Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,324

that rain stuck to my forehead away, looks at me and for a minute, I regret what I did. I regret rejecting him. I regret running off.

“I wasn’t going to get on the train.” I wasn’t. It’s true.

“I know.” He touches my cheek like he’s wiping something off, then meets my eyes again. “Turn around.”

“You don’t have to punish me.”

But he does. And he will. His silence tells me so.

“Why?” I ask. I feel myself begin to tremble. Feel the heat of tears building behind my eyes.

“Turn around, Helena. Do as I say. It’s important you do as I say.”

I turn slowly so I’m facing the mirror. I don’t look at us, not right away. Instead, I look at the reflection of the window, see how the shadows are growing long outside as evening slowly descends. I must have been gone for hours.

It’s when I feel his hands on me that I watch him. They’re on my shoulders, and he squeezes them, rubs them. Wraps his big hands around them. I want to lean into him, I want to take back what I said and lean into his powerful chest and let him hold me. Not punish me.

But his fingers take hold of my open dress and slowly, gently, so carefully, drag it over my shoulders, not off, only halfway down my arms. He does the same with the straps of my bra. His hands burn my skin as he collects my hair and lifts the mass of it to set it over my shoulder before kissing it.

His lips are soft against my skin.

“You’re perfect,” he says to my reflection.

I turn my head, my cheek almost touches his. The scruff of his jaw is rough. He’s warm. I almost turn around, but he must sense it and he shakes his head a little. His hands are on my arms, rubbing them.

“I’m going to punish you, Helena.”

My tears begin to fall like the rain of the afternoon.

I nod my head. I know he’s going to punish me. And I know it’s going to be bad. Not like before. Not like when he used his belt. This will be worse because it means more now.

“And I don’t want you to fight me. I don’t want to tie you. It’s important.”

I nod again, stupidly, and his hands come to the tops of my shoulders. He puts a little pressure on them.

“Kneel.”

There’s a moment of panic, but he’s behind me, pressing against me, arms around me holding me to him. One hand covers one breast and squeezes it, weighs it, while the other slips under my dress, fingertips sliding into my panties, just touching my clit. I watch us like this, my lips slightly parted.

This is what I look like when I want.

“Kneel, Helena.”

I nod. I don’t want to disappoint him.

He draws his hand out of my panties. It’s back on my shoulder, and I kneel. He arranges my hair again, over my shoulder to expose my back, pushing my head forward a little so I’m kneeling, head bowed, like a penitent seeking forgiveness before a god.

He kisses my shoulder again, pushes the dress a little farther down my arms, arranging me. Preparing me. And when he straightens and turns on the television to a random channel, the volume up, I know what he’s going to do. I know exactly why he bought that cord. Why the old man looked at me like he did.

I know.

Chapter Sixteen

SEBASTIAN

She’s beautiful.

Perfect.

Her skin is pristine, unmarked. Hair black, the darkest waterfall but for that rebellious, silver streak. Wild and defiant, like her.

All that perfection, all that unblemished skin, it makes me want to mark it up, brand my name on it, burn it into the back of her neck. Hear her scream. Know she’s mine.

Even the bottoms of her small feet, their vulnerability as she kneels before me, toes curled under her, waiting for her punishment—my little penitent—even those feet make me want to mark. Brand. Own.

I swallow, pick up the coiled leather, wrap it around my fist once, twice. My dick is hard, and I’ll fuck her when I’m finished. Fuck her from behind while I watch her face in the mirror. While I fill her up.

Sick bastard.

I smile at that voice.

Yes, I am.

“Don’t turn around.” I may want her tears, but I don’t want to mark her pretty face.

She makes a small, nervous sound, gives a nod of understanding. She’s looking down, not at me, not at us. Not when we’re like this.

I move a little