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“I do,” he says.
Because of you.
He doesn’t say the words, but I hear them, loud and clear. He needs to destroy Jonas and Ansel Herzog because the brothers hurt me. Because they could still come after me. Because I’ll never truly be free as long as they live.
I should put the table between Trap and me. I should take my bag of candy and go. I should lock myself in our bedroom until he comes home tomorrow morning, until he tells me that all went well, that Jonas and Ansel Herzog will never hurt another living soul.
But I don’t.
I set aside my candy bars and reach for a far better treat.
The metal of his belt buckle is cool against my fingertips, but the leather feels warm and supple. Alive. I slide it from his waist slowly, never looking away from his captivating green-brown gaze.
His breath catches as I loop the belt around my neck, and he groans a little when I pull it tight enough to feel a bite.
“If you have to leave me—” I whisper.
“You know I do,” he interrupts.
“Then give us both something to think about while you’re on the road.” I offer him the length of leather, arching my neck so he can see the belt’s grip.
He steps away.
A disbelieving sound blooms in my throat, but he meets it with a low, smirking laugh. Turning to the gallery door, he uses his foot to shift the boxes that block it open. The lock snicks closed with a finality that shoots through my belly like liquid fire.
“Or were you planning to put on a show for anyone who happens by this afternoon?” he asks.
“No,” I say, my voice breathy as I keep the belt tight. “This is only for you.”
The light flares in his eyes again. His kiss, when he comes to me, is urgent and salty and crude. His teeth strike mine. His tongue pushes hard for mastery, and his fingers clutch at my hair. He pulls, hard, which makes me press my entire body closer to his.
The belt loosens around my neck as I reach for the buttons on his shirt. Still savaging my mouth, he lets go of my hair to shove my hands away. I go for his pants instead, fighting for the button, for the zipper, for the access I desperately need.
He pushes my fingers away again, and when I whine a protest, he laughs against my lips. “Eager little princess, aren’t you?”
I try one more time. I reach inside his pants, sliding my hand toward the heat of his cock. Of course, he catches me easily, pulling me free before I can touch him. He catches both my wrists in one hand, using his other to strip his necktie free.
It only takes a moment for him to bind my hands—short, sharp motions that make me gasp. He’s efficient with his knots; I can barely wiggle my fingers.
“Please,” I beg, but he only shoves me toward the table. His grip on the back of my neck makes my knees go liquid, and he laughs as I steady my palms between the books.
“You made that much more difficult than it needed to be,” he growls, and his complaint scrapes something raw and needy inside me. “And what does that mean?”
I’m so excited I barely manage to whisper, “I need to be punished.”
“Exactly.” Without warning, he yanks my yoga pants to my knees, taking my plain cotton panties with them.
I yelp in surprise, but he’s already pressing his leg between my thighs. My fingers curl inside their silk bonds as he forces my feet wide, wider, until my panties are stretched between my knees.
He smooths his palm over my bare bottom, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning. His belt has slipped loose around my throat, making it easy for him to take it from me, to wrap the leather around his fist.
He traces my spine with the tip of the belt, knob by bony knob, and my thighs begin to tremble. I can’t resist rising up on my toes, can’t keep from rocking back, from pushing against his hand.
“Who’s in charge here, Princess?” he asks.
“You are,” I answer immediately.
“Your lips say one thing, but your ass says something else.”
