Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Because this is Seamus. My Seamus.
He wouldn’t really hurt me.
Would he?
“Let me ask you something, angel,” he says.
The way the word angel slips from his lips, it should sound sweet. Soft, like affection. But it doesn’t. There’s a steel thread running through it, laced with warning. It tells me not to get too comfortable. Not to mistake tenderness for mercy.
“Am I a man of my word?”
He told me he’d marry me. Swore he'd come back for me. Promised that the only reason he ever left at all was because someone else took him, ripped him away, and locked him up, like I didn’t matter. Like we didn’t matter.
There was a time I would’ve said no… that he wasn't a man of anything.
But now?
Now, I know better.
“Yes, sir,” I whisper. The words barely leave my lips, like they’re afraid to make themself known. Saying the truth out loud feels like it might cost me something I won’t be able to get back.
He watches me.
“What did I tell you would happen if you came without permission?”
My mouth is dry.
“You said you’d spank me,” I murmur, looking down, wishing I hadn’t come here. Wishing I had. Wanting everything and nothing all at once.
“In detail, Zoya. That’s not what I said.”
Oh god.
“You said you’d take your belt to my ass,” I whisper, my face burning. The shame rolls through me like a wave of fire, but underneath it, something else pulses—hotter and more dangerous.
It’s humiliating. It’s terrifying.
It’s arousing.
He’s so massive. So dominant. Every movement is careful, calculated. There’s no hesitation in him, no second-guessing. He doesn't bluff. He executes.
“I did, didn’t I?”
His voice is soft now, almost amused. “And it seems like my new wife needs to learn how to obey her husband.”
He’s in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, and the fabric clings to his chest and arms like it was made to showcase how lethal he is. He reaches down, unbuckles the belt at his waist, and slides it free with a long, slow pull that makes my stomach drop.
The sound is loud. Final. Like a door slamming shut. Rain pours outside. It’s warm in here, though, and I’m on fire.
He shakes his head once, deliberately, then stomps toward me.
“Hands above your head, where I can see them.”
I obey without thinking.
My arms fly up. I’m trembling. Every instinct in me is screaming run, but every nerve is screaming stay.
“Good,” he says.
But he doesn’t say good girl.
And that, god, it hurts. Like a phantom limb, like I’ve been denied something vital. I ache for it. I crave him telling me I’m his good girl.
His gaze stays locked on mine. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but there’s something behind them. Something dangerous. Something certain.
He loops the belt in his hands and snaps it once with a flick of his wrist.
The sound cracks through the room.
I flinch.
He walks to the bed and sits down slow, spreading his legs wide. He looks completely relaxed, like this is routine for him. Like punishing me is just another part of loving me.
He pats his lap.
“Anytime I have to punish you, it’ll be over my lap,” he says calmly. Like this isn’t a negotiation, it’s doctrine.
“If you’re not being punished, I’ll use my hand. If you are… something else.”
Oh god.
He’s thought this through. He has a plan he’s ready to execute.
“Okay,” I whisper. The word is barely there.
He points.
“Now. Over.”
My legs feel like liquid, but I obey. Trembling, I move forward and slide across his thighs. His lap is sturdy, warm, and immovable. My hair falls forward, curtain-like, hiding my face from the world. My hands scrabble for balance, but I can’t find anything solid except for him.
He places one firm, heavy hand on the small of my back.
He lifts the belt.
And brings it down.
The leather strikes the crease between my thighs and the curve of my ass. The sound is loud, the sting sharp. I cry out, my breath caught in my throat.
“Ow.”
It doesn’t exactly hurt, not in the way pain is supposed to. It startles me more than anything. It steals my breath and leaves something else behind. Arousal. Electricity.
“Good,” he murmurs.
Then he brings it down again.
Two.
Three.
He flicks the leather strap across each cheek, a measured, controlled rhythm that feels more like a seduction than a strike. Each one lands with purpose, not violence, not punishment. Not yet. It’s like he’s drawing heat into me, teasing the edge of pain, coaxing my body to respond, to yield.
He’s not even using half his strength; I know that.
He’s playing with me. Testing my limits.
Warming me up for something darker.
Something I can’t yet see, but I can feel it coming, like a storm on the horizon.
“There,” he says, after six deliberate lashes.
He sets the belt down like it’s something sacred, something he treasures, not just a tool, but a ritual. Then his hands, warm and possessive, cup my ass, his palms pressing firm against the sting, soothing and branding me all at once.