Unforgettable: Book Two (A Hollywood Love Story #2)(51)

“Zoey, I want you to undress.”

“Excuse me?” His words send a shockwave through me. I freeze. Somehow, despite how many fantasies I’ve had about him, baring myself to him has never been among them. Fear? Shame? Self-Loathing? All of the above? Yes, probably a little bit of each. Even f*cking him tonight doesn’t put my brain at ease. Is this my punishment for disobeying him?

“Br—”

“Do it.” His voice is gruff and authoritative. But this is how he’s always treated me and I’ve always obliged. Sweet Jesus. I’m a natural submissive. Without losing eye contact with him, I bend my arms upward and reach for the tab of the zipper. I zip it halfway down, but with my short limbs, I can’t get it past the middle of my back. Brandon watches me struggle.

“Turn around,” he commands, not masking his displeasure.

Silently, I do as asked. He unzips my dress, and the hiss of the parting metal teeth sends goosebumps to my skin. Gripping my shoulders, he spins me around. And then takes a few steps backward. His intimidating eyes stay glued on me.

“Take it off.”

Slowly, hesitantly, I slide the chiffon dress off. Once past my hips, it glides down my legs way faster than I want it to. Before I know it, Chaz’s little black number is puddled around my feet. I step out of it, my toes digging into the cool sand. I’m standing before him in just my black strapless push-up bra and a pair of skimpy lace bikinis I have no right wearing. The matching set is a part of a mysterious boxload of sexy Gloria’s Secret lingerie that was messengered to my house after my visit to Chaz’s studio. Neither Chaz nor Jeffrey claimed responsibility, and when I asked Brandon about it, he simply said, “No clue.” I now know I shouldn’t have believed him.

He holds me fierce in his gaze. I’m as still as a statue. A chill sweeps over me. His eyes travel subtly down my body and then return to my face. Now that he’s seen my imperfect curvy body that’s so unlike Katrina’s flawless supermodel figure—and all the other “it girls” he’s f*cked—he won’t want me anymore. Yes, he’s seen me in a swimsuit once before. But this is so different. I’m so exposed. And because he’s still fully clothed, I feel especially vulnerable. Maybe the night air is covering up some of my flaws. I can only hope. Mr. Taylor, I’m so not ready for my close-up.

“Zoey, stop thinking about putting the dress back on. You’re beautiful in it, but you’re even more beautiful without it.”

I gulp so loud I can hear myself. Me beautiful? In the raw?

“Now take off your bra.”

I reach my hands behind my back and undo one clasp after another. There are three of them, lined up from top to bottom. The bra falls to my feet. My full breasts quiver in the sea breeze.

“Exquisite.”

I hitch a breath. Just barely.

“Now, remove those little panties.”

Hooking the side strings with my thumbs, I silently slide the bikinis down my thighs. I squat to get them past my knees. Deeper and deeper with every inch until the skimpy lace concoctions are scrunched at my feet. With my hands matted to my ankles, knees bent, and my ass in the air, he tells me not to move. My eyes gaze up at him as he swaggers toward me.

He’s so close to me the tip of my nose grazes his jeans. I can smell the scent of my sex on him. My senses are on high alert.

“Don’t move,” he repeats. “Not even a blink.”

I do as I’m told. Not a blink. Not a move of a muscle. My eyes still cast upward, I watch him rip open the bottom buttons of his linen shirt. He unbuckles his leather belt, and with a whoosh, slides it out of the belt loops. He coils it around his right hand like a snake. And then uncurls it until it dangles just above his knees. He circles behind me.

A smack of fear descends on my lower back. I can see the belt between my slightly parted legs. Shit. Is he going to tie me up with it in this uncomfortable position? And f*ck me without mercy? Anxiety beats in my chest like a timber drum as I await his next move.

Thwack! Before I can surmise it, the belt comes down hard on my ass. I wince. My left cheek stings like it’s on fire.

“That’s for running away from me. I want you to count with me.”

I draw in a sharp breath. He’s going to whip me again.

“Say it. One.”

“One,” I repeat, my voice so unsteady.

He does it. Whips me again. Thwack!

“Two.” I groan.

And again. Thwack!

“Three.” Tears burn my eyes.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” I cry out, so turned on by the scorching pain that has my sore * pulsing with tremors of pleasure. Delicious warmth drips down my legs.


Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Four more times. A total of seven. All on the same spot. The incendiary sting is more than I can bear. Mama. My safe word is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t get my quivering lips to say it. Stifling a whimper on the next crack of the leather, I fall to my knees. Supplicating, I recall the time Pops taught me how to ride a bicycle. I was a disaster. As I was about to give up, he shared an old Japanese proverb: “Fall seven times. Stand up on eight.”

“Eight,” I croak, my voice jagged from my tear-infested arousal. With my trembling hands, I push myself up, back to the semi-squatting position before Brandon’s next inevitable lash. His dominant voice resonates in my ear.