Page 47 of Carnal Urges
She responds, sagging against the arm I’ve got wound around her back and making a soft, feminine sound of pleasure deep in her throat.
Then I push her off my lap, stand, and walk out of the room.
In a life full of difficult moments, this one makes the top five.
FIFTEEN
SLOANE
So here I am, sprawled on the carpet with my hands tied behind my back, stunned, panting, and humiliated.
And soaking wet.
Because althoughIhate Declan, my coochie thinks that bastard is divine.
To top it all off, he handled me like I was as weak as a limp noodle. All those years of self-defense training, all the hours I’ve sweated through advanced yoga poses, contorting my body in near-impossible ways, honing my core strength and toning my muscles, and that bossy Irishman wrangled me into submission in ten seconds flat like I was a bleating baby cow in its rodeo debut.
Then he spanked me, kissed me, and—for the final indignity—shoved me onto the floor and swaggered out.
The arrogant son of a bitch. First, he almost made me cry. Then, he almost made me come. As soon as I get the chance, I’m going to kill him.
Slowly.
Muttering curses, I sit up and get to work on the necktie bindingmy hands. After a few minutes of struggling, the knots loosen, and I get free.
The first thing I do is head straight to the drawer in the dresser in his closet where I saw a cigarette lighter when I was snooping earlier. I return to the bedroom and light his tie on fire.
Watching it burn is right up there with the top five most satisfying moments of my life.
When there’s nothing left but a smoldering scorch mark on the carpet and the acrid scent of burnt silk in the air, I toss the lighter onto the bed, sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the windows, slow my breathing, and meditate for twenty minutes.
And when I say “meditate,” I mean mentally run through all the ways I’d love to see Declan die.
Take a deep breath and remember who the fuck you are.
He’ll never get a rise out of me again. Every time I see him from now on, I’ll be a rock. I’ll be a cat, aloof and disinterested. Armed with sharp teeth and claws.
“Fucker,” I mutter under my breath. “Egotistical, overbearing, bad-tempered jerk.”
Take a deep breath. Remember who you are.
Another twenty minutes of affirmations produces as little positive effect on my mental state as the meditation did. I move on to yoga, but quickly discover that all the Feathered Peacock poses in the world can’t rid me of the brain stain that is Declan O’Donnell.
So be it.
I’ve survived bullies before.
I’ve survived humiliation before.
I’ll survive him.
Hours later, another one of the goon squad arrives, carrying a tray of food. He’s got dark blond hair, hazel eyes, broad shoulders, a cleft chin, and a spiderweb tattoo on one side of his neck.
His hands are the size of anvils. His jawline could cut steel. I instantly nickname him Thor.
I’m beginning to think Declan hires these guys based on their level of hotness. Birds of a feather and all that.
“Where’s Kieran?”
