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I tense all over again. “I don’t need a massage.”
“It’ll help you relax.”
“I don’t need to relax.”
He chuckles. “Stop being so obstinate. You’ll make things easier for yourself if you learn to cooperate.”
“If I obey, you mean.”
He takes a bottle from the nightstand and pours oil into his palm. “That’s what you promised. Must I remind you? I can have your vow framed and hung above our bed.”
“Fuck you,” I say, making to get up, but he pushes me down with a hand on my lower back.
“Keep still. You’ll get oil on the sheets.”
“Not my problem.”
“That mouth of yours.” He shakes his head. “Itisvery pretty. Can’t say the same for the words coming out of it. I can always find a better use for those luscious lips.”
I bite my tongue to prevent myself from replying.
“However,” he says, “I’m glad you recovered your spirit.”
The reference to my earlier meltdown makes my spine goes rigid. I don’t relax when he brushes my hair aside and rubs the oil over my shoulders. The oriental fragrance of ylang ylang fills my nostrils. It’s strange that he chose an oil known for its aphrodisiac properties when his goal is to relax me.
I remain on edge even as he kneads my muscles with firm but gentle pressure. He’s thorough, covering every inch of my skin as he works his way down to my lower back. I groan when he presses on sensitive points at the base of my spine. Skipping my globes, he pays attention to my thighs and calves and finally to my feet. When he gets to my toes, it feels so good I close my eyes.
He slaps my ass playfully. “On your hands and knees.”
“Why?” I ask, quickly opening my eyes again.
Instead of waiting for me to comply, he grips my hips and pulls me into a kneeling position. Then he flattens his palms on my inner thighs and pushes my legs apart. “Stay like that.”
“Why?” I ask again, watching him as he takes his phone from his pocket and puts it on the nightstand before unbuttoning his shirt and pulling the tail ends from his pants.
The black ink that covers half of his chest captures my attention. No matter how many times I see it, every time feels like the first time. The artwork fascinates me. It’s a replica of the mark branded on my skin, just much bigger, the detail more intricate. I both admire the work of art and loathe it.
My gaze snaps to the word inked above the line of his waistband when he unbuckles his belt.
Resilience.
He pulls down his zipper. “You pointed a gun at me today.”
“So did you,” I exclaim, trying to sit back on my heels, but the slap he delivers with a flat hand on my ass cheek stings so much that I freeze in place.
“If you move, you’ll get another lashing tonight.”
“You’re such a damn hypocrite.”
“I didn’t point a gun at you to shoot you.” He pushes down his briefs and pants. “That was to teach you a lesson. You, however, pulled the trigger.”
The reminder tightens my chest. I don’t want to think about it. I can’t. I can’t admit what that means.
“I’m going to punish you,bella, like you deserve, but if you relax, you may love it more than hate it.”
My mind races ahead, trying to figure out what he has in mind. Not another lashing. Something different. Yet if he went to the lengths of massaging me to coax my muscles into softening, what he has in store for me can only be bad. I’m tense again in an instant, all his effort to relax me for nothing.
I swallow. “You don’t have to do this.”
