Wargasm (Payne Brothers Romance Book 3)

by Sosie Frost

  “Morgan, tell me what’s wrong.” He ensured no one else heard. “All these tears aren’t from a spanking. You haven’t been yourself for days.”

  Of course, he noticed. Now my lips clamped shut.

  Even in this fucked-up fantasy world, no spanking could atone for the audition.

  His hands brushed down my arms, but he stopped over the raised claw marks near my elbow. The scratch from Edward Scissorhands’ fingernails.

  He twisted my arm so Simone could see, but her eyes had already narrowed on Shannon.

  Anthony’s jaw set. Hard. The air around him practically simmered in a sudden, unconscionable heat. I didn’t recognize the lethality in his voice.

  “What else did she do?”

  I wouldn’t say. I’d never say.

  “What else did she do, Morgan?”

  This shame wasn’t my norm. It wasn’t a regretful acknowledgement of my lust and inhibitions. I’d been degraded because someone else had hurt me.

  “Did she touch you?”

  My silence answered for me. Simone frowned.

  “They fought in the bathroom,” she said to Anthony. “I heard a slap.”

  Now he was enraged. “Did she hit you?”

  I’d rather cop to that. I nodded.

  “Did she hurt you?”

  Another nod. Another tear.

  “Where did she touch you, Morgan? Did she finger you?”

  He was in the general region at least. I looked away. “You haven’t touched me…there…yet.”

  Simone released a breath. Had Anthony done the same he would have brought the walls down.

  “We’re leaving.” The rage in his voice terrified me. “Now.”

  The sudden decision startled the table. Nate stood, offering to help. Anthony silenced him without a word.

  He helped me from the table, straightening my dress and drying my tears. But he held tight to my hand as we stalked to the door.

  Simone called after him, but he locked eyes only with Thomas.

  “Your slave does not touch Morgan without my permission.” His ire pulse over the table. “No one will ever touch Morgan. She belongs to me.”

  The statement resonated with the guests, everyone tensing as Anthony’s unspoken threat dared any to protest. Shannon had paled, but Thomas dropped all pretense. He apologized to Anthony.

  The words fell to deaf ears.

  Apparently, Shannon hadn’t just molested me. She’d sinned, broken some cardinal infraction everyone understood but me.

  No one was to touch me.

  Ever.

  The relief stole my strength.

  Anthony returned us home, but the emotional toll sapped my energy. He said nothing, gently removing my dress and tucking me beside him in the bed, snug and safe under the covers and in his arms.

  It wasn’t Shannon’s touch or the spanking that terrified me.

  It was my fragility. A moment of utter weakness that had nearly destroyed me with the same terror and anxiety that plagued me a year ago.

  I thought I could handle the audition. This life. My mistakes.

  I was wrong.

  “Morgan, talk to me…” Anthony caressed my arm. I was glad we spooned, and I faced away from him. I couldn’t look him in the eye now. “I promise, I’ll understand.”

  “It’s just hazing. I’m sure they do it to all the new girls.”

  A still moment passed. We talked about two different things again.

  “You’re a terrible liar, pet.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You aren’t telling me the whole truth.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  His body warmed me. I didn’t need my fuzzy pink blanket tucked around me when we slept. His arms were enough. Hips pressed against mine.

  I loved the feel of him and his fancy sheets and his beautiful penthouse.

  I loved the way he touched my skin. I loved all the naughty things he demanded of me.

  I loved that here, I was his pet. Pampered, disciplined, and serving only him.

  I loved that in his world, I could hide from my own. And I needed that. Just for a little longer.

  I turned to face him, kissing his shoulder and neck, caressing the hard muscles over his shoulders and chest. My tongue danced over his skin, drawing light circles. I learned enough from our games to know how to properly distract him.

  His body stirred. Question forgotten.

  I sighed as he moved over me, spreading my legs. A motion so familiar and natural now I shifted my hips before he ordered it.

  “Everything is fine, sir.” The lie almost convinced me as he thrust within my wanting slit. “Absolutely perfect.”

  20

  Anthony wasn’t a subtle man, especially after returning home at one in the morning after a week-long business trip in San Jose.

  I greeted him in the bedroom. He ordered me to go back to sleep with a voice that might have righted the luggage he’d pitched into the closet.

  The bathroom door slammed closed. The shower turned on.

  If he hadn’t locked the door, I’d have joined him.

  I had a feeling his meetings weren’t going well from our brief conversations—something about contract difficulties relating to the current ownership of Atwood Industries. Apparently, his client didn’t own the company…but a yet-to-be-born male heir did? Seemed complicated.

