Page 55 of Dance of Ruin

12

NICO

She flincheswhen the whiskey spills.

She lets out a gasp, sharp and high in her throat, like the cold shocked her nerves and jolted her brain back into her body.

Slowly, I turn to her.

There’s something so goddamn beautiful about this moment—her bare skin shining under the office lights, knees red from the hardwood floor, the curve of her spine glistening with the line of liquid sliding down it and over the tight swell of her ass.

Her hands are still bound behind her by the white silk ribbon, wrists crossed at the small of her back. Knees spread.

And her face…

Her face is perfectly wrecked, ruined beauty: eyes wide. Cheeks flushed. Lip bitten raw from nerves, or trying not to beg. Maybe both.

Probablyboth.

I let the silence stretch out before I reach down, pluck the glass from her back, and set it on the desk.

Then I stand and roll my neck.

“Up,” I say, voice monotone.

She looks at me, staring, like she didn’t quite hear.

I raise a brow. “Standup, Naomi.”

She struggles a little, her body stiff from kneeling, but she gets to her feet. Her shoulders curl in on themselves, trying to shield what’s already been exposed.

I step behind her and reach for her shoulders. She shivers when I touch her.

Good.

I press one hand between her shoulder blades and push forward until her chest hits the desk.

“Feet apart,” I say. “Back arched. Don’t fucking move.”

She trembles but obeys.

I let my hand hover over the curve of her ass.

“You spilled my drink,” I say casually.

“I’m sor?—”

“I didn’t ask for an apology.”

She clamps her mouth shut.

“Count,” I say.

Then I bring my hand down.

The sound echoes sharply through the office.

“One,” she choke-whispers.

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