Page 15 of Sold to Her Enemy

A long black table with a glass top seats four because I like having lots of space around me. A large fern stood in the corner and a set of sliding patio doors lead out to the garden and pool area.

I could close the blinds, but I like this glass house, like I’m daring them to throw stones; all those who thought my father was knee deep with the mob.

“Come, Mckenna,” I call, realizing she is still frozen at the kitchen doorway. She takes slow steps until she’s standing at my right side.

Her fists are clenched, she’s not meeting my eyes, that’s fine.

“This is the only time I am going to check in with you the rest of the night from here on out; if there is something wrong, if you’re in physical or mental discomfort or hurt or want to exit the scene, you use your safeword. What was it again?” I tilt my head, staring across the room at a picture of the rolling fields of Grace’s stables.

My mother loves horses, and we could have had our own stables, but she said there was no horse person better than Grace, and my father was content not to own something he didn’t understand. Mckenna hasn’t noticed the picture yet.

“Penelope,” she grits out.

“I want to hear it again.” I place my hands on her shoulders. Then I turn her so she is staring at the picture of the rolling green fields. The two mares in the photo—one chestnut, the other a palomino with the sweetest temperament.

Mckenna gasps. Her fist swings back to hit me, and I grab it hard.

“I didn’t hear you?”

“Penelope,” Mckenna whispers.

“Now kneel beside me. Let me eat in peace and enjoy your meal.” I set the smoothie bowl before her.

She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.

I make an exaggerated tsking noise, “No hands, Mckenna. Eat, because you’ll need your energy, and because you must obey me this weekend.”

She purses her lips. For a moment, I am sure she’s going to throw the smoothie bowl at me, but she closes her eyes briefly and sets to the task, a strand of her hair falling down along her face and hitting the edge of the bowl.

“Slurp it all up, you cockwarmer, shoe-licker slut,” I laugh, and as a gasp escapes her mouth, I sit down and tuck into my food.

When my mother realized that Penelope was also part of the assets, she suggested we keep her instead of selling her with the other horses. My mother has a soft spot for Mckenna, and over the years, my sister Ava often heard, “I wish you’d be as kind as Mckenna,” or “Ava, why couldn’t you make that last jump, like Mckenna did?”

The week after the hostile takeover of MM Industries, I tried calling Mckenna to let her know that I had saved Penelope and that she was at Grace’s old stables. But I never got through to her. Her phone was out of service. It’s another example of how I tried to do something thoughtful for her, but was met with stony silence.

I thought Grace would tell her, but Grace and her husband had started divorce proceedings and wanted to keep it out of the press. Grace had entrusted the care of her horses and property to a friend while she stayed with her sister.

Mckenna sniffles as she licks the smoothie bowl. I don’t miss how red her cheeks are, and how she is finding this debasement a total turn-on.

“Nice to know your tongue is good for more than just licking shoes.” I fist my hand in her hair, pushing her face further into the bowl.

The low, gravelly moan she lets out tells me she’s aroused. The loud slurping noise seems to be the only one in the room. My throat is dry. Seeing Mckenna like this is making me want to fuck her right here.

I run my foot along her leg. A shudder rolls through her body and I’m so damn drunk in Dominance pleasure.

“Oh, God.” She lifts her face from the bowl. Her nipples are deliciously beaded, stabbing through the camisole she’s wearing.

“Oh? I see that you’re done. Be my dishwasher and clean my plate for me.”

I set it down in front of her.

“No!” There is smoothie all over her face, but she is still gorgeous.

I cup her nape and press her face to my plate. “Yes. Now, Mckenna, we have other things to do before I let you sleep tonight.”

And as if she can’t help herself, she rocks her hips forward. “I see. Being my dishwasher slut makes you even wetter, doesn’t it?”

“No!” Tears slide down her face, but her tongue pokes out. With a shuddering exhale, she licks the edge of my plate.

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