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Her eyes shut on their own accord, trying to protect her from seeing what implement he had selected from the vase.
He moved in behind her again. His warm hands slid under her dress, and his fingertips trailed over her thick thigh-high knit socks, lifting the fabric of her dress as he did so. But the socks she wore did nothing to protect her from the heat of his touch.
She tried to control her breathing but failed. Her erratic inhalations and exhalations echoed around the room, taunting her and drawing her further and further into a realm of chaos.
The soft, sensual lace of her bra abraded her hard, beaded, and aching nipples. Her matching panties, nothing but a scrap of fabric, were so soaked that she tried to clench her thighs together, but her knees were spread and held in place by her ankles bound to the bench, and she was never going to be strong enough to break through the leather of the restraints.
A fluttering of cool air settled over her exposed backside. Like her lace-trimmed thigh-high socks, her skimpy silk and lace panties were inconsequential.
God help her, she couldn’t do this.
Her mortification increased alongside the wetness clinging to the folds of her pussy.
She bit her lips to stop them from quivering.
“The only man you’re going to marry is me,” he said dangerously softly, the command filled with darkness and dominance.
Peyton was so startled and shocked when his implement made first contact with her flesh that she wailed in protest, reacting exactly as she had told herself she wouldn’t.
She twisted her body around to see what he had used, then whipped her head forward again when she discovered it was a crop.
No one had ever done that to her before. She hadn’t even been spanked as a child.
He gave her zero grace to adjust before he struck her ass again. The whip-sharp lash tossed her breath from her lungs and made her whole body scream as if it were on fire. The flames coming from within her.
“Who do you belong to, Peyton?”
Expletives flew around in her head in disarray. Tears dripped from her eyes onto the leather of the bench. The raid on her senses, her mind, and her body destroyed her.
"Eric!" she shouted, wading through the pain to find the right name. “I’m going to marry Eric. I’m—”
A series of strategically placed pelts had her whimpering in sheer agony. The hissing grunts that fell from her lips were not her own, surely.
Declan didn’t bother asking her the question again. He had other means to get her to give him the answer he wanted—with the crop in his hands, which he continued to brand against her flesh with a searing power that ruined her.
Peyton couldn’t think and couldn’t form words. She desperately tried to regulate her breathing, to find an anchor in the chaotic storm Declan had unleashed on her without a single ounce of mercy.
On the tip of her tongue remained countless pleas she refused to release. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of begging, and yet her armor continued to perish under his hand.
She braced herself for each one, and there were many, trying to labor through it so she could breathe her way out of it. She was so focused on learning how to deal with the pain that she slowly started to accept it.
She had forgotten to call him names. To demand that he stop. This was wrong and insane. That she wasn’t who he thought she was, because no man, certainly not one as devastatingly handsome and ruthlessly lethal as Declan Foster, would be obsessed with the way he was.
She wasn’t the woman he wanted. She was just too ordinary, too average, and too basic.
But the acceptance of the pain of his biting lightning strikes against her flesh, and she was now faced with something infinitely worse.
Embarrassment. Ignominy. Humiliation.
She could no longer deny the heaviness in her breasts or the throb in her nipples. The spasms that fluttered from her womb made her clit swell, and a pool of wetness was well between the folds of her pussy.
She took the pain of his physical torment and created a salacious, brazen, wanton need inside her, so deep, so raw, and so savage that she mindlessly tried to rub her clit against the silk fabric of her panties, greedy for the slightest bit of friction.
But even more desperately, she wanted to feel Declan Foster’s fingers on her clit, his cock between her folds. The revelation shocked her because she was the least sexual person in the world. There were times she thought she was broken that way.
She had forgotten that the man yielding a crop to her ass and making her drip with arousal was an assassin she was transporting to Washington. A dangerous man who could kill her if he wanted to.
She had forgotten her own name.
