Page 72 of Auctioned

He’s beautiful. He’s a nightmare. And I am…

I’m…

His.

“That’s a good girl.” His voice is rough. He swipes the back of his tattooed hand over his mouth, then presses it to my lips. “Lick.”

Without hesitation, I dart my tongue out, wiping him clean. I’ll try to make sense of why I like it later. For now, I let myself want this.

“We’re not done.” The sandwich is in his hand. I’m salivating for it. For him to feed me. I’m sick, sick, sick. I’m aware of that, and yet I open my mouth, waiting for him to place the food there. “Eat.”

The bite he’s giving me is a small one. A manageable one.

He could’ve been crueler than this. Could’ve shoved the bottle down my throat. Could’ve stuffed food into my mouth and laughed as I choked on it.

He hasn’t done either.

God, the food is delicious. Heaven. In fact, I’ve never had a better peanut butter sandwich in my life. I moan around the bite. I cry as I swallow.

This goes on for several minutes. He feeds me. Tells me to chew. To swallow. Between bites, he drinks from the bottle and spits it into my mouth.

Until half of the sandwich is gone. Until I’m a moaning, writhing, sobbing mess, clinging to his thighs. “Please. More.”

No one’s had a more depraved meal than the one I’ve just had. No one.

“Enough. Move back.”

I bite the inside of my cheek when James gets up. I don’t—I won’t—show him I need him to stay. That during the time he’s been here, he’s weakened my resolve.

Being left alone with my thoughts would be torture.

After a long, charged beat, he cocks his head. “You don’t hate me.”

“I do.” Nothing about my weak voice sounds convincing. The pull between us is too powerful for me to lie. “You’re a bastard. I hate you so much.”

“You don’t.”

“I—”

His disapproval is a force.

My head bows on its own. “I don’t hate you.”

James makes a sound at the back of his throat.

“You’ll get under the covers. Immediately. That’s where you’ll sleep. That’s where you’ll wait for me. Understood?”

He seems to hate it when I hesitate. I look up to see his mouth pressing into a fine line, and then I’m off the floor. In his arms.

“I will know if you get up for anything other than using the bathroom, Ophelia.” He deposits me in the bed and pulls the duvets up to my shoulders. “I’ll know, and it’ll upset me. Greatly.”

The consequences of his anger hang in the air between us.

“I hate you,” I whisper as loud as my clogged throat allows.

“You don’t.”

Whatever.

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