Heavy Equipment(3)

By: Skye Warren


“Let’s get one thing straight, beautiful. I dare to say anything I want, to do anything I want to this gorgeous body, to take anything I want. When I say jump, you jump. When I say bend over, you touch those pretty pink toes. Understand?”

His grip isn’t firm around my throat, but it’s immovable. Even though my hands are gripping his arm, I can’t shake him off. He’s like a tree trunk in front of me, his arm a branch I’m dangling from, the ground a deadly drop below.

Every muscle clenches. I want to fight him.

Except I’ve been trained all my life to be a good daughter.

His voice drops. “I asked if you understood. The correct response is yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, sealing my fate.

He bends, pushing his face against my neck. With my vision clear, I’m shocked to find the foyer empty except for the two of us. My father left me here, knowing I might get hurt. He’s paying his debt with me as if I’m a thing, an extra zero in his bank account instead of his living, breathing daughter. Betrayal turns sharp in my chest, cutting me so I can barely breathe.

Asher’s lips are hot against my skin, and I shiver.

“That’s right,” he murmurs. “You’re going to be doing a lot of that.”

“You don’t scare me,” I say, but the quiver in my voice calls me a liar.

His laugh brushes over my skin, strangely pleasurable despite the mocking sound. “Your heart is racing, beautiful. I can feel it.”

Then he runs his lips over my neck, right where he’d take my pulse—and then I feel my pulse too, as if it’s too large to be contained in my body, as if I’m spilling over into him.

He runs his hands over me, from my shoulders to my elbows to my hips. It’s like he’s measuring me, seeing what he bought. I push against him, but he’s as hard and unmovable as a concrete wall, like the kind he’ll be able to build with my father’s company.

“Go ahead and fight,” he murmurs against my temple. “I like it rough.”

“I don’t,” I say, biting out the words.

He pulls back enough to meet my gaze, lids heavy, eyes dark. “Don’t you? I think you like what I’m doing to you. I think if I dip my fingers in that pretty little pussy of yours, I’m going to find it wet.”

I hate that he’s right. “Is this what you need to get off? Forcing yourself on a woman?”

Something flickers in his gaze, as if I’ve wounded him.

It’s gone in a second, and I don’t know if it was ever really there. Instead his gaze turns sharp. “I was going to wait until I got you back to my loft to fuck you, but I think I want to test my theory right here.”

Then his rough hands are pulling on the silky fabric, bunching it up in his large meaty hands, tugging the fabric against his calluses. Cool air washes over my legs, and I close my legs, humiliated. This is how he wants me—humiliated and broken.

I refuse to break, even when his large hand slides up the inside of my thigh.

Even when he’s proven correct, when his fingers push aside the thin fabric of my thong and touch wetness. I expect him to laugh, to gloat. Not groan like he’s in sweet agony. Not pant against my shoulder as if he can barely contain himself.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice sounding thick. “You’re so soft. So fucking hot.”

I shudder against the wall as he slides a finger in deep. This is wrong. This is sick, with my father somewhere in the house. With maids who could walk in on us at any time.

“Spread,” he says.

When I don’t move, he pinches the inside of my thigh. “I said spread.”

I jump and make a small sound of pain and desire. It’s the last one that terrifies me. How is he able to make me want this? What’s wrong with me that his hands on me feel good?

Because they do, so rough and firm, fingers pushing deep inside me. He’s knowledgeable in ways I can barely contemplate, going slow when I need him to, moving fast to increase the intensity. And that’s before his thumb finds my clit.

I gasp and jerk away from the wall. “Asher.”

His eyes blaze with lust and something else. Possession. “Like that. I want you to say my name just like that, again and again. You’re mine, beautiful.”

I want to tell him no, that I won’t say his name. That I’m not his. But his fingers move faster, reaching a spot deep inside me, making me slick. His thumb is insistent on my clit, moving in a knowing circle, pushing me close. I’m gasping around my protest, unable to say a single word.

“Let go,” he says darkly, his voice pure command.

Maybe it’s all those years of being obedient or maybe it’s his hot gaze on me. I can’t hold back. Climax washes over me in a rush, stealing my breath. I can only moan low and loud into the foyer, the sound of my pleasure echoing around me.

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