The Villain (Boston Belles 2)

“So this is how you knew how to tie us both with one hand,” I panted.

“It’s called a hogtie.” He gave his work of art a tug. “Lift your feet up.”

Next, he tied me by the legs, connecting the ribbon between my wrists and ankles. Like a little piggy about to get barbecued in a fire. I laughed breathlessly, partly because I was aroused and partly because there was something thrilling about giving up control. The bed dipped as Cillian leaned back, examining his work behind me. I couldn’t see his expression, which somehow made things ever hotter.

“Should’ve undressed me first,” I muttered into the linen, frustrated.

I wanted out of my clothes so bad they burned against my skin.

My desire scared me. It was foreign, overwhelming; I enjoyed sex with Paxton, but it was also something I could go without. The famished, depraved notion that came with being with Kill was new and frightening.

“Do you trust me, Persephone?”

His voice sounded so far away, he might as well have been on another planet.

“Yes.”

The speed and conviction in my answer startled me. I didn’t know why I trusted him, or even if I should. I just knew I did. That he would never hurt me. That he would stop if things went too far for my taste.

He got up from the bed and walked to a small desk facing one of his windows. I craned my neck to watch him from my position, tied on his bed, still in my conservative teacher dress. He opened a drawer and returned with a letter opener. My entire body blossomed with goose bumps.

“Sure about that, Flower Girl?” He ran the edge of the letter opener over my calf, so gently and teasingly I wanted to push myself into it.

“I’m not scared.” I trained my voice to sound as bland as his.

I was carefully bowed like a gift—his gift—and I wanted him to unwrap and ravish me.

“Why?” He sounded curious. Almost…hopeful?

No. It couldn’t be.

Hope was an emotion, and Kill didn’t do those.

“Because I know you would never hurt me.”

“That’s an optimistic assumption to make.”

“You saved my life three times, and counting,” I said. “That’s optimistic. I’m realistic.”

The next part happened so fast my head spun. One minute, I was in my dress, and the next, it was ripped from my body by the letter opener in one clean movement. Kill grabbed the fabric so it didn’t cling to my skin and ran the blade through it, all the way down my butt. The dress pooled beneath me while my husband got rid of my panties, clipping them from each side, boomeranging the letter opener back to his nightstand.

I wormed, pushing my ass upward, toward him. It was so brazen that I didn’t recognize myself in the act. I wasn’t that girl. At least I didn’t think I was. But I guessed a dormant part of me was wild all along. I simply never let myself explore it.

Cillian paused. For a moment, everything was so quiet, I half-suspected he wasn’t in the room anymore. Maybe it was a part of the game. The waiting. The suspense. The anticipation.

“Your ass,” he said finally, pulling away from me. “It’s…”

Red as hell. I know. I peed squatting in the air all day.

“Oh, that.” I laughed it off. “My skin is super sensitive. Welsh heritage, and all.”

“I did that to you,” he said gruffly.

“It’s nothing,” I protested. And it was. Yes, he spanked me last night, but it wasn’t something I hadn’t heard about from friends or seen on HBO shows. Heck, I’d been spanked worse by my own mother growing up. And it wasn’t like I hadn’t wiggled my butt in his direction, asking for more.

His hand went to the bondage, and I felt him unfastening it, letting me loose.

“Don’t you dare.” I used my firm teacher voice. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, you did not ask for permission to untie me. You will not do so until I explicitly request it. Am I clear?”

The air was scorched with sex, bloated with endorphins.

“I don’t normally see them the morning after,” he admitted tersely. “I’ve never stopped to wonder what it looks—”

“Don’t tell me about your whores while we’re in bed!”

I was screaming at this point. I was so deep in teacher mode that he was lucky I didn’t send him to time-out. He said nothing, and I was annoyed I couldn’t see what was on his face. “Actually, don’t tell me about them out of it, either.”

“There are no whores anymore,” he barked back. “You made sure of that.”

“Good.” I felt supremely authoritative for someone who was tied naked on a bed. “I hope your mistresses go bankrupt now that you are not there to pay them, and get a real job to support themselves.”

“You’re insane,” he offered, his voice as calm as ever.