I AM NOT HARD FOR YOU

CHAPTER THREE:

He pushes me.

I land on the bed with a bounce, the mattress softer than anything I've ever felt. Which would be nice if I wasn't currently terrified.

"Please..." I scramble backward, my defiance crumbling into panic. "Please don't do this..."

He stalks toward me, predatory and deliberate. Grabs my ankle and drags me back toward him.

I kick at him with my free leg. "No! Stop..."

His hands move to his belt. The leather slides through the loops with a sound that makes my heart stop.

"No..."

He catches both my wrists in one hand, easily, like I'm a child, and yanks them above my head.

The belt wraps around them, tight enough to hold but not hurt, then he loops it through something on the headboard I can't see.

I pull against it. The leather doesn't budge.

I'm pinned. Arms stretched above my head, unable to move.

"Let me go!"

He leans back, looking down at me with that infuriating smirk. "Dónde está esa fiereza ahora?" Where's that fierceness now?

"Please." I hate the pleading in my voice. Hate how pathetic I sound. "Please don't do this."

"You know," he says conversationally, like we're discussing the weather, "I have access to every part of you right now."

His eyes drag down my body, and that's when I realize.

I'm wearing the thin cotton nightgown I sleep in. The one with spaghetti straps. No bra underneath because I was in them when they took me.

The fabric is practically see-through in the light.

Fuck.

I try to shift, to cover myself somehow, but there's nowhere to go. I'm trapped.

"Please," I whisper.

He reaches out, one finger tracing along my collarbone. I flinch.

"You see, Elena, I don't forgive." His voice is soft. Dangerous. "I punish offenders. And you've offended me today more times than I can count."

His hand drifts lower. Hovers over my chest.

"Don't..."

"Why don't I teach you how to be submissive?" His fingers brush the fabric over my right breast. "How to be respectful? So when that boyfriend of yours sees you again, he'll know you belong to someone else."

"I don't belong to...ah..."

His thumb circles where my nipple is, pressing through the thin cotton. I bite my lip hard, trying not to react.

But my body betrays me.

I feel it happen, my nipple hardening under his touch, pressing against the fabric.

He notices immediately. Of course he does.

That smirk deepens. "Your body wants me so bad, pequeña loba."

"I don't want you." My voice shakes. "I never will."

"Let's see about that."

He leans down, and I realize what he's about to do a second too late to prepare myself.

His mouth closes over my nipple through the fabric.

"Ah!" The moan tears out of me before I can stop it.

His tongue circles the sensitive bud, the wet cotton creating friction that shouldn't feel this good, shouldn't make heat pool in my stomach, shouldn't make me arch involuntarily toward him

No. No, this is wrong. I don't want this.

But my body is screaming the opposite.

He pulls back slightly, looking up at me with those amber-dark eyes. "I know you're wet for me, querida. I don't even need to check."

"You're wrong," I gasp out.

"Am I?"

His hand slides down my stomach, and I squeeze my thighs together desperately.

He laughs, actually laughs, and then he's reaching up to unbuckle the belt around my wrists.

My arms drop, tingling from being held up.

Before I can move, he grabs my hand and presses it against the front of his pants.

I feel him. Hard. Thick. Straining against the expensive fabric.

My face burns.

"But I'm not hard for you," he says, voice going cold. Detached. "Because you're just another dumb slut who thought she could fight me."

The words hit like a slap.

He releases my hand and steps back, and just like that, the heat is gone. Replaced by that icy control I saw in the warehouse.

Like the last five minutes didn't happen. Like he didn't just...

Like I didn't just...

"Go take your bath," he says, adjusting his suit jacket. All business now. "The maid will bring you a dress. You're coming with me to the auction."

I stare at him, still sprawled on the bed, trying to process the whiplash.

"Auction?"

"The one I stopped for you." He's already walking toward the door. "I have business to attend to. You'll accompany me."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!"

He pauses at the door, looks back over his shoulder. "Elena, you can walk out of this room dressed and presentable, or I can carry you out naked. Your choice."

"You wouldn't..."

"Try me."

We stare at each other.

I see it in his eyes, he absolutely would.

"I hate you," I whisper.

"Bueno." Good. "Hate me while you shower. We leave in an hour."

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

I'm left alone in the massive bedroom, my body still tingling from his touch, my mind reeling from the sudden shift.

One second he was all heat and possession.

The next, cold as ice.

What the hell just happened?

I look down at my nightgown. The fabric over my right breast is still damp from his mouth.

My nipple is still hard.

And between my thighs...

No. Don't think about it.

But I can't deny it.

He was right.

I am wet.

And I hate myself for it almost as much as I hate him.

The bathroom is ridiculous.

Marble everything. A shower big enough for four people. A tub that could pass as a small pool. Heated floors.

I stand under the spray, scrubbing my skin hard enough to hurt, trying to wash away the feel of his hands. His mouth.

It doesn't work.

I can still feel the ghost of his touch. Still hear that dark promise in his voice.

Let's see how loud you scream when I'm inside you.

A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with cold.

No. Absolutely not. I'm not attracted to him. I'm not.

He's old enough to be my father. He kidnapped me. He just...whatever that was, it was assault. Punishment. Not...

Not anything I should be feeling confused about.

I turn the water temperature colder.

When I finally get out, there's a dress laid out on the bed.

Black. Elegant. Expensive-looking. And way too revealing for my comfort, off-shoulder, fitted, ending mid-thigh.

No underwear, though. Of course not.

Bastard.

I have no choice but to put it on. It fits perfectly, which means he either guessed my size or...

Don't think about how he knows your measurements.

I'm towel-drying my hair when there's a knock.

"Señorita Elena?" A woman's voice. "El señor says you have ten minutes."

I open the door to find a middle-aged woman holding heels, black stilettos that will probably kill me.

"I'm Maria," she says gently. "I'll help you with your hair."

"I don't need..."

"Por favor." She looks almost pleading. "If you're not ready, he'll..." She stops herself. "Just let me help, sí?"

She's scared of him.

Everyone here is scared of him.

What have I gotten into?

Twenty minutes later, I'm staring at myself in the full-length mirror.

The dress hugs every curve. My hair is sleek and styled. The heels make my legs look longer.

I look... good.

I hate that.

The door opens without knocking.

He leans against the frame, and his eyes darken as they travel over me.

"Perfecta," he murmurs.

"Go to hell."

That smirk again. "After you, pequeña loba."

He extends his hand.

I don't take it.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't force me. Just gestures toward the door.

"Walk, or be carried. We've been through this."

I walk.

Down the stairs, through the foyer, out to the waiting car.

The driver opens the door. He slides in first, then looks at me expectantly.

I get in, pressing myself as far from him as possible.

The door closes. The locks click.

"Where are we going?" I ask, staring straight ahead.

"I told you. The auction."

"Why do I have to come?"

"Because you're mine." He says it simply. "And I want everyone to see what's mine."

"I'm not..."

His hand shoots out, gripping my thigh. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop me mid-sentence.

"Elena." His voice is soft. Deadly. "I've been very patient with you. Don't test me in public. You won't like what happens."

His hand stays on my thigh the entire drive.

And I hate...absolutely hate, that part of me doesn't want him to move it.