Brutal Obsession (74)

“Grey,” she pants. “I can’t—”

“You will. Twice now, I think.” I nod, emphatic. Something happens to me when she shortens my name like that, but I ignore the warm feeling in my chest. A few more orgasms will do her good—and then the painkillers to take away her headache. She probably needs to drink water, too. Coach is always after us about hydrating. Keeping our bodies like temples.

She twists away from me. The motion knocks my hands away, and I watch her shimmy toward the opposite side of the bed. On her belly.

Her ass is perfect. A little rounded, pale.

I climb back up and straddle her legs. I smack her ass cheek hard. The pain whips through my hand—especially my fucking knuckles. I’ll probably have to spend the week icing it to get ready for the next game. Never mind practices.

Fuck, I’m getting distracted.

A red print rises on Violet’s skin.

She didn’t make a noise the first time—and her face is pressed into a pillow now.

I narrow my eyes. “Vi.”

She doesn’t respond. She’s turned into a statue under me.

A foreign emotion winds through me, forming a weird pain in my throat. Concern? More concern than I’ve felt for anyone, I think, compounding on worry.

It’s such an abnormal reaction for her, I don’t know what to do for a minute.

Then I get the fuck off her and flip her over, her body so stiff she moves like a board. There are tears leaking out from under her closed eyes, streaking down her cheeks.

What caused this?

“Violet. What just happened?”

“Nothing.” She covers her face.

I pull her hands away and sit her up. Her shirt falls back into place.

“Spit it out.”

She tips forward and presses her forehead to my shoulder. “I just don’t like… that. It brings up bad memories.”

I narrow my eyes. Someone else did that to her? Spanked her in a way that left a lasting, negative impression?

She takes my hand and sniffs, then sits up straighter. Her expression is granite when she looks me in the eye. “Is it so bad that I draw a line with that?”

“Yes,” I say. Simple. “You don’t draw lines with me.”

Violet narrows her eyes. I like making her mad—and this seems to be a touchy subject for her.

“Why?” I question, letting more of my weight down on top of her. “More reason for me to banish whatever is making you feel like this is bad.”

“It’s dirty.” She pushes at my shoulder. “Let me go.”

“Not until you tell me more.”

“My dance teacher used to spank us when we messed up.” Her face gets even redder, and she averts her eyes.

I quirk my lips. “Naked?”

“No!”

“Sexually?”

“Greyson.”

“Grey,” I automatically correct.

She narrows her eyes.

I shrug, going for nonchalance. “Violet and Grey? Makes sense to me.”

Luckily, she drops it. And with that, I slide off her. I’ll bring this back around another day, but I’m mollified by the few questions I asked. A monstrous dance teacher who spanked his students for punishment—not pleasure.

Shame. The two should always go hand in hand.

But definitely not when she was… “How old were you?”

She covers her face again. “Ten.”

I make a face. Definitely not for pleasure then. My mom had her own brand of punishment, but it came in varied, unexpected ways. It was meant to knock me off-kilter, I think, rather than hurt. Dad just went for the pain as a reminder not to fuck up.

After she has her Advil, she slips into the bathroom. She has a slight limp, but it’s barely noticeable. The only reason I notice it at all is because I watch her ass as she passes, and there’s an unevenness to the sway of her hips.

My phone chirps.

Rebecca (Publicist)



All set to publish. Roake approved it.





I swallow and cast a glance toward the closed bathroom door.

No going back now.





33





VIOLET





The trip organizers rented out one of the conference rooms for breakfast. There’s a congregation of CPU students in the room, spread out across tables, at the buffet line. I ignore them all, though, in my hunt for Willow.

I never ended up texting her last night, and I feel a pang of guilt. It eases slightly, though, when I see her sandwiched between Knox and Amanda.

Grey stops beside me. Hearing that I’ve used a nickname he likes—especially coming from me, I guess—does weird things to me. Good things. Strange things. It’s a step in a direction I wasn’t expecting. Like our truce. Like pretending not to hate each other.

I’m pretty sure I have frostbite on my ass, though.

“Hungry?”

I glance up at him. “A bit.”

He smiles. “Go sit. I’ll grab us something.”

“No, it’s okay.” I head toward the buffet.

He snags my wrist. “Vi.”

“Grey.” I narrow my eyes. “I have a weird relationship with food, okay? Don’t fight me on this.”