Page 36 of Skin Deep

“It’s golf,” I told him. I fucking hated that game. Hated it even more because my ex was a pro golfer. Nothing would kill my libido faster than bringingthatup.

He snorted in answer and sucked the cut on my lip, making me groan. “Better show me where you keep the rope so I can take care of this for you.” Paxton palmed my cock through my pants.

“It’s not rope,” I panted.

That made him hesitate. He pulled back, giving me a strange look, but I took his hand, guiding him into my bedroom.

Ken had always said my design tastes were boring and devoid of personality.Maybe they are, I thought, taking in the slate gray curtains and matching bedspread. I only used white sheets because it was easier to spot stains on them and clean them with bleach. There weren’t any decorations on the wall, either. They served no purpose other than to be talking pieces. No one came into my bedroom totalk.

I let go of him when we were next to the bed, opening the bedside table and laying out a handful of extra wide black plastic zip ties, a box of pre-lubricated condoms, and a bottle of lube.

“Zip ties?” Pax asked curiously.

I buried my face against his chest so I didn’t have to look at him while I explained. “I need you to zip tie my hands behind my back and use me however you want. Call me a worthless slut. Call me a dirty whore. Treat me like I’m your personal fuck toy.” I swallowed and shakily retrieved the scalpel from the drawer to put it next to the zip ties. “Hit me, threaten to cut me if I don’t come for you like the dirty fucking whore I am, and then do it. Do whatever else you want. Just…no cuts on my face or hands.”

Finally, I let myself look up at him. The expression on his face was one of concern. A cold dread spread through my chest.I knew it. This is too far for him. I’m asking too much.

He looked me up and down slowly. “Anything else I want, huh?”

I shuddered at the implication that he was considering playing this game with me after all and nodded.

Paxton cupped my cheek and kissed me tenderly, sweetly enough that it made my chest feel like it was about to explode. When he leaned back, his face went bone-chillingly cold. I gasped as he grabbed my arm by the wrist and wrenched it to the side, forcing me to spin. Pain shot through my shoulder joint as it strained against the position he held me in while he brought my wrists together.

I had a sudden panicked thought as he started tightening the zip ties together. “Fuck, my clothes…” I should’ve gotten undressed first. Once he had me all bound up, it’d be impossible.

The sound and feel of the zip tie tightening had my cock leaking in my pants and my face burning with embarrassment at the mess I was already making in my underwear.

“Shut up, slut,” Paxton growled and shoved me onto the bed.

I fought to get up on my knees from my stomach. “Fucking asshole. At least let me—”

The slap blindsided me. My head jerked to one side, the taste of fresh blood filling my mouth. Tears welled in my eyes at the burning sting coating the right side of my face. Everything stopped, the world coming into sharper focus as adrenaline kicked in. I was acutely aware of how fast Paxton was breathing, the way he’d frozen in place with his muscles coiled and fear in his eyes. Something twisted in my chest. Was he scared he’d crossed a line? That he’d actually hurt me?

Fuck that. I’d endured worse. It’d take a lot more than a little slap to break me.

I let out a shuddering breath and looked up at him as hot, angry tears spilled over. Refusing to acknowledge them, I said, “Did you hear me use my safe word?”

“No,” he said quietly. “But…”

“If you can’t do this—”

He slapped me again, this time on the other cheek. “Don’t talk back to me, slut.”

I blinked and more tears fell, but they weren’t important. The stinging pain in my face was more real than the tears, more real than all the bullshit over the last few days, more real than anything.

Paxton was suddenly pushing me back into the bed, forcing my face into the pillows so hard it was difficult to breathe. “So fucking worried about your fancy clothes and your luxury car and your expensive house in the suburbs. Worried about appearances. Fuck all that. Fucknormal. That’s not who you are. Not when you’re with me. I want to see the real you.”

Strong hands gripped my shirt, yanking it out from where it was tucked neatly in my pants. The fabric pulled tight against my chest and arms before the sound of ripping fabric filled the room.

I gasped as I realized he was literally ripping the clothes off my back. “This is a four-hundred-dollar shirt!”

“Four hundred… Boy, they got the same shit at Target for thirty bucks.”

“I’m fairly sure they don’t carry Thom Sweeny at Target.” I twisted to glare at him. “Well? Get on with it.”

He smirked, grabbed the shirt and yanked, ripping it the rest of the way. “Now it’s a four-hundred-dollar rag, and you’re about to be my good little whore, aren’t you? ’Cause that’s what’s underneath all this expensive window dressing, isn’t it? Just a set of holes for me to fuck.”

I shuddered and groaned as calloused palms traced roughly over my bare back. “Yes.”

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