Page 7 of Marked
“Fuck you,” I growled.
He snorted and spanked the backs of my thighs even harder. I screamed and cried out, kicking my legs, but he continued the terrible punishment. Every blow stung like the dickens, and even when I kicked and tried to push up off his lap, he wouldn’t let me go. His arm held me tightly to his lap so effectively, it was like I was bound. The spanking hurt so very much, and if it went on for much longer, I was going to cry. And this was over my jeans, for Christ’s sake.
As much as it hurt, though, I felt myself growing more and more aroused. I was suddenly exceedingly thankful for the fact that I was still clothed, that my very wet little pussy was still covered by my panties and my dark-colored jeans. That he couldn’t see just how much he was turning me on right now. At least I had some semblance of dignity left, even though I was over his knee getting the first spanking of my life.
My ass stung. My thighs throbbed hotly with pain, and my pussy pulsed with shameful desire. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to cope with everything that was happening and utterly failing.
He stopped spanking me, and I stilled, his fingers grazing against the contained heat between my legs. He tapped his fingers against my pussy, and I had the sudden fear that my ass wasn’t the only part of me that was going to get spanked tonight.
“You’re going to try harder this time, or else I’m going to tear these jeans off and whip that naughty little bottom of yours with my belt,” he warned.
I licked my lips and waited, my ass smarting and reminding me just how much I was out of my element right now.
Now that his palm wasn’t biting into my tender flesh, I had a moment to gather myself. And I found that I was getting angry. Furious even. A man… Fuck that. A stranger had kidnapped me from a bar by throwing me over his shoulder. He’d kissed me without my consent and had taken me over his knee and spanked me like a disobedient little girl.
I refused to think about the fact that it had all made me very wet.
He lifted me off his lap and placed my feet back onto the floor. I was unsteady for a long moment, but I finally pulled myself together when he reached for the knife and handed it back to me. Nervously, I glanced at his belt on the floor and back to him.
“Are you ready?” he asked, and just the way he said it kind of pissed me off, as though he expected to fight me and still win. I took a moment to focus on that anger, as well as the fact that my ass hurt from his palm.
How dare he?
I brought my arms up in front of my chest, one hand braced defensively while the other gripped the knife so tightly that my knuckles turned white. My legs bent slightly, my stance firm as I anchored myself in place. I could feel the weight of the blade in my hand, the cold stone of the handle grounding me. Every nerve in my body felt alive, thrumming with anticipation. I was ready. A coiled spring, a grenade just waiting to explode. I studied his every move, the subtle shift of his weight, the way his eyes tracked me like a predator.
I’d win this time.
I didn’t wait for him to make the first move. If he thought I’d give him time to prepare, he was dead wrong. I darted forward in a blur of motion, the knife aimed straight for his chest. He reactedquickly, stepping aside and reaching for my wrist, but I twisted away just in time, spinning on my heel to put myself out of his reach. My sudden movement forced him to overextend, and I used the opportunity to aim a sharp kick at the side of his knee. His leg buckled slightly, but he recovered, a feral grin spreading across his face.
He wasn’t playing around anymore. He lunged toward me, swinging his arm out in an attempt to grab the back of my head. I ducked low, narrowly avoiding his grip, and rolled to the side. My movements were quick, deliberate, fueled by adrenaline and rage. I pivoted to face him, crouched and ready, my eyes locked on his. He was strong and fast, but he was also bigger—too big to move with the same speed and agility I had. I used that to my advantage, slipping just out of his reach each time he lunged.
The room felt smaller with every pass, the space between us tightening like a noose. I wore him down, forcing him to chase me, to waste his energy on grabs that never landed. My heart pounded in my chest, but I didn’t let up, didn’t give him a moment to regain the upper hand.
When I saw my opening, I seized it. My knee shot up with all the strength I could muster, landing squarely between his thighs. He grunted, his body crumpling forward in a reflexive spasm of pain. I didn’t hesitate. I twisted away from him, the momentum of my spin bringing the knife down in a sharp arc aimed directly at his kidney.
But he wasn’t finished yet. Despite the pain, he moved with startling speed, throwing his weight to the side at the last second. My knife grazed his side, drawing a thin line of blood, but it wasn’t the deep, decisive blow I’d aimed for. His hand shot out and closed around my wrist like a vice. I struggled, twisting and pulling against his grip, but it was like fighting a steel trap.
He yanked my arm backward, forcing the knife from my grasp. The blade fell to the floor with a deafening clang, the sound echoing in the tense silence of the room. My breath came in ragged gasps, my chest heaving as I stared at him.
He’d disarmed me. Again.
“I’m impressed. In a fair fight, you more than held your own. But now that I’ve mastered you, baby doll, I’m going to claim you for myself,” he declared, and I was too shocked to do anything about it. He released my wrist, and I pulled it into my chest, rubbing away the hurt from his fingers. He reached for the knife and picked it up, staring at the sharp metal edge before taking it in both hands and snapping it in two.
He stared at me and I’d never felt smaller in my life, almost like I was a lamb about to be slaughtered by a wolf. I shifted from one foot to the other, contemplating making a break for it out the studio door and back down to the alley. I stilled, though, the expression on his face causing me to falter.
I should have run. I should have done something, but I did nothing. Instead, I just stood there and watched him as he cocked his head in my direction. My gaze flicked down to the small wound I’d inflicted to his side, and my eyes widened into saucers as I watched it heal before my eyes.
What? Impossible.
Another piece of evidence that I was losing my mind. Maybe some padded walls and a straitjacket would be good for me right now…
“Who are you?” I whispered.
“One day, if you prove to be my mate, I will tell you,” he answered, his voice carrying a low, almost growling edge that sent a shiver down my spine.
He moved closer, his steps predatory, until he stopped just in front of me. The space between us felt heavy, charged with something primal. I stared into his eyes, unable to look away, and realized there was something subtly wrong—or perhaps right—about them. Their shape was slightly off, not entirely human. His pupils weren’t round but narrowed, dark and piercing, like a predator tracking its prey. His irises were a deep, endless blue, but within them gleamed flecks of gold, scattered like embers from a fire.
They reminded me of an animal’s eyes. A predator’s eyes.
