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Pushing my panties to the side with the gun, he thrusts the end of the barrel past my lips and inside me.
The shock of the entry jerks my body backwards. “Be as rough as you want, Luca. I fucking love the pain,” I tell him, grabbing his wrist and forcing the gun deeper inside me, the steel painful.
“Enough,” he roars. Pulling the gun free, he removes the safety and fires a bullet into the wall, startling me. A tiny screech pushes past my lips. Without missing a beat, he stabs the end of the barrel against my inner thigh, the burn snapping the lust into pain and back again.
When he pulls it away, a red rising mark throbs in its wake.
The lust in his eyes nearly floors me. His body almost vibrates trying to control his beast.
He likes pain too.
Inflicting it.
“I have a proposal,” I exhale, struggling to catch my breath.
“If I wanted to fuck you, ballerina, I would have,” he mocks.
Smirking, I push him away from me and slide down my skirt. Slipping off the table, I cup his cock through his slacks, the bulge heavy and thick. “Your cock has been telling me for weeks you want to fuck me, Mr. Leto. What I’m proposing is a marriage.”
Amusement tugs at his lips, releasing in a boisterous laugh. When I don’t return it, his eyes narrow. “You’re joking, right?”
“No,” I tuck my hair behind my ears, trying to retake my composure. “You need a wife.”
Dark brows tug down. Amusement creases his lips. “And what is it you need?” He tilts his head, his tongue flicking out to dampen the thick bottom lip. I hate and love how beautiful he is.
Bastard.
“You get me back in Swan, pay my fees and some extra for the inconvenience you’ve caused me…” I slip the fallen satin over my breast, holding it in place, “the cost of living, my supplies, etcetera.”
Tracking my actions, he dissects every inch of me. “That’s an awful lot you’re asking for.”
“It’s what you were paying for before, for nothing in return. Why didn’t you tell me you were my beneficiary?”
He turns and moves to a cupboard, pulling out a fresh bottle of whisky and two glasses.
Shovelling ice in his glass from a canter, he pops the lid off the bottle and fills them.
He brings one to where I’m standing, an offering.
“What happened to your dress?” he gestures with his finger at the broken strap.
“I’m not here to talk fashion,” I snap, throwing the glass he gave me at him. With catlike reflexes, he ducks. The glass splinters against the unit behind him, decorating the office floor in crystal shards.
Within seconds, I’m bent over his desk, my dress pushed up around my waist. My panties tear in his hands as he yanks them from my body.
His palm comes down on my bare ass cheek, and I quiver.
The slap rings out through the room, and an exhilarated giggle chokes from my chest, angering him further.
He pants like a dragon breathing fire. I suck in a breath when the soft wisp of him pulling his belt through his belt loops alerts me to what’s coming next.
“Don’t fucking move, little ballerina,” he warns me. “You’ve had this coming.”
The snap as he folds the leather and pulls it taut has the oxygen held hostage in my lungs. A moan crawls up my throat the moment the air hits my butt less than a second before the sting of the belt ignites my flesh in a delicious burn.
The crack rings out again, the leather kissing my skin with its cruel tongue. I crave another lashing, and he obliges.
My core tightens, warm energy spreading through my body. I feel drunk on lust. “I won’t marry you, Alyssa,” he tells me, moving away from me, yanking off his tie and rolling the sleeves of his shirt up his strong forearms. “Get out,” he orders, pointing to the door.
Bastard.
Righting myself, I blow out a breath, trying to cool my overheated face. “Don’t dismiss me. You’re rude and belittling,” I announce, tentatively sitting my ass on the lip of his desk.
His eyes track me over the rim of his glass. He refills it with ice and amber goodness, taking a sip.
“I think you value yourself more than I.” He raises a brow.
“Why can’t you hear me out at least?” I argue, desperate for something to drink but after throwing his last offering at him. I doubt he’ll be accommodating a second time.
“Because it’s ludicrous,’ he punches out.
Swiping a curtain of hair from my shoulder, I shrug. “Why? Because of my age?”
He stares at me, drinking me in like a man parched. “Amongst other things.”
He looks me up and down in such a way, I can’t help but feel the caress of it.
“What other things?”
The air in this room is so thick, you can choke on it.
