Page 39 of I'm sorry, Princess
The air shifts as he towers over me, all 6’4 of him, a wall of muscle and tattoos, predatory calm wrapped in black jeans and a T-shirt. I’m 5’2 and sitting, feeling every bit of that height difference as he smirks down at me, hands casually tucked into his pockets, like this is his office and I’m just visiting.
I swallow, trying to refocus.
Professional. Stay professional.
“I think it’s better if you sit,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “It might be uncomfortable for you to stand the whole session.”
His lips twitch, his gaze sharp and heavy, like he’s stripping me bare right here in this chair. And then, without breaking eye contact, he pulls out his phone and starts texting, right in front of me.
Rude.
My stomach tightens, heat crawling under my skin, but I keep my face neutral. Well, I try.
His eyes lift slowly from the screen, pinning me again, wicked amusement dancing in those dark blue irises. “The only one uncomfortable sitting will be you, princess.”
His voice is cruel. Deliciously cruel. Like he knows exactly how to twist the knife and make me like it.
Then I hear it.
The sound of leather sliding through belt loops.
My heart stops.
My eyes snap to his hands, and sure enough, he’s pulling off his belt. Smooth, slow, deliberate. The leather slides between his fingers like he’s teasing me with the idea of what he could do with it.
“What the hell are you doing?” My voice comes out breathless, barely a whisper.
He closes the distance between us in two lazy steps, his belt dangling from one hand, the other running through his dark brown hair, pushing it back in that cocky, infuriating way of his.
“Now bend over.”
Chapter Eleven
Lorenzo
My lips curl into a wicked smirk as she stands there, face flushed, eyes wide with rage, or maybe something else she’s too proud to admit. Her hands are balled into fists, and she’s gripping that pen like she wants to jam it through my throat.
Cute.
“Have you lost your mind?” she spits, her voice shaking just enough to give her away. She’s furious, but underneath it, her body betrays her. I can smell it. I can feel it.
I almost laugh, but I don’t. I let the silence hang heavy between us, feeding off her anger like it’s oxygen.
“How many minutes were you late, sweetheart?” My voice drops into something cruel,something low and dangerous. I already know the answer. She knows I know. That’s what makes it fun.
Her jaw tightens. “What, are you deaf?” she snaps, fire in her tone. “I already said I was five minutes late.”
I hum, slow and deliberate. “Hmm. Five minutes late. That’s five spankings.”
Her cheeks flush deeper. Her whole face is crimson now, probably from rage. Or maybe from the idea of it.
That’s the part that drives me crazy, she hates me, but her body? Her body’s fucking honest.
“I beg your finest pardon?” she hisses, all polished sarcasm. But her lips part slightly, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. Her eyes dart to the door like she’s weighing her options. She won’t run. Not really.
I close the distance between us, fast and smooth, my body practically gliding toward hers. I hook my finger under her chin, forcing her to meet my eyes.
Those eyes.
