Page 2 of Start With A Slap

And her marriage? It was new, but they were solid. Jason adored her. There might be some fallout, but they would work it out.

With a now-or-never breath, she lowered the snake tongue and pushed.

Curiously, she was met with a dark, disorienting passage. At its end was another towering door that was slightly ajar, letting in a sliver of low amber light. Eyes adjusting, Ivy pressed forward, passing a gilded antique bench, a sinuous coat rack and a pair of recessed archways that led to what she could only guess were fantasy realms.

The final door opened to a moody, classic den, the kind that movie villains seemed to love. Floor-to-ceiling curtains blocked out the Los Angeles sunset, leaving the lighting to an imposing fireplace and dimmed wall sconces.

Was he in here somewhere? She could smell cigar smoke but couldn’t pinpoint the source.

Ivy took a step forward and said, “Mr. Mark?”

No answer. Maybe he’d stepped out?

She ventured further into the room. It seemed to deliberately prove that he was everything Jason called him. The ceilings looked like something out of a gothic cathedral, the walls were wainscoted with mahogany or teak or some other rainforest-defiling tree, and the accent colors were black, gold and murder-scene red. How did that snake rhyme go again?Red against black is a friend of jack, red against yellow, why did you come here?

Ivy searched for something that might humanize him. It didn’t help that the books on his shelves were unidentifiable,or that the only art was a trio of filigree-framed vintage French posters, each with jolly renderings of the Devil.

She knew Sever had a British father and a French mother—his given name was Stéphane—and as a hardcore Francophile, Ivy had to give him cool points for that. But then she got a closer look at the posters. They were promos from his long-retired label, Marked Records, for some obscure band called Dead Blonde. Their album was titled, if Ivy was translating correctly, Choke On The Devil’s Claw.

Well, that was disgusting, and she couldn’t help but take the “blonde” thing a little personally.Points withdrawn.

The devil motif was further insinuated by the pitchfork at the fireplace and the cloven hoof legs of his enormous desk. There was nothing on it aside from a glossy wooden humidor and a glass ashtray. No personal photos, no papers, no clutter... and no sign of him.

Still, the room didn’t feel empty. Ivy had the eerie feeling that she was being watched. The minute hand on the ticking grandfather clock lurched to the next, and her suspicion turned to irritation. If he was going to play games...

Before she finished that thought, a puff of smoke wafted from the leather desk chair.

He’d been sitting there the whole time? Why hadn’t he turned to face her? Was he waiting for an appropriately dramatic moment to spin around, petting a white cat?

“Take off your clothes.”

Ivy blinked. Opened her mouth, shut it. Tried to piece together what else he could have said in that urbane English accent besidestake off your clothes.“What?”

“Take off. Your clothes.”

“E-excuse me?” Ivy had never stuttered before. This seemed like a good time to start.

She heard an exasperated sigh. “Did he not tell you how this works? Take off your clothes, crawl to the whip, put it in your mouth and bring it to me on yourknees.” He spun his chair around. “Do I need to draw you a picture?”

Their gazes met, and time stopped for a moment. In person, Sever Mark was alarmingly handsome, with ice-blue eyes and arched brows and the kind of angular bone structure that set off a biological urge in her to have unprotected sex... with herhusband’s father oh god stop looking at him.

She tore her gaze from his and noticed the whip, coiled like a shining black snake on his Persian rug. What was this, some sort of sick test? Did he do this to all of his son’s girlfriends? And did they actuallydo what he said?

“Oh, bloody fucking hell,” he muttered as if this were all a big inconvenience, and put his cigar in the ashtray. “You’re new, aren’t you. Look.”

To her horror, he strode up to her, tossed aside her clutch and opened her trench coat. “I?—”

He put a hand over her mouth. “No talking. You don’t speak.”

With his other hand, he was unfastening her skirt. It pooled to the floor and before she knew what was happening, he’d yanked her Victoria’s Secrets down her thighs and roughly squeezed her ass. Eyes wide, she shouted a muffled protest.

He shook her once, snarled, “Whatdid I just say?”

She tried to answer, tried tomove, but she was paralyzed with bewilderment, shut down by confusion. As the clock ticked, he raised her blouse. Fondled her naked breasts and pinched her nipple, which sent an electric shock to her clitoris, causing an intense throb.Oh god. Say something!“You don’t unmmnf?—”

“Fine.” He twisted her hair into a crude ponytail and shoved her to her knees. “We’ll skip ahead then.”

As he unzipped his pants to reveal that he was not overcompensating foranything, she blurted out, “I’m your daughter-in-law!”

---