  The penthouse, fancy car, and investments came at a price. Anthony’s job caused him as much stress as it did long-hours and constant traveling.

  Fortunately, I’d offered him a decent distraction. Spankings and sex usually helped to take his edge off. So did enforcing a terrible chastity rule while he was out of town.

  Five days without a single touch—his or my own. Another day of this torment, and I’d have road-tripped to San Jose for a damn kiss on the cheek.

  Twenty minutes later, Anthony emerged a new man. Calmer. Cleaner. Ready for bed.

  I wrapped the sheet over my body, tucking the good bits away from him in a quiet tease. He’d lost his shirt somewhere between the shower and bed. No harm, no foul. A pair of sweats hung low on his hips, tracing the muscled definition of his abs.

  It was strange to see him without his usual strict presentation. His wet hair hung loose, framing his face with dark waves. He stood shirtless, barefoot, and damp from the shower.

  And exhausted.

  He hadn’t shaved, and his eyes bore dark circles underneath. It was as vulnerable as he ever let himself become, and he let me peek.

  “You aren’t sleeping,” he said.

  I let my eyes drift over his hardened body. “I’m not sleepy anymore, sir.”

  “That makes one of us.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  His hand ripped the sheet away. That much I could offer.

  My voice caught in my throat as he twisted my nipple, but his touch immediately turned gentle. He brushed the swell of my breast. I leaned closer and kissed his cheek.

  “I’m glad you’re back. Bad flight?”

  “Yeah.”

  I considered teasing him about how rough chartered jets were these days, but it wasn’t like he’d slept on the flight. Never did. Knowing Anthony, he’d probably worked all the way through. His contracts had legalese as blurry as sixteenth notes, and he had to concentrate to focus on all the contingences and potential liabilities. Billions of dollars were on the line, and it wasn’t like Anthony to give up control, especially to his paralegals.

  I shifted behind him, my hands on his shoulders. Rock hard, and not from muscles. Half a dozen knots worked into his back. I kissed his neck. His job wasn’t standing on his feet for eight hours, doodling foamed milk hearts and flowers into lattes, but I could relate. My hands worked over his shoulders.

  “What did you do without me?” He cracked his own neck. I batted him away but didn’t stop my massage. “You had this big house all to yourself.”

  I kissed where
my fingers touched. “I kept busy.”

  His voice lowered. “You didn’t touch yourself, did you?”

  My tummy fluttered. “No, sir.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Actually, I did something I always wanted to do.”

  “And what’s that, pet?”

  “All Rose ever talks about is reading a book in a fancy bubble bath, lit by candlelight while drinking wine. So…last night I tried it. It was fun. And I only broke one wine glass.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I tripped coming out of the tub. Out of the potential possibilities, the wine glass was the best outcome. I could have broken my leg.” I nuzzled against his neck. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Over my knee, pet.”

  I never thought a single phrase would turn me on so much. Within seconds, he’d tossed me over his lap. My fists curled into the comforter as he smacked three quick spanks against my bottom.

  I ground my hips against his legs.

  “Simone was right. You are a masochist,” he said.

  “Maybe a lonesome one, sir.” I wiggled against the blankets. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  “You want to be fucked.”

  “A pet has needs.” I settled against him, straddling him as best I could. The rough fabric of his sweat pants brushed between my legs. I purred and curled my arms around his neck. “Besides, this big house gets scary when I’m all alone.”

  “Scary?”

  “I’m used to the studio apartment. My cell phone lights up the whole space. It’s more my size.”

  “You’re not honestly comparing a studio apartment to my penthouse.”

  “There’s no comparison.” I bit my lip and looked around. “But there is much more to clean.”

  “I hire a maid. You could too.”

  I laughed. “Oh, sure, big shot corporate lawyer. I can’t hire a maid on a coffeehouse salary.”

  “Find a new job.”

  The J word. Ugh. I scrunched my nose and cuddled against Anthony. I didn’t want to think about jobs.

  The thick muscles of his chest though…that I wanted.

  I kissed him. “You’re so tense, sir. I think you need to relax.”

  “And how do you propose we do that?”

  My lips trailed from his neck down, over his shoulders and across the thick muscles. He smelled of soap, clean and sharp, a perfect combination that stirred the desire untouched with me for the past five days. My hands crossed over his chest, rubbing against his abs, and as low as the sweat pants would let me stroke.

  Anthony smirked. “You’re awfully forward tonight, pet.”

