Page 28 of Bound By Revenge

“Where?” His hand lingers, teasing, never giving enough. “Here?” His fingers graze the tender skin of my inner thigh, and I whimper.

“Yes,” I cry, my cheeks burning with shame at how desperate I sound. “There. Everywhere. Please, Nik.”

“Everywhere?” His chuckle is dark, mocking. “Greedy. That’s a tall order. You’ll have to narrow it down.”

“Please,” I gasp again, my breath catching as I writhe against the sheets. “Touch me. Touch me there.”

“Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully, pulling his hand away completely. “Not good enough. Try again.”

“Fuck you,” I cry, my voice breaking, raw and unsteady. “I want you inside me. I need it—you. Please, Nik.”

“Better,” he murmurs, but the edge of smugness in his voice makes me want to scream. His hand returns briefly, sliding over my heated skin, only to disappear again.

“You’re so eager,” he says, his tone soft but mocking. “But eager isn’t enough.”

“Please!” I beg, louder now, all pretense stripped away. “Please, Nik, don’t stop. I’ll do anything. Just fuck me.”

He drags his hand over my heated skin, just barely touching me, his movements slow and deliberate, before pulling away again, leaving me trembling with frustration.

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you tried to play me,” he says, his voice sharp as he lands another stinging slap to my ass. I cry out, my hips jerking forward, seeking relief that doesn’t come.

He steps back, letting my legs drop and moving away from the bed. “If you want something from me, I suggest you get on your knees and beg.”

It takes me a moment to register what he’s just said. When I push myself up on shaky arms, disoriented, I realize the restraints are gone. My gaze snaps to him across the room, where he stands leaning casually against the wall. His shirt is a wrinkled mess, his pants stretched tight over his cock, but he looks smug as hell, like he knows he’s won.

One look at his face, and I know.

He’s been fucking with me.

He spanked me until I was losing my mind with need, knowing the whole time he’d leave me hanging—unless I got on my knees and begged.

“Nik!” I yell, the burn of anger cutting through the ache in my body.

He laughs, that rich, infuriating sound that makes my blood boil. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you. And let’s be honest—it’s been a long time coming, don’t you think?”

“Son of a bitch,” I hiss, every nerve in my body on fire. “You’re going to regret this.”

He shrugs lazily, that damn smirk still plastered on his face. “Doubt it,” he says easily, leaning against the doorframe like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “But go ahead. Do your worst. I can take it."

My hand curls around the nearest pillow, and I hurl it at his head with a growl. It misses. He dodges the next one easily, laughing as I grab another, my curses growing louder and less coherent.

“Temper, temper,” he taunts, his grin widening. "You know what they say—don’t start what you can’t finish.”

Fuming, I stomp off to the bathroom my vision blurring with frustration. My eyes dart around, searching for something—anything—to make him regret that smug grin. My gaze lands on a crystal pitcher.

Perfect.

Behind me, his voice follows, taunting and calm. “Take your time. Maybe take care of yourself while you’re in there. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready to beg again.”

Without looking, I hurl the pitcher toward the door. The crash of shattering glass is satisfying, and I hear his laugh echo down the hall. I slam the door, leaning against it as I try to calm down.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror, and it’s jarring. This morning, after I was done getting ready for my meeting with A.J. and Camilla, I looked put together, composed. In control. Now, the woman staring back at me looks nothing like that.

My clothes are gone, my shoes and purse vanished somewhere between being kidnapped and dragged here. The makeup I’d carefully applied this morning is smudged beyond recognition, and my hair is a tangled mess.

I look like I’ve spent the day rolling around in bed with a delicious man, which, frankly, I have.

I splash cold water on my face, trying to get a grip, trying to remind myself of what matters here. Searching the vanity drawers, I find nothing useful—no makeup, no hair ties, nothing to fix my appearance or even remotely threaten Nik. It figures. Typical bachelor pad.

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