Page 60 of Preferential Treatment

“Knyazhna—”

“I never gave you permission to speak to me.” Her hands went to his belt, undoing it roughly, and whipping it out of his belt loops. She doubled it over and slapped it against the palm of one hand, a clear threat. “Move a little faster, or I’ll find a way to motivate you.”

For a moment he was frozen, torn between the mindless pleasure of obedience and the dark thrill of punishment.

“Well, alright,” Kate said, cruel amusement in her voice. “We can do it the hard way.”

The decision was made for him, and he melted into it with ease. Even so, he couldn’t help but provoke her. If he was going to be punished, he didn’t want her holding back. “Please, knyazhna, don’t—”

“What did I say about talking?”

He fell silent, his whole body alight with desire and anticipation, a fine tremor going through his hands.

She lifted her chin, a cruel smile turning her sharp-eyed, golden beauty into something almost painful to behold. “Bend over your desk.”

He turned, pressing his palms to the smooth, cool surface. He’d sat at this very desk and brokered deals with the richest men in the world. He’d been consulted by heads of state at this desk. He’d upended entire industries with decisions he’d made here. And he was about to desecrate all that power in service to the most singular woman he’d ever known. She boiled his blood and set his soul on fire. He didn’t really believe in souls, but Kate had taken hold of something inside him that he’d never felt before, something he had no name for. She owned him more deeply than he’d known he could be.

“Lower.” Her silky command brushed his ear, a whisper of breath, the faintest brush of her lips.

He obeyed, bringing himself down to brace his weight on his forearms.

She laughed, a dangerous sound. “Lower.”

He sank down even further, bringing his bare chest to the cool surface of his desk, folding his arms in front of his face. The silver medallion clinked against lacquered wood, a sound as final as a bullet being chambered.

One of Kate’s hands descended gently onto the small of his back, pressing down as if to pin him in place. The sound of his belt, leather sliding against leather, came from behind him as she shifted her hold on it.

“One stroke for each time you questioned me. Do you know how many that was?”

“No, knyazhna, I wasn’t—”

“And we add one more to the tally,” she said with cool amusement. “That’s a total of eight. You will apologize to me after each one. Understand?”

“Yes, knyazhna.” His dick was a rampant pike, so sensitive, he was certain he could feel each individual air molecule vibrating against it.

The first blow landed immediately across his ass. He heard the sound first—a crisp, sharp crack. A split-second later, the pain hit him, white-hot and somehow clarifying, bringing his awareness of his whole body into stark focus. He grunted, hands clenching on nothing.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Kate prompted.

“I’m sorry, knyazhna!” he gasped, still reeling from the purifying wash of pain.

“For what?”

“For my disobedience.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Unfortunately, you’ve got seven more strokes to go. Ready?”

Before he could answer, the next one landed, just above the last one. That bright white pain cleaved through him again, and he welcomed it with a shuddering groan.

“What do you say?” Kate asked.

“I’m sorry, knyazhna!”

“Don’t make me remind you again. Every forgotten apology is another stroke of the belt. Got it?”

“Yes, kny—ah!” The third blow landed on the backs of his thighs, making him jump with shock as fresh pain bloomed beneath his skin and electrified his senses.

“I’m sorry, knyazhna!” he cried hoarsely, face buried against his arms.

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