Page 51 of Fearless

“Meisie!” He grabs my shirt in a hand and yanks me back.

“No!” I burst out laughing again.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says.

I don’t know which is louder—the slap he plants on my ass, or the gasp of surprise I let out. Hair flies into my face as I whip around to stare at him in shock. “Did you just…?”

He holds up the same hand, and I realize he’s breathing almost as hard as I am. “Want another?”

He gets his answer when I bark out a laugh and make a go for the exit again.

“Fuuuuck.”

The next slap is twice as hard. I’m so shocked at the flash of pain that I stop moving altogether. But I guess my punishment is exponential, because he spanks me again, and again, and—

“Peaches!” I yelp, twisting onto my back and holding up my hands. “Fuck, peaches!” Tears pour down my cheeks, but I have no idea if they’re from laughing, or the spanking, or a fucked up mix of the two.

There’s less than a foot between us. He’s still on his side, me on my back. Satin beneath us, Egyptian cotton above.

So it’s no fucking wonder that, when he leans closer, I think he’s going to kiss me.

But he leaves me hanging. And when I open my eyes, he’s staring at me with an expression I’ve never seen on his face before.

Regret?

About what? Spanking me? I’d never tell him in a million years, but although it hurt like hell—fuck, it still does—I liked it. Not the pain. Who likes pain? I don’t know what I liked about it.

Maybe I am going a bit crazy. Huh—maybe I’ve always been and I’m only now starting to—

“I’m going to marry you,” he says.

I blink up at him.

“Um…” I let out a soft laugh. “I’m sorry. I think you literally just spanked all the sense out of me.”

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile.

“Did you just say—?”

“Two weeks from now. You’ll wear white. I’m traditional like that. And a garter. Veil—” he glances away for a second. “Your choice. We’re having it in a castle. It’s nice, but freezing—so don’t be walking down the aisle in something flimsy and moan that you’re cold.”

I laugh again. Louder. Possibly even hysterically. Then I slap him on a pec. “You know, you’re not half bad when you’re pretending to be a decent human being.” I wave a finger at him. “But this is a bit too much. Just reel it in a tad, and you’re golden.”

Gone is any trace of brevity. His eyes are the color of a shadowy forest now, his mouth a firm, unwavering line.

“It won’t be intimate. There’ll be a shit ton of press and guests and friends of friends.” He leans a little closer, his gaze pinning me where I lay. “But no family, except mine. Your mother? She can see it on the news, like the rest of the country. Understand?”

I die a thousand little deaths.

My joy at him coming down the stairs? Dead.

The swallow in my throat? Already stiff.

The tiny piece of my heart he’d commanded? Already bloated with putrefaction.

“What?” I hear myself say, and I hate it. I hate the pathetic, whining little voice that comes out of me. I hate the fact that I’m waiting for the punchline. That I’m somehow still convinced that he’s going to crack a smile and give me another resounding slap on the butt.

Tell me, Meisie, when did the delusion that Cillian cared for you begin?Trish asks.And then she waits, long nails poised over that fucking iPad.

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