The Proposal - Kitty Thomas Page 0,53
hand tightly in his as he leads me to the presidential suite as though I'm a prisoner who might get away or scream for help. I admit these aren't the craziest of ideas right now. A moment later, we're standing in front of the door.
He doesn't go for his key card immediately. He just stands there, taking me in, a small smile curving his features. It's not a kind smile, but it isn't an evil demented one either. I'm not sure quite how to class it. It does denote triumph, though. Like he won.
His eyes are every dark forest any fairy tale child has ever gotten lost in. They're deep green and completely impenetrable. Wild animals lurk inside them, watching me like prey. My heart flutters erratically in my chest as his hand raises to my cheek. I flinch like he's going to hit me.
But that's not Soren's style. I know it's not. He would never strike me in this way. If he's going to do it, it will be with a belt or a flogger or a cane, and I will come undone helplessly beneath him directly afterward, screaming out my pleasure. I know this because he's told me during our nightly calls many times. He's told me exactly what I'm in for with him and with Griffin and Dayne. And yet, I didn't put up much of a fight—at least not much beyond the good-girl protests of them sharing me.
He strokes my cheek. “You're trembling.” But he doesn't say it with concern, more like pride. Satisfaction. As though my terror of what may be about to unfold in this room is the absolute best thing about this day for him. He leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to my forehead, and somehow I know it's the last chaste moment we'll ever share between us.
“Welcome to your future, Mrs. Kingston.”
With this pronouncement, he swipes the key card he's smoothly produced from his jacket pocket, scoops me up, and carries me over the threshold. The tradition of carrying the bride over the threshold started because it used to be believed that evil spirits attached easily to the feet of brides and so to keep them from coming inside with the happy couple, it was just safest for the groom to pick her up and carry her.
I know this fun fact courtesy of Macy—the new and reigning queen of wedding history.
This avoid-the-evil-spirits trick is a wasted effort though because Griffin and Dayne are already waiting in our suite, removing their tuxedo jackets and ties, raw hunger in their gazes.
“Boys, I have our new toy,” Soren announces, before the door has even shut completely. Griffin's normally lighter blue eyes seem nearly as dark and fathomless as Soren's. And Dayne's warm brown are now dark pits. They are each a forest for me to lose my way in, and I don't know which one of them is hiding the bread crumbs that will get me back home safe.
Soren sets me down on my feet but pulls me immediately back to him. His lips are at my ear as he speaks low to me, so softly I'm not sure if the other two can hear. “Go stand over there, face the wall, and put your hands on it, palms flat against it on either side of your face.”
“O-okay,” I say shakily. I'm used to orders over the phone, but it's an entirely different thing in person.
He shakes his head at me. “No. When we're together in private about to do something sexual, you will call me Master and Griffin and Dayne you will call Sir.”
My face heats at this, but my mind can only scream finally. I let out a long, shuddering breath, and in some ways it feels like the first moment of peace and relief I've had since Capri Bella. I have longed to offer him a title. Maybe deep down I always knew it would be Master and not Sir. Soren is too big, too all-encompassing to be Sir.
It's been so long since I've had sex I'm not sure I remember how to even do it the regular way. But while my body has been chaste, outside of toys my mind has been a nightly kinky whorehouse—and not all of it due to Soren's calls.
“O-okay, Master.” A flood of wet heat blooms between my legs when this word comes out of my mouth. A tear slips down my cheek but there's no pity in his eyes. He takes a step