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He’s still thinking about what she needs. He’s acting like her dominant.
My way.” His lips brush mine as his fingers catch on the edge of my panties. “Fast, rough, and messy.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “Filthy bitch.” I hate that he sounds approving. I hate that I care. I hate that him using me this way, talking to me this way, makes me hot and liquid and dangerously desperate.
And if my stomach still twists every time he talks about his ex-wife, or I still stare too long when his eyelashes cast secretive shadows over his face, and if I still think he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, well, we’ve both gotten pretty good at ignoring that too.
I’m suddenly sure he’s done it on purpose, that he laid his trap and lured me in with books and quiet company, and soon he’ll have me pinned, at his mercy, and that’s just . . . I swallow hard. Bad? That’s bad, right?
“A simple, ‘Yes, Jasper’ will suffice, Eden.” His voice is cultured, casual. Rippling with the warning of a great white beneath the waves.
Of course he’s amused—he’s the one on the safe end of the whip.
Something unholy, but divinely in need of worship.
My insides sting hotly. Maybe Jasper did whip me, after all—and he didn’t even need the flogger.
How dare he feel this good? How dare he wreck and ruin every promise I ever made?