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She bites my neck, the sting hard enough to draw blood, and I push her head away. I scoop her up in one arm, shove through the glass door to the darkened sauna, toss her onto one of the benches that line the four walls of the room, and start the steam. I turn her over and spank her again, hoping to ward off what I know we'll end up doing, but of course it only makes her shriek and pant.
She glances back at me and I can see it in her eyes that all she really wants is to be hit. A dom who wants to be dominated. It's what she thinks she deserves, and I know all too well the reasons why.
One night at my house she drank too much and spilled the story. How her mom left her with an uncle who sold her to his friends, and when she was old enough to change her fate, she ran off to a brothel where she made her own money and set her own rules. Later, she started making films. Got herself a C-Class ticket to the Hollywood shindigs and fucked some desperate actors, desperate politicians, desperate gamblers. Got herself a red Jaguar and tattooed eyeliner, eyelash implants, breast implants. God knows what else on her is fake.
She leans closer, giving me a nose full of expensive perfume, and whispers something in my ear. Not understanding it, I blink at her. As much as I loathe her—even loathe her beautiful face—I wonder for the first time if perhaps I should try to make the best of this: our fucked up coupling. I don't do sex with regular women, because too many of them expected affection in return. And I'd quit going to the brothels months before the night with Sarabelle. Escorts don't excite me anymore. So maybe I should be glad I have Priscilla. Maybe she and I deserve each other.
"What did I say?" she purrs.
"I have no idea," I tell her, squeezing her big, fake tits.
"I said who's your mama now, you son of a bitch."
My heart pounds in my chest, and for a second it doesn’t seem real. That I'm here with Priscilla Heat. That Sarabelle is gone, Sarabelle who always did what I wanted and never asked questions. I didn't know her well, but she was always pleasant to be around.
"It's sure as hell’s not you," I growl.
"Oh, you better not back talk mama." She squeezes my balls and I let out a moan. I lay her down and thrust three fingers into her, stretching her as she writhes against my hand.
"You know who's a little slut?" she pants. "Elizabeth DeVille. I want to hear you say Elizabeth is a slut."
Shock like a bucket of ice water slides through my veins, and for the first time I’m actually worried for Libby. True, Priscilla’s been following her, but I assumed that was to keep tabs on me. Now I wonder if she knows I got to third base at my party. Maybe she’s jealous?
I press my forearm against Priscilla's throat and she fumbles with my fly, her cool, thin hands reaching for my cock. She starts to jack me off and I can't stand the thought of cumming as she gasps for air.
I lift my forearm from her throat and she sinks her nails into my wrist. "I'd like to fuck that little bitch. Shove a dildo right up that tight ass just like Marchant does."
I freeze, dumbfounded, then lit up with jealous fury, and Priscilla grins—more a leer. "Hunter West, jealous," she says, still jacking my cock. "I never thought I'd see the day."
"You think I'm jealous?" I am. Blindingly so. I bite her mouth, and Priscilla moans. "I don't give a damn about Elizabeth DeVille."
"You lie," she hisses. She puts her hand over mine, and she guides it to her throat. She wants me to choke her. I'd like to, because I'm angry, but the idea of actually hurting her makes me hesitate, a crime for which she slaps me.
I see Rita's angry face and am too disarmed to do anything but gasp for air.
“What a little pussy,” she hisses.
She cups my balls and pumps my dick, and my muddled mind shifts back to Libby. There's no way she's fucking Marchant, is there?
I shut my eyes and see a pointy little chin, lush lips, high cheekbones, wide blue eyes framed with dark lashes. Her smile is sweet. Serene. Just a little sarcastic sometimes. A full-blown laugh at others. I picture her delicate throat and collar bones, pretty just like every other inch of her voluptuous body. I have a flash memory of gliding my finger into her warm pussy and it sends me over the edge. I cum into Priscilla's expert hand and she clutches my balls so tightly I'm arching up, shoving her off me.
“Come and get me...” She dances a few steps away, wanting me to 'get her'. Wanting me to hit her. I wipe myself off on my boxer-briefs and tug them off, wishing I could leave the room, and her. All this pain for pleasure shit isn’t my style.
And yet, as our night winds to an end, I'm on top of her again with my hands around her neck. I can feel her tendons strain under my fingers as she jacks me off, and it's everything I can do to stay hard. I imagine another pair of hands, softer ones with short, pale nails. There was a time, a few months back, when all I could do was watch Priscilla, worried I was hurting her, but I've had to stop that. I can't get off if I'm worried, and she demands that I do.
I spend the next two hours getting whipped and slapped and trying not to get too head fucked. I'm not a child anymore. I can fight back, if I choose.
But I don't.
Chapter Fourteen
~ELIZABETH~
It's kind of like what I imagine getting sent off to college would be like if you're in a normal family, where at least one person really cares that you're leaving.
Suri fusses over me like a mama bird, making me egg soufflé and sparkling green tea, plus a giant bowl full of perfectly gooey orange cinnamon rolls for the road. As we sit and eat our soufflé at the breakfast table, she watches me like a mama bird, too.
In the last two weeks, I've hit the elliptical hard, and I've even worked out at a real gym three times a week, with a trainer, going through photocopied exercises Richard sent. I look better than I have in a long time. I refuse to weigh myself, on principal, but I'm wearing size six pants. I actually teared up a bit when they slipped on.
