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"Motherfucker." Christian tightens his grip on his glass, and the stem snaps. The cup of the now empty wine glass topples onto the table, rolls over, and crashes to the floor.
I jump up to my feet, but he leans over and grabs my hand. "Sit down."
"Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me or my family. Please, Christian, please."
He stares at me, "Do you really think that I’d harm you or anyone who you care for?"
"Yes. No. I don’t know," I say honestly. "You have to admit that everything you’ve done so far hasn’t exactly been confidence-building in that respect."
He releases the stem of the glass from his grasp, and it drops to the table with a soft thud. "Have you finished eating?" he says in a low voice.
"Y-yes." I swallow. "Why…why are you asking?"
He jerks his chin, "Get up."
"What?"
"On your feet; turn around and head to the window behind you."
"Ch-Christian," I gulp, "what are you doing?"
"You don’t get to ask the questions, Flower," he snaps. "Up."
My body, once again, betrays me, for I find myself rising to my feet. I glower at him, and he circles his finger in the air, "Turn around, Flower, or I’ll come over there and make you do it."
I hesitate, and he pushes back his chair. Oh, hell! I spin around, pick up the skirts of my wedding dress, and scurry over to the floor-to-ceiling window that looks down over the back garden. Beyond it, the sea stretches out into the horizon, and by all accounts, it's a magnificent view. I hear his footsteps approach and stiffen.
"Put your hands on the window."
"Christian, please," I implore him.
"Do it or else..."
I huff out a breath, then plant my hands on the window on either side of my head.
"Now, keep them there."
He kicks my legs apart, and I yelp, "Wh-what are you doing?" I turn to find him looking me up and down.
He palms my butt, and a shiver runs down my spine. "You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be spanked by me, hmm?"
"No… No…" I shudder, half in fear of the pain that he’s surely going to cause me, half in anticipation from the pain that he’s surely going to cause me. Argh! How can one physical action of his elicit such contradictory reactions in me?
He bends his knee, grasps the edge of my dress, then flips it up and over my head. He slides it under each of my palms, so I’m holding it up in such a way that it hides whatever it is he’s going to do to me.
A ripple of anticipation runs down my spine, and my core clenches, even as my stomach ties itself in knots. He grips my lacy panties—which I admit, I had chosen specifically, with him in mind. Hell, just because this entire wedding is supposedly fake doesn’t mean I can’t be nicely dressed, right? He yanks at them with such force that the fabric gives way. He tears them off of me, and I gasp. Cool air envelops my naked arse and my exposed sex.
He runs his finger down the valley between my arsecheeks, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
"Please, don’t, please don’t—"
Thwack. A line of fire snakes across my butt, and I scream. "Bloody hell, what the hell do you think you are—"
Thwack-thwack-thwack. He lands the slaps in quick succession on each arsecheek, and with each hit, my entire body jolts. My dress-clad breasts crash into the wall of glass, stimulating my nipples further. Thwack. His palm connects with my lower thigh with even more force.
I yell, "Jesus Christ, it hurts, you asshole."
THWACK.
