Taking Turns (Turning #1)(93)

I raise my eyebrows at her.

“I lied. I’ve been a very bad girl this year.”

I turn to close the door so I can smile, but when I turn back, the smile is gone. “What have I told you about lying to me, Marcella?”

I’ve told her nothing, but I’m certain she can extrapolate the answer I’m looking for in this little fantasy.

“You said I’d be punished next time.” She bites her lip. “Will you punish me?”

It almost sounds like begging. And yeah, I’d f*cking love to punish the hell out of her right now. Downstairs in the room I have set up for it.

But that’s not what I’m looking for, even if she is.

I walk over to the couch and sit down. “Come here, Marcella.” I like to use her full name when I’m being stern. And I will happily be stern with her.

She feigns nervousness and then slowly walks over to me. She’s wearing the most erotic f*ck-me heels I’ve ever seen. Strappy ones, like that thing she’s calling an outfit.

“Sit on my lap, sweetheart.” I pat my thigh and she obediently takes her place. “Confess your sins to me, Chella. And then I’ll decide what to do with you.”

She starts playing with her breasts. “I’m a slut,” she says. “I’m addicted to sex. I love it so much, Bric. I can’t stop myself.” Two fingers slide down between her legs. The “outfit” has nothing in the way of panties. It’s just more straps, digging in to the flesh on each side of her puffy *. “I think about you all the time. I want your cock deep inside me. I want it in my mouth, down my throat—”

Holy shit. I wonder if she’s like this with Quin? Maybe I’m not giving her enough credit?

Stop it, Bric. She’s playing a game with you. And Smith is falling in love with her. You do not start a new game while you’re playing the old one.

“I want you,” she continues. “I want you to beat the bad out of me.”

I smile at her, grab her hair and yank her head back. “I will, Chella. I will.”

And then I come to my senses.

“But,” I say, smiling at her as I let her hair go. I bring her close to me and give her a hug. “But look, Chella. I’m kind of dangerous in that respect. I don’t think it would work for us.”

She clicks her tongue. “Bric! Who turns down dirty submissive sex? This was my present to you and you’re ruining it!”

I laugh and hug her, my hand rubbing the curve of her ass cheek. “I can give you a taste If you like. I can do that much. But take my word on this, sweetie. You’re not ready for the kind of dominance I display. But I can still be fun. And I can still make it hurt.”

“I’ve been bad, Mr. Bricman,” she says again in her sultry voice, looking up at me with her smoky eyes. “Very, very bad.”

We both laugh this time.

“I bet you have, you little whore. Lie face down with your head in my lap.”

She does it without question. And damn, I’m sorry I didn’t realize earlier she might be into this. I’d have taken her downstairs and taught her how to submit to me properly instead of allowing her to become Rochelle’s replacement.

But it’s done now. And there’s no way to go back.

She will be Smith’s… eventually.

But tonight she’s mine.

I spank her. Hard. The sound of my hand on her ass cheeks fills the room.

I spank her until she comes all over my fingers.





Chapter Thirty-Two - Quin




Christmas night, at exactly midnight, I make my way up to Chella’s apartment. I’ve been dying to see her all day. All three of us have. We’ve been downstairs the whole time waiting to see if she’d come down. For breakfast, then lunch, then dinner.

But she didn’t. She stayed inside and kept to herself.

I wonder if the holidays are hard for her? If she thinks about her childhood. I don’t know much about what happened, but I don’t need to know much. What happened with her father the other night is explanation enough.

She was neglected. Somehow, some way.

The door is unlocked when I try the knob and when I enter, there’s Christmas music playing and the remnants of wrapping paper and boxes all over the living room floor.

We give her the real presents on Christmas Eve, but Bric came back up here early this morning while she was still sleeping and stacked dozens of presents under her tree.

We got her toys.

A dollhouse, Barbies, sparkling, glittery craft kits, a stereo—people don’t get those anymore, but it was something you asked for at Christmas as a teenager back in the day. We got her a diary, and some Lego sets. All the things she missed out on growing up.

“Chella?” I call into the apartment. She’s nowhere to be seen.

“Back here!” A faint yell from the bedroom.

I walk down the hallway and enter the bedroom, find it empty. “Chella? Where are you?”

“Up here!” she calls again, this time louder. “In the closet.”

“In the closet?” I walk over to the closet—hers, not ours—and peek inside. “What the f*ck?”

Chella’s head pops out from the attic door in the ceiling. “Hey. Come up here.”

“What are you doing?” I ask. “Where the hell did this ladder come from?”