Page 50 of Endgame
“What are you talking about? I didn’t steal it.”
“It’d look like it when I lock it around your neck.”
My chest heaves. Jaw tightening, I suppress the sound of my frustration.
“You could scream again.” He sees right through me. Must feel my skin heating beneath his palms. Bastard. “No one would come to help you. No one would believe you. And if you howl long enough to upset me, you’ll suffer.”
Desperation is a sad, pathetic state to be in. And I’m living it right now.
My eyes water. I’m expecting many more of these tears throughout the many more years I have here. As his wife.
As many as Everett decides.
“Fine.” My fingers twitch at my sides, fists clenching with barely restrained defiance. “You’ve made your point. You’re strong, powerful, and you hate me for some fucking reason?—”
“Language.” The command is accompanied by his fingers digging into my skin.
Talking through the pain, I sass, “Since you’re Mister Eloquence and all?”
Everett bends my dripping body over, mashing my face to the cold vanity.
“Brat.” His hand cracks over my ass. Once, twice. Ten and twenty. I’m crying. Begging him to stop. The only response I get is, “Be a good girl and take it.”
I cry harder, because fuck. That command. His hand on the back of my neck.
His attention.
I like it.
My brain remembers that I had a thing for Everett. That I haven’t been attracted to anyone else but him, ever.
It has to be those feelings from before he kidnapped me, that’s why I’m wet. That’s why my thighs squeeze and my clit is sensitive.
The memory of him, of the man I made up inside my head, it’s messing with my head.
Clearly, this isn’t the same person I had a crush on.
Two thick fingers are shoved into my pussy and?—
“What the hell?” I slam my hands on the vanity.
His glare is probing. Harsh.
“Take it.” He seethes. “You need to calm the fuck down, and I can’t fucking use the collar when you’re wet. This is all I have.”
As much as I like it, he has to stop. And I have to stop getting off on it.
“Ha. You’re doing this for me?” My feet stomping on his shoes don’t deter him.
He doesn’t even flinch when I slap his wrist. Damn him and his expert fingers.
So good. So bad too. I have to choke on every moan threatening to leave my lips.
“I am.”
“Oh, thanks. Very”—oh God, the way he’s curling his fingers inside of me, it’s too good, I need them out—“considerate of you.”
“Very selfish of me.” His fingers move, steady, unrelenting. In and out. In and out.
