Chapter Five
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Coral
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I slip my feet into a pair of slippers and stalk the cabin. I find them in the kitchen.
All three of them are leaning against the kitchen countertop, arms folded, ankles crossed, freshly showered, and so nauseatingly gorgeous I almost throw up in my mouth.
"What's this?" I demand, waving the sheet of paper in my hand.
"It's a list of chores," Samuel says, but he says it like he's flirting with me, and for one split second my knees knock until I right myself. No. I don't care that his smile can coax me out of my clothes. No.
"I know what it is," I say, trying to keep my voice calm and tempered, but that's not working out very well for me. "Why? Why did you give me a list of chores? I thought we were going to do it like last night. I stay in the room, and you bring me food, and then we part ways and everyone is happy."
"That was the first night in our home," Masen says. There's a bit of gravel to his voice; somehow even when he's calm and reasonable, the warning that he can be dark and dangerous is still there, and there go my knees again.
"We wanted first to welcome you properly," he adds.
"Well, no. I'm not doing any of these things. So get yourself a maid if you want someone to cook your porridge and get yourself a seamstress if you want someone to mend your socks. Also, what's number six? I have to sing to the trees? Are you nuts?"
"We take offense to that, Coral," Samuel says, way too seriously. "Singing to the trees is something our ancestors did to ensure they had good logging. Are you mocking our traditions?"
"No," I say, truly taken aback. Really? "You're lying," I say, convinced they were.
"Doesn't matter what you think. You still have to go outside at 3:45 in the morning and sing to the trees," Masen continues.
"3:45 A.M. is not the morning. It's the middle of the night. And what am I supposed to be singing to the trees?"
"Any nursery rhyme will do. As long as you do it softly and gently."
"Right," I say, folding my arms across my chest. "Except I won't be doing any of these. So you wasted your time writing them up." I'm just about to rip the page in half.
"If you do that, we'll have to take you over our knees and spank you. 'Five strikes each for every chore you don't do,'" Samuel says. "And I'll be going last," he adds.
My mind reels with a thousand different images at once, and they all come down to three thoughts. First, they're ancient enough to be serious. Second, it'll hurt like mad. And third, they can't touch me. They can't, under any circumstances, touch me.
But I don't listen to myself most times.
"Yes, well, you can make your own breakfast. Have fun," I say and stride out of the kitchen.
I should have listened.
Before I can fully step out of the kitchen, Samuel is behind me. How did he move so silently?
He effortlessly scoops me up, one arm around my waist. He sits himself down on a chair large enough for any of them to sit comfortably and then plants me across his lap.
My outrage is outraged.
"Let me go, you lumbering beast," I yell to no avail. Chuckling all the while, Samuel, keeping me down with such minimal force it's not fair at all, slips his fingers into the band of my pajama bottoms and pulls them down.
I squeal in shock; the shriek that escapes my mouth sounds as if someone dunked me in ice-cold water.
I'm not wearing any underwear. No one wears any underwear to go to bed. It's literal pussy health 101.
Except now I wish I were wearing a pair of granny panties—not that I own any. Wait, not even granny panties. I wish I were wearing pantaloons instead just so I could still be covered up.
My face is hot and red, and the sudden onslaught of sensation that's turning my nipples into hard little stones and my clit on the verge of drowning in the wetness leaking from my folds undoes me completely.
I use all my strength to jerk away, and it only makes Samuel laugh a little more.
I swear if he doesn't stop with that low, sexy, growly chuckle, I'm going to climax right here.
And somehow he knows. He shifts his thigh, and the contact on my clit is so visceral that, for a blinding, shameful moment, I press myself against his thick muscle.
Oh god, I can't come this way. I would rather. ..
But I don't have anything to worry about. Not when his massive hand connects with my bare butt in a greeting so enthusiastic, tears sting my eyes.
My nerves are so shocked at the stinging smack; they scatter through my body in a frenzy, leaving me a hot, breathless mess.
"Okay, just wait a minute," I stutter. He doesn't. He delivers another one, then another. My body rattles. I'm burning up. My skin feels as if it's on fire and it's taking every part of me down with it.
I'm still sobbing while cursing the hell out of him when Masen picks me up and cradles me against him as he runs his hand down my back and over my flaming hot ass. Even my pajama bottoms give up and slip off my feet, leaving the bottom half of my body completely naked.
"It's all right, pretty girl," he murmurs as I sob into his chest.
"Just ten more. You can do this," he adds with that voice of his, and I actually nod, like an imbecile. I don't even protest when he gently lays me down across his muscular thighs—he's lulled me that much.
Masen spanks me with such reverence that I thank him while tears pour down my face and my nose is running, and I'm thanking him as he heats my skin with such stinging force from his palm.
How did he do this to me?
But then it's Cedar's turn, and I thought he was going to force me across his lap, like Samuel and Masen.
No, Cedar makes me face him, straddling his thigh.
With his arm around my waist, holding me in place, he forces me to look at him as he delivers five raw and savage spanks to my butt.
Every smack sends me forward, closer to him. But more than that, every smack makes the friction of his thigh on my clit, the rough fabric of his jeans against my clit, send me into the stratosphere. I nearly bite my tongue off in a bid not to come.
When he's done, he sets me aside. Spanked and shamed, I turn even redder when Samuel lowers himself in front of me, holding my pajama bottoms.
I have to clutch his shoulder as I step into them. He can see my pussy, the wetness seeping from me like a stream.