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All that mattered was his next strike and how she would nurture away the pain. And all that remained was the wetness he enticed out of her with each whip of his crop against the flesh of her ass.
The defeated sob that finally escaped her lips told a thousand stories about her all at once. And it came at the hands of Declan Foster, a man who held her life in his hands.
He’d taken her out of this realm and pulled her into his world. And then, with nothing more than a puppet string, Declan lazily controlled her mind and body, allowing her to float and hover just above the surface of agonized bliss.
Chapter Eight
“Fuck.”
Declan’s expletive reached her. Like darkness in a flood of light, she followed his voice, drawn to him as if her life depended on it.
Hazily, she felt herself being untied—both her wrists and her ankles. But in her state, afraid that without his hold on her, she would fly away, she reached out for him, desperately trying to cling to him, before she was finally taken in his arms as he straddled the bench behind her and placed her between his thighs. Anchoring her against his strong, powerful body.
Somewhere in a chasm of coherence, she knew she had to stop him. Her feeble attempts to hinder him from pulling her dress up over her head did nothing to help her.
Soon, her dress lay discarded on the thickly carpeted floor, leaving her in her bra, panties, and white lace-trimmed thigh-high knit socks. She shivered despite the heat from the fire and unconsciously burrowed into his warmth instead.
Her own legs were spread open.
“Do you love him?” Declan asked fiercely from behind her. The threat in his voice was clearly present.
She refused to answer.
“Do. You. Love. Him?”
“No,” she shouted angrily. She owed him nothing, so why was she telling him the truth?
She didn’t love Eric. She never could, no matter how much she tried.
For the last seven years, she had been obsessed with someone she didn’t know at all, but that stranger had taken over her every thought.
He consumed her.
He had ripped her out of her pleasant, calm existence and thrown her into an inferno. For seven years, she had waited for him to come back. He hadn’t.
And yet, she had felt his presence consistently throughout the years.
“Good girl. You’re mine, Peyton. Say it.”
He held her tightly, his powerful thighs enveloping her and his granite-hard, muscular chest cushioning her back. His hardening cock lay nestled against her ass.
“No,” she whispered as she found herself being drawn out of a sea of tormenting pleasure and delicious pain. She had to get away from him. He made her feel crazy, this stranger. Out of control. Not herself.
She tried to jerk free of his grasp, wishing she wasn’t almost naked in his arms except for her underwear and socks.
"Please,” she begged, but she had no idea what exactly she pleaded for. She was on fire, and only more fire could relieve her.
Writhing against him, she tried to stop his hand from sliding up her upper naked thigh to her center. She didn’t want him to know how wet she was. Her degree of embarrassment would be catastrophic. He couldn’t know.
Tears slipped down her face. She shook her head. Her shame was insurmountable.
Declan’s knuckles brushed against the tiny strip of drenched fabric nestled against her pussy.
“If you come for me, you’re mine, Peyton. Do you understand?” He growled his possession this time as his fingers slipped into the band of her panties, to her mons, then to part her soaked folds.
Peyton cried out in shock and awe at his touch. No man had ever touched her there before. She didn't want anyone to touch her there. But suddenly, she couldn't imagine anyone else doing to her what Declan was doing.
She had lost her critical thinking faculty.
