get through our agenda.”
I swallow. “What agenda?”
“You’ll see.” He jerks his chin at me. “Go take a shower. I have a call to take, but I’ll join you momentarily.”
He slips away into another room, but his suffocating presence doesn’t dissipate along with him. Being confined in a room with him a few hours at a time is stressful enough, but having to do it for an entire week…
Maybe I can convince him to get us separate rooms at the next hotel.
I trudge my way into the bathroom. Cracked marble greets me on all sides—there’s a two-sink counter with golden faucets, a shower, and a clawfoot bathtub.
I strip out of my sweaty travel clothes and step under the rainfall spray of the shower, fiddling with the dials until it’s pleasantly hot. I had all of my preferred brands of shower products in my suitcase, but the hotel provides top-of-the-line, designer products that I can’t afford.
I’m massaging shampoo into my head when the shower door creaks open, letting in a cool gust of air that raises goosebumps across my flesh.
Killian steps in behind me, and I tense.
We’ve never showered together before. The most intimate thing we’ve done is post-sex cuddling, when I’m too sore and tired to deny him. Moments I’ll never admit that I crave.
Killian’s hands land on my waist, giving it a squeeze. They lower to cup the globes of my ass, then slither around my body and rise to cup my breasts.
There’s a surety and patience he approaches me with that makes my skin tingle. He’s learned what makes me tick, and even though he’s a cruel lover, nobody can accuse him of being a selfish one. The price of pleasure is pain, but I know that pleasure always follows.
“You have the most stunning body I’ve ever seen,” Killian murmurs, his words getting lost beneath the sounds of the shower. “And your face…” he trails off with a sigh. “Helen of Troy couldn’t match such beauty.”
My throat works around a gravelly swallow. “Nobody knows for sure what Helen of Troy looked like.”
“Doesn’t matter. She couldn’t hold a candle to you.” Killian pinches my nipple, squeezing until a squeal leaves my lips. He chuckles, pressing a kiss to my shoulder, then bats away my hands and starts massaging my scalp. A low moan leaves my lips, and I lean back into his touch.
I know it’s inevitable that he’ll hurt me soon, but he’s not hurting me now, so I let myself enjoy the moment and sink into it.
I go pliant as Killian shampoos and conditions my hair, then carefully washes my body with such reverence, it makes me feel like a precious possession rather than a sex toy.
Precious possessions don’t get pushed around and forced into deals, I remind myself. I’m meant to just be enduring Killian’s treatment, not enjoying it.
“You’re such a good girl for me when you want to be,” Killian says.
He turns me around, giving me an excellent view of his muscles as he soaps up his body.
I’ve learned that Killian spends an hour every morning and night working out—before he starts his work day and after he ends it.
His looks aren’t luck or genetics; everything he does is meticulously planned and intentional.
He keeps himself in peak form not only because it makes him irresistible to masses of women, but also because it lends him some protection in case enemies ever come for him.
It wasn’t long ago when he explained to me that each bit of muscle is an extra inch of padding between a bullet or blade and his vital organs.
He sweeps me up into his arms. I squeal, stomach dropping, and nausea momentarily overwhelming me. Must be the jetlag. I swallow, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to ground and prepare myself for whatever Killian will do next. Thankfully, the nausea recedes after just a few moments.
Killian sets me on the sink and picks up a towel so soft it feels like a cloud, carefully wiping down my body and drying my hair with it. I sigh, reveling in this moment of tenderness, which I know is bound to come to an end.
“I need clothes,” I murmur when Killian lifts me up again. His muscles flex and dance as he carries me into the bedroom and sets me on the bed.
“Not for this, you don’t.” He flips me over so abruptly it makes the nausea return, then takes a seat on the bed and pulls me over his lap.
I dig my nails into his knees, equal parts excitement and dread dispersing the nausea.
My body feels achy, already priming and readying itself for what comes next.
Killian spanks me whenever he fucks me, and he never takes it easy on me.
If I’ve really pissed him off or done something he considers to be bratty, he uses the belt instead of his hand—that’s when the pain wars with the pleasure rather than aiding it.
There’s no belt today. His hand starts cracking down on my ass cheeks slowly and methodically, warming me up before strengthening the hits. When my quiet whimpers turn into loud yelps and I start struggling, Killian fists my hair to hold me in place, scissoring his legs over mine.
“You love it when I do this, don’t you?” he asks, though the words come out mocking. Shame creeps up on me, making me shrink into myself.
“No,” I say.
“Liar,” he counters. He starts spanking me again, much harder.
Hard enough that my yelps turn into loud, pained cries, and I start writhing in earnest. My ass burns, aches, and stings, and if he keeps going, I’m not going to be able to sit comfortably for the rest of the day—maybe not tomorrow, either.
Killian gathers my wrists in his hands and forcefully pins them to the small of my back. “You lie,” he says. “To me and to yourself. You lie to conform with the petty morals and expectations of society—expectations which are as fluid as the waves in the ocean.”
“I’m not!” I snap. “I’m not lying! You force me—ahh!
” I cut off with a shriek when he begins spanking the spot where my ass meets my thighs.
Tears start streaming down my cheeks in a steady flow—the spanking isn’t foreplay anymore.
It really hurts, to the point where any pleasure is disappearing. “Stop!” I screech. “Please!”
“Not until you admit it.” Killian doesn’t slow down or soften the force of his blows; if anything, he spanks me even harder.
Sobs rattle my chest. I feel hypersensitive everywhere, like somebody’s rubbed down my skin with a cheese grater.
“Admit it,” Killian hisses. “You like that I take the control away from you. You love not having a choice. And you love—” spank, “—the,” harder spank, “—pain!”
I shake my head, burying my face in the sheets. Killian will break before I do. He will. He has to—
But he doesn’t. He keeps going, hitting me harder and harder, until any semblance of pride escapes me. Until I’m scraped down to my raw, vulnerable core, and the humiliation that washes over me is beyond painful. It’s agonizing.
I’m stripped bare down to my soul, which is when I finally screech, “I love it!”