Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I swallow hard. “Lesson?” My heart beats madly. Is this when I get to see who he really is? What he's truly capable of?
He releases my chin and reaches for something on the side table—a bottle of pain relievers. He opens it in front of me, deliberately showing me the sealed cap before shaking a few pills into his palm. Then he hands me a glass of water.
“You're going to take these,” he says. “I'm going to cook us some dinner. And then, once the pain has settled, I'll deal with you.”
I twist my hair nervously, staring at him. Why does my heartbeat flutter in my chest? “What's that supposed to mean?”
“You'll see.”
I stare at his retreating form as he heads to the kitchen, then look down at the pills in my hand. They were sealed. He took them right out of that bottle…
I take them because I am in pain, and because he showed me they were sealed. He's not trying to drug me, which somehow makes everything more confusing.
In a short while, there's food sizzling in the kitchen, and my stomach growls traitorously. The smell of garlic and butter fills the cabin, and despite everything, my mouth waters.
I sigh.
I feel like a child who's lost every ounce of control, and I hate it.
The heavy sound of a pot lid clanging echoes from the kitchen, and then he's back, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his broad chest.
“How's the pain?”
“Better,” I admit truthfully, before I remember he told me he’d deal with me after my pain improved.
“Good.” He studies me for a long moment. “Dinner's almost ready. But we have something to deal with first, don't we?”
Protesting seems fruitless, but… “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“I'm going to make damn sure you understand that running isn't an option.” He pushes off the doorframe and stalks toward me. “And that you will not hurt yourself again.”
Before I can ask what he means, he's sitting down on the couch and pulling me across his lap.
Across. His. Lap.
“Ashland!” I say, because I'm as terrified of being punished by him as I am mortified by him putting my curvy body over his knee. “Put me down. I'm too big. I don't fit. You can't—”
“Stop that,” he says sharply. “I told you what would happen if you made self-deprecating comments. You'll be punished for that as well.”
“What? What are you—”
My words cut off in a gasp as his hand comes down hard across my arse. The sound cracks through the quiet cabin. Heat blooms where he struck—not just pain, but something else. Something that makes my breath catch and my core clench.
“That,” he says, low and stern, “is for breaking my window.”
His hand comes down again on the same spot, and the sting intensifies, spreading through me like wildfire.
“That's for running into the woods without proper clothing.”
Again.
“That's for twisting your ankle and scaring ten years off my fucking life.”
Again.
“For making me chase you just to keep you safe.”
I should be furious. I should be screaming, demanding he stop. But I'm… not.
Each smack sends heat sparking through me. Warmth pools in my core and makes me press my thighs together instinctively.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“This is for putting yourself in danger when I'm trying to keep you safe.” His hand comes down harder, and I gasp.
I can't just take this.
“I didn't—” My voice comes out breathless, unfamiliar. “I don't need you to keep me safe.”
“Yes, you do, lass. You do.”
Another smack.
Another.
“And that's for saying another comment about your weight. Did I look like I couldn't handle you?”
No, no, he didn't.
My skin's on fire, hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive and electric. I'm acutely aware of his hard thighs beneath me, my soft belly pressed over the edge of his knee, the warmth of his large hand against my burning skin. The way my body responds to something it absolutely should not be responding to.
This is wrong. So fucking wrong.
So why am I arching into the next strike?
His hand stills, resting on my burning arse, as he grips the heated flesh possessively. It's painful and perfect all at once, and I hate him for it.
“Never again,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Do you understand me, Bianca? Never fucking again. No more shite comments about your size when you're fucking perfect. And no more running.”
I should tell him to go to hell. But when I try to speak, all that comes out is a whimper.
His hand tightens on my arse, possessive and claiming. Then he shifts me, turning me until I'm straddling his lap, and his eyes are so dark, the pupils blown wide with something that looks like hunger.
“You've no goddamn idea”—he exhales—“what you do to me.”
He pushes my hair off my forehead with surprising gentleness, tucks it behind my ear, and cups my jaw with his calloused palm.