Dominic (Benedetti Brothers 2)

“We’re changing how we do things.”

He took hold of the blanket and tugged it from me. I fell forward and had to release my hold on the one thing that gave me comfort. But maybe it was good he took it. It gave me a false sense of security. As if somehow, everything would be okay. It would never be okay. Nothing would ever be okay again. How could I ever think it would? How could I ever think I could seduce him? That I could somehow win him over, make him want me enough that he didn’t take me to the auction but would instead keep me for himself? That he would help me avenge my brother’s murder?

“I heard you’ve been eating, doing as you’re told.”

I didn’t answer, I couldn’t. I just watched him, my gaze glued to that fucking mask as he folded up the blanket and set it on the chair in the corner.

“And that you didn’t attack Leo with the fork.”

Leo. That was the other man’s name. What was Death’s name? And why the fuck was he wearing that mask again? It worked as a barrier, shielding him from me, keeping him separate from me. And looking at it terrified me.

“I don’t like the mask,” I said, my voice coming out small.

“Don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

He unbuckled his belt and pulled it through the loops, holding it like he had that night he’d whipped me, with the buckle in his palm. He then raised his other hand and curled his finger, motioning for me to go to him.

“Kneel.” He pointed to the spot by his feet.

I watched him, beginning to tremble, unable to take my eyes off that terrible mask.

“Gia.”

“Take it off. Please, take it off.” I gripped the rungs of the headboard when he placed one knee on the bed as if he were going to come get me. “Please, just take it off.”

In an instant, he was on the bed, one hand fisting my hair and dragging me off and toward the floor.

“I said fucking kneel!” he roared.

I cowered at his feet, covering my ears as best as I could with my wrists still bound together, my heart hammering against my chest, tears spilling down my cheeks, screaming at the searing burn of the belt across my ass.

“When I say kneel, you fucking kneel!”

He lashed me twice more, his anger a palpable thing, his rage so real, so fucking terrifying, I did more than kneel. I crouched down at his feet, my forehead on the floor, then on his boot. I knew he was punishing me not only for disobeying his first command to kneel, but for the last time he was here, for what had happened then, for how he’d left, for his having stayed away. He was punishing me for his own weakness, his own sin.

When he stepped back, I kept my head down, whimpering, my chest heaving with heavy breath, my back and ass throbbing with the lashes he’d delivered.

“Up on hands and knees.”

I obeyed, moving as quickly as I could, not earning a stroke this time. He took two more steps away.

“Crawl to me.”

I did, I crawled. I covered the space clumsily with my hands bound, all of my limbs trembling, and when I reached him, he took another two steps back, then another, taking me in circles around the room.

“Now bend over the edge of the bed.”

“Please don’t whip me anymore. I’m doing as I’m told. Please.”

“You’re not doing as you’re told now, are you?”

I swallowed and glanced at how his hand clutched the belt. I crawled to the foot of the bed and stood, then bent myself over it like the first night I was here when he’d whipped me.

“Spread your legs.”

I did as he said, widening my stance while he stood behind me. I didn’t know what to expect, didn’t know if he’d whip me or fuck me or both.

“Don’t turn around, whatever you do.”

I didn’t speak. I was unable to. It took all I had not to look over my shoulder.

It was quiet forever, and I knew he watched me until, an eternity later, his footsteps broke the silence, and he approached. I held my breath, the tears finally having stopped, and when he lay the belt across my back, I startled at the cool, heavy leather.

Fingertips touched me, hands on my ass, tickling at first, then pulling me open.

“Please,” I begged, not sure what I begged for. Not expecting the thing that came, the soft wetness of his tongue on me, on my sex, licking me, tasting me, pulling me wide as one hand snaked toward my clit. He began to rub the hardened nub.

I fisted my hands and bit my lip. His tongue working me expertly, the pleasure unbearable as I fought against it, the battle lost when he slipped his tongue inside me, his fingers rubbing harder. I arched my back and pressed against him, squeezing the muscles of my legs and closing my eyes, drawing blood from my lip in an effort to mute the moan that preceded the orgasm while he sucked and rubbed. I gasped for breath and clawed the mattress, my knees giving out as I began to slide from the bed.