Page 5 of What Doesn't Kill Us

His golden eyes bore into mine, flames burning in them as he growls, “Oh, fucking right, I’ll take it. I’ll fucking take it over and over and over again, and there’s not one fucking thing you can do to stop me.”

I bare my teeth at him and snarl, “Then shut the fuck up, and get on with it.”

He growls deep in his chest. With his jaw clenching, he yanks me away from the wall with such force my teeth crack together. He half-drags, half-carries me across the room, and the next thing I know, I’m bent over the bed, and he’s securing my wrists behind my back with what I assume is his tie.

I attempt to sit up, but he forces me back down with the weight of his upper body. He leans over me, his face right next to mine where it’s pressed against the comforter, and purrs, his words clinging to me like a hot caress. “I’m going to get the fuck on with it just as soon as you tell me what I need to know.”

I snort indelicately. “Oh, my fucking Christ. You and your fucking talking.”

He growls again, abruptly removing his weight from me as he moves behind me and yanks at my yoga pants. The cool air hits my ass as he pulls them down my thighs. I try to sit up again, but he pushes me back down. Craning my head around, I ask, “What the fuck are you doing?”

He gives me a smug look. “Not fucking talking. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

I glare at him, not trusting this situation one bit. There’s no way Darius Hughes would switch gears that quickly unless he was up to something, and I doubt he’s going to fuck me without getting what he wants first.

I feel the stinging pain on my ass before I even realize he has moved.

The fucker spanked my ass.

I thrash on the bed, but he leans back over me, and I can’t get the leverage I need to force him off. I stop fighting against him and lay there, out of breath, cursing the very day I met him, and he says, “You ready to talk to me, baby girl?”

I snap my mouth shut and shake my head. What’s he going to do? Keep spanking my ass until I crack? Not a fucking chance.

The next spank is significantly more powerful, and I barely hold back a gasp as fire spreads over my ass cheek. Then he immediately does the same to the other cheek, and I’m a strange mix of apprehension and turned on.

He asks no more questions, instead continuing to punish my rear end until both cheeks are blazing with heat, and I’m clenching my thighs together to prevent me from humping the mattress. I haven’t so much as made a peep, but I’m relatively certain he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

Then I hear it. The clink of his belt as he unfastens it and then the whir of it being pulled from the belt loops. Surely, he won’t hit me with his belt. Right?

Fuck.

Chapter Three

Toni

Iwakewithastart. Disoriented, I blink against the dim light, confused when I glance around and see sunlight peeking around the curtain where it’s not quite closed. I shake my head, trying to clear it, but everything feels fuzzy.

Rolling over onto my back, my eyes widen at the pain in my backside, a shining ache that zaps my brain into focus.

Darius.

That motherfucker.

I roll onto my front and slowly maneuver myself to the edge of the bed so I can stand. I take a moment to collect myself before forcing my legs to bear my full weight. It’s a good five minutes before I feel confident enough to take a step, and I slowly make my way into the bathroom, where I squint at my reflection in the mirror.

I’m a hot mess. My hair stands up in all different directions, likely from his hands and my sweat. What little mascara I have left is in streaks under my eyes, only disturbed by the tear tracks running along my cheeks. There are bite marks and hickeys all over my person. There is no way I have enough makeup to cover all this.

I huff and roll my eyes, and when I turn, I get a twinge in my ass cheeks that has me spinning in slow motion so I can get a glimpse of the damage my pleasures cost me.

“Motherfucker,” I mutter to myself.

My ass is covered in tiny bruises, welts, and what looks suspiciously like a complete set of upper and lower teeth. I try to peer a little closer, but the angle isn’t right, so I give up and make my way over to the shower. I reach for the door when I see a Post-it stuck to it.

Yours.

I peel the note off the door, bringing it closer to get a better look. It appears as if he pressed a bloody fingertip to it, his way of signing it in blood. My lips twist, and I can’t stop the flutter in my chest at the implication.

Moving the note to the counter, I go about getting myself as ready as I can for the day. Luckily, it’s supposed to be on the cool side, so I can cover up most of this mess with some form of clothing. I’m relieved he left me mostly blemish-free from the neck up; there are a few spots on my neck I’ll have to cover, and I’m honestly surprised it’s only that given his overtly possessive overture of the previous evening.

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