Page 116 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

My eyes have adjusted. I can see his face clearly now. The wild, unrestrained look in his eyes. The set of his jaw. His fists clenched at his sides.

Then he’s on me.

His hand clamps over my mouth as he pushes me backward onto the bed, and I'm grateful it doesn't smell like Palmolive. A muffled moan escapes my throat as his weight bares down on me. His other hand trails down my body, rough and possessive.

“This what you wanted?” he growls in my ear. “You turned on yet?”

That’s the moment my words come back to me and I remember how smug I was. How I downplayed his feelings.

I brought this on myself.

I deserve it.

I whimper against his palm, desperate to free myself, to regain control. His fingers tuck into the side of my panties, finding my clit, and I lift my hips, arching to chase the pleasure.

He sucks in a breath. Leans down. Scrapes his teeth across my neck. Then, a ripping sound.

He’s torn my panties off.

“Turn over,” he orders. “And don’t say shit.”

My mouth is free, but my lips are numb from the prolonged pressure. I’m disoriented, but turned on, ready for whatever he wants, however he wants to teach me this lesson. But I’m confused. This doesn’t feel like Ace to me.

Nevertheless, I do what he says.

He puts a firm hand on my upper back, stilling me. The other hand brushes my lower back.

“What the fuck…” He runs a light finger over my tattoo, almost like he doesn’t believe his eyes. His breathing turns ragged.

“Is this real?”

I nod.

He exhales sharply, mumbling, "Crazy bitch.”

I hear clothes rustling. I feel movement. The bed shifts, then his knee presses between my thighs, forcing them apart. My breath catches as I sink into the mattress, waiting. His hand is on my back, fingers spread wide around my new tattoo. His touch is heavy and hot, searing my skin just like the ink beneath it.

“So you marked yourself for me,” he mutters, tracing the heart beneath the A. “Sick in the head, you know that?”

His words are cutting, but his voice is thick with desire.

My stomach flips.

I knew he would love it.

His weight shifts behind me, and then*whap!*

A sharp slap stings my ass, branding me with his emotions. I cry out, my back arching on instinct, but his hand finds my nape and presses me back down.

“I told you to shut the fuck up.”

I bite down on my lip, nodding into the pillow as wetness pools between my thighs, slippery and hot.

Two fingers spread my cheeks, then slide through the mess I’ve made of myself.

“Jesus,” he whispers, and I don’t think he meant to say that out loud. “It don’t matter what I say or what I do. You gone, ain’t you?”

Yes, you stupid motherfucker!

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