Page 64 of Prey Tell
“I wanted somewhere different—”
I smack the back of her thigh again, this time harder. She whimpers this time. “Did you forget that I can always tell when you’re lying? Your voice drops an octave. Remember? Now, tell me why you chose the stairwell.”
“I don’t know, I—”
“Stop thinking about what you think I want to hear. There is no right or wrong answer. Why did you choose the stairwell?”
She is shivering on top of me, and with each sweep of my thumb against her crease, she jerks slightly. Her hair is fanning down her back, and when I look over at her head, she’s resting her face on her forearms, facing away from me.
“I wanted to be caught.”
“Good girl.” I bring the bottom of her robe back down over her thighs, though I want nothing more than to bite them. When I don’t do anything else, she cranes her neck to look at me.
“Is that it, sir?”
Hmm.I don’t normally like brats. I don’t tolerate them. But with Juliet, it sparks something inside of me. Something that makes me want to punish her—something that makes me think shewantsme to punish her.
“Stand up and remove your robe.”
She inhales twice in quick succession before she pushes up and stands. I steeple my hands as she faces me, her hands on the loose front tie. When I look up at her face, I realize she’s flushed. Her hair is tangled, and her lips are wet—like she’s been licking them. And her eyes… they’re a dark, emerald green. Three shades darker than they normally are.
Juliet Parkerlikesthis.
The beast inside of me snaps. I jump up and tug her into my body, using the ties of her robe.
“When I ask you to do something,” I grit out, sliding the soft cotton material apart. “I expect you to do it.”
“Yes, sir.” Her voice is breathy, but her smirk is one-hundred percentbrat.
The robe opens slightly—just enough for me to see a sliver of abdomen and a patch of hair between her thighs.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I’ve dreamed of this for so long—sofuckinglong. I use my hands to widen the gap in the robe, getting a full view of her body as the weight of the thick cotton falls off her shoulders. Finally, Juliet Parker is standing naked in front of me, and it’s so much better than my dreams. Her light brown hair falls over her narrow shoulders, and my hungry eyes take her in. Narrow waist, soft stomach, wider hips, a small patch of trimmed, light brown curls, muscular thighs, and her breasts… they’re fucking perfect. Pert, light brown nipples. Everything about her is perfect.Beyondperfect. My eyes snag on a tiny tattoo on her lower left hip bone. On anyone else, I would’ve found it distasteful. I don’t care for tattoos, but on her? It’s so fucking sexy. Especially because I know the significance.
My fingers brush over the single black rose and the stem that forms the initials of her parents’ first names. My fingers linger a little too long, and I feel her skin tense beneath my touch.
Her skin pebbles the longer I stare at it, as I take in the fact thatIknow what happened. I was there. I was the one she came to for comfort. She was a fucking kid at the time, and I treated her as such.Broken.She was broken. The black flowers were her mother’s favorite flower. Halfeti roses. She imported seeds from Turkey as the flower was rare and only grown there. Of course, the roses aren’t actually black—they’re really more of a deep purple, but I know how much the flowers meant to Parker.
It’s why I’d spent a fortune importing Halfeti roses for her engagement party—and why I’d been special ordering the seeds from Turkey for years, growing them at the castle as well as my apartment so I could have them around.
My eyes snap up to hers, and she’s watching me with a hooded, anticipatory expression. I realize I’ve been raking my eyes over her body silently for at least a minute. I’m sure I’ve unnerved her.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, running a hand along her neck to the back of her skull. Fisting her hair gently, I tilt her face up. “So fucking beautiful, Juliet.”
Her hand comes to my arm, small fingers curling around my bare forearm. I almost pull away, but instead, I take a step back and drop my hold on her.
“Walk over to the dining room table,” I tell her, my voice gruff.
“Yes, sir.”
She turns and walks over to the wood table, her back to me. My eyes memorize the small dimples on her back above her ass, the way her hips are slightly dipped, the smoothness of her strong thighs, the way her hair falls down to past her waist.
“Bend over,” I growl.
She immediately bends at my words, placing her hands flat on the table. I study her there—prone, vulnerable, waiting.
Trusting.
