I stare directly into his harsh eyes, refusing to cower down.

“If you do, the door is right there.”

“I don’t.”

“Then don’t make me repeat myself.”

My hands tremble as my fingers latch onto the cloth and I lift it up to my stomach. My bare thighs and cotton knickers are in his full, unnerving view. Unlike earlier, my sense of confidence is withering away. At least then, it was according to my plan. Now, it’s his playground.

The fact that I have no clue about his plots is messing with my head more than the state of my half-nakedness.

“Up.”

A shudder grips me at the authority in his tone. I slide the dress up one more inch, revealing my belly. Jonathan grabs my hand and yanks it up to my breasts.

The feel of his skin on mine sends electricity through my stomach, almost like he’s trying to shock me to death.

“Hold it there. Don’t move.”

I don’t know what he means by that until his fingers trace alongside my scar. A different type of bolt rushes through my skin and memories zap to my mind like lightning strikes.

Vacant eyes. Duct tape. Dirt. The crunching of a metal against bones.

There’s nothing I can do to stop the memories. They suddenly attack and ravish my conscience as if it’s an act of vengeance. The only way I know to deal with it is by hiding it and pretending, for the most part, that it doesn’t exist.

I’m about to cover the scar or push him away, but Jonathan pins me in place with a glare. “Do not move or I’ll lay you on my lap and spank your arse.”

A shudder snaps my spine upright and it’s different from the usual memories that assault me with no prior warning.

The promise in his words freeze me in place, my feet curling in my shoes as he continues his meticulous observation of my scar.

His fingers run across it with a softness that turns me breathless. His skin is not harsh, but not soft either – it’s firm and as hard as him. The more his hand glides over the skin, the more impossible standing becomes. For some reason, I’d imagined a man like Jonathan wasn’t capable of such tenderness.

My core pulses and I breathe harshly, almost like an animal who can’t keep its instinct down.

His finger runs up and down above my scar. “What does this tattoo mean?”

“Nothing.”

“You want to tell me you got a tattoo of a closed eye right above a knife scar for nothing?”

“What makes you think it’s a knife scar?”

“It looks like a scar caused by a sharp object, but since you’re stiffening at the knife part, then my guess was correct. What happened? How did you get stabbed?”

My hands quiver, but I manage to speak in a levelled tone. “That’s none of your business.”

“What did I say about that mouth? Maybe you do want me to fuck it.”

“I don’t care what you do to my body, Jonathan. This thing has been dead for eleven years.”

I don’t know why I freely offer that information. Maybe I wanted to figuratively flip Jonathan the finger by letting him know I’m useless in the sex department. That no matter what he does, he won’t be able to break me.

He can’t break what’s already broken.

His fingers trail down from my ribs to my stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Then he cups me through my underwear.

I don’t stiffen. I don’t even try to wiggle free. It doesn’t matter, because he can’t get to me.

The few sexual encounters I’ve had were complete disasters. One of them even said, “You’re dry as a desert.” Then he soaked me in lube so he could get inside.

There’s nothing Jonathan could do to change that. Sexual pleasure was purged out of me when I saw those vacant eyes.

So, in a way, Jonathan got defective goods.

Good luck with all the lube.

“You’re telling me you’re dead here?” His grip tightens. “Maybe I should find out.”

“Show me your worst.”

 

 

14

 

 

Aurora

 

 

Jonathan wraps a strong, merciless hand around my wrist and tugs.

I follow his lead and stumble, ending up flush against his side. Even though he’s sitting, it’s almost as if he’s towering over me.

“Lie on my lap. Face down.”

I swallow at the command in his tone. The man was born to lead armies and control people.

“W-why?”

“Quit the habit of asking questions when around me. I don’t answer them and they just make your situation worse.”

“I have the right to know.” Besides, the position he’s suggestion isn’t normal. Right?

“You already agreed to this, remember? The only right you have is to follow orders.”

Ugh. The infuriating tyrant.

He presses his thumb against my clit, which I assume is a warning. “Now, are you going to lie on my lap or should I make you? Disclaimer: the second option won’t be pretty.”

I swallow at the bleak promise in his tone. If I’m going to spend six months with him, I really need to pay more attention to picking my battles. “Fine. Let me go.”

He tightens his grip on my sex for good measure. It’s not meant to please, but as a stern non-verbal warning.

Inhaling deeply, I lean forward and lie on his lap. I don’t miss how my arse is now in the air like that of a disobedient, naughty child. My movements are awkward as my breasts and stomach lie flush against his hard thighs.

It doesn’t matter which position he has me in, Jonathan King won’t be able to get to me.

A peaceful aura envelops me at that reminder, even when he slides my dress up to the small of my back. Cool air hits my thighs, and goosebumps break out on my flesh.

It’s only because of the air.

Just the air.

His long, lean fingers glide my underwear down my thighs so I’m completely naked from the waist down.

I try not to think about the view he’s seeing. The vulnerability of the situation grates on my nerves. This is the last position I want to be in with anyone, let alone Jonathan. Which was probably his plan all along.

He won’t get to me. He won’t get to me.

I may not have any confidence in this whole thing, but I have confidence in my dysfunctional body.

“You’re telling me you’re dead. Is that it, Aurora?”

“Yes.”

“You think you can waste my time?”

“You made the deal before making sure of all the facts. That’s your fault, not mine.”

“That mouth will land you in trouble.” Jonathan reaches a hand between my thighs and I open them, not presenting any protest whatsoever.

He drags a finger down my dry folds. The contact is neither pleasurable nor painful. It’s just…nothing.

Numb.

That’s what my therapist told me. Apparently, I’ve numbed myself to sex since I was a teen, which, in his words, could’ve been a knee-jerk reaction to sexual assault or rape.

Neither of those happened to me.

Since I never told my therapist about my past, he probably wrote it off as either of those reasons and categorised me in his neat folders as another statistic.

It’s far from that. People like me need a special category dedicated to them.