Page 47 of The Seller

“I’m not hungry.”

He’s on the phone with room service, but he raises a dark brow at me and shakes his head ever so slightly.

Okay, so maybe I’m testing him. Maybe.

“Siri,” he says calmly, hanging up the phone. “You’re free to leave… but if you stay, you’re going the right way to getting a good, long, spanking.”

“You can’t do that! I was just forced into marriage! I saw a man die!”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re acting like a spoiled little brat,” he says, his hands going to his hips. God. He’s so fucking handsome, standing there powerful and dominant and so fucking protective of me. I’m lucky. Far luckier than I deserve to be. When I came up with the plan to get myself sold, I didn’t really know who would get hold of me. It could have been someone who destroyed me. Instead, I have this dark angel of a man who has given up everything for me, who has killed for me.

“Maybe,” I admit, allowing myself a little smirk.

“And you know what?” He takes a step closer and leans down toward me.

“What?” I ask the question softly, breathlessly.

“That’s fine by me. I like spanking your little ass anyway. Always have.”

A blush rushes over my cheeks. I want his hands on me again. I want to feel the power of his body surging inside mine. I want to be reclaimed from everything that has happened to me. I want to forget that I am my father’s daughter. I want to throw away my last name and take…

“What is your last name?”

“Makris,” he says. “Stavros Makris.”

“Nice to meet you,” I smirk, thinking to myself how my name would sound twinned with his. Siri Makris. It has a nice ring to it.

Am I really thinking about marrying him the day after I was forced into marriage? Yes. Yes I am. Because I’m starting to think that everything I have suffered, my entire twisted, brutal life, has lead me to this place and this man.

“Mhm,” he drawls sternly, having no idea what’s going on in my head. “Are you going to behave yourself?”

I smile up into his face. “Absolutely not.”

He smirks and I see that dark flash in his eyes, the one which heralds some delicious little cruelty.

“Good,” he drawls.

He traces his fingers up the side of my neck, brushes his palm against the side of my cheek and then grasps my hair, pulling me into a hot, close, heated kiss of pure passion. When he talks, I don’t believe him. But when he touches me, I can feel exactly who he is. There’s no confusion in these moments, just truth.

Last night, he brought me to this room and he laid me down in bed without saying a word and just held me until I fell asleep. I have never been safer in anyone’s arms. He is a fortress against the evil of the world, even when I think he is the evil.

He pulls away, breaking the kiss, and he looks so deep into my eyes I feel as though he can see my fucking soul.

“Be as bad as you want, baby,” he says softly. “I’m here for it.”

“ROOM SERVICE! WE HAVE YOUR WAFFLES!” A loud, cheerful lady barges into the room with all the tact of a small tank.

Stavros takes care of it, tipping her generously and asking her if she could possibly be a dear and put the do not disturb sign on the door when she leaves. He can be so diplomatic when he wants to be. The ruddy faced maid clutching her fifty Euro note would never suspect the sort of depravity her charming customer is capable of.

“Waffles,” he says. “An American breakfast.”

“I can think of a better use for the syrup.”

He smiles, flashing wicked teeth. “Are you seducing me, Siri?”

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