Read Online Guilty Pleasures by Kitty Thomas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kitty Thomas
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but unable to resist the burn.
Behind the door, was an office. Actually, office was too tame for it. It was more like a small studio apartment. On one end was the standard office set up, on the other was a full-sized bed with a plain black duvet. At its foot stood a large black trunk.
In the corner nearest to the bed was a kitchenette with the basics: microwave, sink, mini fridge, and cupboards. On the opposite end of the room, was another little door. The door stood open partway, and Vivian could see it was a bathroom. The entirety of the décor was minimalist and cold to the point of being sociopathic.
That last thought sent a chill skittering down her spine. No, this was not a man she could love, and suddenly, passion or no passion, she was happy she slept at night with Michael rather than the seductive demon in front of her.
“Dome is my business. I own the spa,” he said, by way of explanation. “Sometimes I’m here late. Sometimes I just want to get away from home and have some privacy.”
“Are you married?” She hadn’t been able to stop the question in time.
He arched a brow as if considering whether or not to answer. “When you are with me, you do not ask questions. You obey. You address me properly. Are we clear?” He stood several feet away, and yet the power from his tone flowed over her, overwhelming her senses for a moment. She wanted to be indignant, upset, but his voice was doing increasingly fucked-up things to her body.
“Y-yes, Sir.”
“Good girl.”
He popped a disc into a CD player on the shelf behind the desk. A seductive bass boomed out of the speakers in a slow, rhythmic pull that made her feel an almost irresistible compulsion to move her hips. He smirked as if he’d caught her stopping her own movement.
“Strip for me, flower.”
Her hands shook as they moved to the buttons of her blouse. Her hips, which she’d had to make behave only moments before, started to move with the music. Anton sat on the trunk and started working on the buttons of his own shirt, his eyes never leaving her, drinking her in.
The distance between them made her feel more exposed, so she came closer. If she was right next to him giving him a lap dance, it wouldn’t be so uncomfortable.
He shook his head as she got nearer. “I said strip, not come over here and grind on me.”
The harshness of his words made her feel dirty. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” Her brain had finally reconnected, after two and a half weeks of existing on an orgasm-overloaded high. She’d been like an addict. Well, she would quit. Cold turkey.
She buttoned the silk blouse, her face flaming. Her hand was on the knob when he pressed her against the door. His mouth was next to her ear.
“I’m sorry, flower. You walked into my lair. You made the choice. Until I let you go, you are mine. Perhaps you’ll make a wiser decision next time.” His tongue trailed over the side of her neck, and she sagged against the door, the fight leaving her.
“Anton, please, I can’t do this.”
He spun her to face him and wrapped a hand around her throat. In contrast to the violence of his grip, his thumb brushed gently over her cheek.
When he spoke, his voice was low, barely above a controlled whisper. “What did you call me?”
“Please . . . ” Her hands moved to claw at him, desperately trying to release the pressure on her throat. “You’re scaring me,” she rasped.
He let go and stepped back, putting space between them. “What did I ask you to call me from now on?”
She looked at the floor, unable to meet the accusation in his gaze and afraid to let him see the anger in hers. How dare he feel accusatory toward her. She was the victim. Who followed him into this room? the betraying voice in her mind asked. She wasn’t an idiot. She’d known what Sir meant, what this increasing control he wanted to take of her body meant.
It was what had featured in her darkest sexual fantasies, on the rare occasions before
Behind the door, was an office. Actually, office was too tame for it. It was more like a small studio apartment. On one end was the standard office set up, on the other was a full-sized bed with a plain black duvet. At its foot stood a large black trunk.
In the corner nearest to the bed was a kitchenette with the basics: microwave, sink, mini fridge, and cupboards. On the opposite end of the room, was another little door. The door stood open partway, and Vivian could see it was a bathroom. The entirety of the décor was minimalist and cold to the point of being sociopathic.
That last thought sent a chill skittering down her spine. No, this was not a man she could love, and suddenly, passion or no passion, she was happy she slept at night with Michael rather than the seductive demon in front of her.
“Dome is my business. I own the spa,” he said, by way of explanation. “Sometimes I’m here late. Sometimes I just want to get away from home and have some privacy.”
“Are you married?” She hadn’t been able to stop the question in time.
He arched a brow as if considering whether or not to answer. “When you are with me, you do not ask questions. You obey. You address me properly. Are we clear?” He stood several feet away, and yet the power from his tone flowed over her, overwhelming her senses for a moment. She wanted to be indignant, upset, but his voice was doing increasingly fucked-up things to her body.
“Y-yes, Sir.”
“Good girl.”
He popped a disc into a CD player on the shelf behind the desk. A seductive bass boomed out of the speakers in a slow, rhythmic pull that made her feel an almost irresistible compulsion to move her hips. He smirked as if he’d caught her stopping her own movement.
“Strip for me, flower.”
Her hands shook as they moved to the buttons of her blouse. Her hips, which she’d had to make behave only moments before, started to move with the music. Anton sat on the trunk and started working on the buttons of his own shirt, his eyes never leaving her, drinking her in.
The distance between them made her feel more exposed, so she came closer. If she was right next to him giving him a lap dance, it wouldn’t be so uncomfortable.
He shook his head as she got nearer. “I said strip, not come over here and grind on me.”
The harshness of his words made her feel dirty. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” Her brain had finally reconnected, after two and a half weeks of existing on an orgasm-overloaded high. She’d been like an addict. Well, she would quit. Cold turkey.
She buttoned the silk blouse, her face flaming. Her hand was on the knob when he pressed her against the door. His mouth was next to her ear.
“I’m sorry, flower. You walked into my lair. You made the choice. Until I let you go, you are mine. Perhaps you’ll make a wiser decision next time.” His tongue trailed over the side of her neck, and she sagged against the door, the fight leaving her.
“Anton, please, I can’t do this.”
He spun her to face him and wrapped a hand around her throat. In contrast to the violence of his grip, his thumb brushed gently over her cheek.
When he spoke, his voice was low, barely above a controlled whisper. “What did you call me?”
“Please . . . ” Her hands moved to claw at him, desperately trying to release the pressure on her throat. “You’re scaring me,” she rasped.
He let go and stepped back, putting space between them. “What did I ask you to call me from now on?”
She looked at the floor, unable to meet the accusation in his gaze and afraid to let him see the anger in hers. How dare he feel accusatory toward her. She was the victim. Who followed him into this room? the betraying voice in her mind asked. She wasn’t an idiot. She’d known what Sir meant, what this increasing control he wanted to take of her body meant.
It was what had featured in her darkest sexual fantasies, on the rare occasions before
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