“What?” I snap.
He smacks my ass again.
“Ungrateful bastard!”
He hits me again.
“You loved that! I could—”
Again. I screech.
He hits me one more time, then growls, “What’s your safe word?”
“Hit me again,” I taunt. I look over my shoulder, at his poised palm. Little bolts of glee race through me. My ass stings bad. My heart is racing. I think I kind of love making him growl.
“Pick a safe word.” He sounds strained, as if pausing in mid-air like that is costing him. “One word to stop things—if it gets too much.”
He slaps my ass again, and I pant.
“Safe word?” he prods.
“Sloth.”
“What?”
“Sloth. My word is sloth, asshole.”
I wag my ass a little. It burns like hell, but I am ready for his hand. This fucked up game—I’m in. I fucking adore making him react.
A drama queen, a needy little girl: that’s what I was always called. I guess I am.
“Too scared?” I ask over my shoulder.
The breeze blows a strand of hair into my eyes. I look behind me.
No one’s there.
IT CAN’T BE TRUE. IT ISN’T TRUE. IT CAN’T BE TRUE.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I hold my forehead as the words spill through my brain. I wrap my other hand around the waist of my pants, keeping them from sagging.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
My hollow head and frenzied breathing keep out most of what’s around me. I cling to the details I need. I’m in an elevator, going down. I don’t have shoes.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
Is my jacket zipped? I look down.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I need to zip it. Can’t. I tuck its flaps together. Then I shove my hands under my arms and try to tamp my breathing down.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.