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“Yes,” Elio says darkly. “We will.”
Chapter 33
Deirdre
The next morning I get up and shower, but after that I waffle back and forth about what to do. Should I get ready for class or not? Am I dropping out or staying? I absolutely do not want to repeat yesterday – that was mortifying – but if I go to class there’s no way around it. Elio’s coming with me. A twisted part of me almost wants to bait Elio. To sit here in my wet towel until he has to come and get me. To see if he really will drag me there. Imagining him storming in here and ripping away my towel makes my insides curl and my thighs squeeze, and it’s the rebellion against that arousal that finally has me hurrying to get ready.
I’ll go to class, at least today. Going there and suffering humiliation in public is better than submitting to the private humiliation in here. The humiliation that makes me wet. I blow dry my hair, not bothering to style it, and it dries in a frizzy tumble that I tie up in a knot on the top of my head.
The only problem is that I spent so long dithering about what to do that I really might actually be late at this point. My first class is at ten today, and I’m going to be cutting it close. I’m running from the bathroom to the closet, clutching my towel, when Elio strides into the room. He looks the same way he did yesterday – tall and broad in all black, leather jacket and gloves on, keys in hand. He stops short when he sees me.
“You’re not ready.”
“I am. Almost,” I say hurriedly, continuing my way into the closet. He follows me, and my heart starts banging a chaotic rhythm against my ribs.
And my clit.
“I told you what would happen if you weren’t ready,” he says from behind my back, so softly that it belies the bite of the threat in the words.
“And I told you I’m almost ready,” I shoot back.
“Doesn’t look that way to me.”
I yelp as the towel gets tugged away from me. Before I can cross my arms or try to hide myself, Elio grabs the back of my neck from behind me and shoves my head forward.
“Grab the shelves.”
“No,” I pant. The feeling of his leather glove on the back of my neck is so fucking hot I can’t stand it. I can’t let this go any further. Can’t let him see what he’s doing to me. That’s how he wins. Every single time.
Elio keeps his hold on my neck and steps forward, bumping my ass with his thighs until I lose my balance and I’m forced to grasp the edge of the shelf ahead of me. Now I’m doing exactly what he told me to. I’m bent over and bare for him. Even if I tried to stand up, I couldn’t, because the weight of his hand on the back of my neck is like an anchor. He isn’t even pushing me down, and that’s the worst part. The anchor only exists in my head because of how far he’s dug his way inside me.
“I told you that you are going to school today and I told you what would happen to this ass if you weren’t ready,” Elio says from above and behind me. “You know what time your classes are. You know what time you needed to be ready. And you know I don’t break my promises.” His left hand grazes my hip, and I start, my pussy throbbing. “Don’t try to act all innocent and affronted on me now. You’re baiting me, waiting for me in only a towel when you’re supposed to be dressed and ready.”
His hand lifts from my hip, and I tense, waiting in angry, defensive, delirious anticipation of what’s to come.
“I told you at the gala that taunting me is not a good idea.”
His hand comes down with a tight, sharp movement, searing my flesh. I hold my breath, an instinctive reaction, so that I don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing my cry of deranged pleasure. But Elio slides his right hand around the front of my throat, massaging there, until I’m forced to open my mouth and take a breath. With his left hand, he spanks me again, and this time I can’t hold back my mangled moan.
“No holding your breath,” he orders me huskily. “No shutting down. No silence. I want to hear that pretty fucking song of yours.”
It doesn’t sound like a song to me. It sounds like panting, pathetic mewling. A reedy, throaty chorus punctured by the staccato beat of Elio’s leather glove against my skin. My back is arching, my fingers tight against the shelf, and I can’t fucking stop it, because for some reason I need this and I need more. After every slap, my ass shoves backward, upward, begging him to keep going.
“I told you, Songbird,” Elio rasps. “I told you I could go harder. And look how fucking good you’re being. Look how fucking well you take it.” He groans, long and low, pausing the spanking to grip my ass cheek and spread it to the side. “Look how fucking well you wear my marks. It’s like your skin was made for this.”
The unexpected praise mixed with the pain and heat and degradation has me close to coming. I hold onto the shelf for dear life, my thighs trembling, my clit screaming. I can’t even feel my own heartbeat now. It’s been replaced by the rhythm Elio has created. The stinging slaps that echo through my body even when both of us are still.
Elio’s hand eases from my neck, and I hear the unmistakable jingle of a belt being undone and pants hitting the floor. Dread and desire bloom inside me, and I can’t move, I cannot move, as Elio guides the head of his cock against my pussy.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groans. “Cristo santo, your dripping pussy nestled below that bright red ass is a work of fucking art.”
My muscles jump, and I’m at war with myself. My body is frozen under the weight of competing instincts. The instinct to wiggle backwards, to soothe the pulsing emptiness by taking Elio inside me.
And the instinct to run for my life.
“Touch yourself.”
When I don’t answer or move, another slap makes my nerves spark and sing.