  I bit his shoulder. He slapped my hand and grabbed my hair. His eyes found mine. Dark. Intimidating.

  “Better behave, pet,” Anthony warned. “I need you rested for Duchess tomorrow.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh?” He chuckled. “I’ve planned something special.”

  “Definite uh-oh.”

  He stood. I pouted as he crossed to his luggage. “I bought you something.”

  “I do love a present.”

  Anthony said nothing. He returned to the bed, though he didn’t sit. He placed a long velvet box in my hands. My eyes widened.

  “A necklace?”

  Anthony’s jaw twitched. “It’s not a necklace, pet. Open it.”

  My fingers danced over the box. Resting on the silk was a single, black strap—thin enough to be a ribbon. Silver buckles decorated one edge. A fastener.

  Anthony’s voice rumbled through me. “It’s your collar.”

  A collar.

  Just like Shannon, Genn, and Mariah.

  I stared at him, shocked, amazed, floored.

  The collar was meant to designate me as his. Owned.

  I swallowed. A gift had never made me feel so simultaneously special and humiliated. But with Anthony, those emotions swirled together so often they were becoming a set pair. Like peanut butter and jelly or milk and cookies, our relationship blended desire and shame into pleasures so natural it seemed strange that I’d ever experienced one without the other.

  A small pendant centered on the collar. Classy, like an old Victorian broach. Carved and white, the etched symbol was clear. A treble clef.

  A musical symbol.

  And the excitement became a sudden surge of dread.

  He’d wanted to personalize the gift, and he chose music. The part of me I’d attempted to hide by placing myself in his control.

  “—you’ll have more than one collar, depending on the scene and event...” Anthony spoke, but I hadn’t listened. I looked up only once he went silent. “What’s wrong, pet?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Does the thought of a collar frighten you?”

  I couldn’t breathe. “No. Not at all. It isn’t that.”

  His eyes drifted to the box. “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  The pendant trembled in my hand. “It’s...a little musical.”

  “Yes.”

  I closed the box and placed it on the nightstand. My pulse still raced so near the symbol. I averted my gaze.

  “I…I’ve decided I’m giving up on music.”

  Anthony stilled. “You’re giving up on music.”

  “I’ve decided to take a different path. In life. You know.”

  The sheets were far more inviting than Anthony’s burning gaze. I snuggled into the warmth, but nothing felt soft about this situation. I patted the other side of the bed. Anthony didn’t budge.

  His voice hardened. “Why did you give up, Morgan?”

  “It was…something I decided.”

  “Without me?”

  “I didn’t think you needed to know.”

  “What about that audition I’d organized for you?”

  I swallowed. I knew he’d eventually ask, but I hoped by then I might have figured out how to tell him the truth. One AM with a jet-lagged and tense Anthony was not the time to discuss anything, let alone my failures.

  How could I even explain it? What was there to say?

  I didn’t cut it.

  They didn’t want me.

  I wasn’t good enough.

  How would that make any of this any better?

  But this was good. I was finally taking control of my life—and cutting out music was the first honest decision I’d made. People changed careers all the time. He’d have to understand that.

  Because I knew he wouldn’t understand the truth.

  The lie popped out before I could stop it. “I didn’t go.”

  Anthony stilled, his scowl the only movement across his expression.

  I wrapped the blankets tighter around me. All I’d wanted was him by my side. To kiss and cuddle and have my wrists tethered to the bed frame like any other red-blooded, American girl. I didn’t like the way he looked at me.

  How he judged me.

  “You didn’t go?” The accusation stung.

  “I’m done with music, sir. I gave it a lot of thought—”

  “Bullshit. What the hell is wrong with you, Morgan?”

  I stiffened. “I don’t want to be a violinist.”

  “Then what do you want to do?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It’s your fucking life, Morgan. What do you think?”

  I hesitated. He was angry. Vein in forehead, muscles tensed angry. Not what I expected. And definitely not what I wanted.

  “I know it’s my life,” I said. “But there isn’t anything to discuss. Can’t we go to bed?”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  His voice could chisel diamond. “Because you didn’t go to the audition.”

  “I didn’t want a musical career anymore.”

  “Then what do you want? To stay in the coffee house for the rest of your life?”

  “Did I say that?” My hands slammed against the comforter. “What is it with you and the coffeehouse? It’
s just a job.”

  “Exactly. It’s just a job. It isn’t the right one for you.”

  “It’s pays my bills.”

  “Barely.”

  A slap to the face. “What? The car?” I bit down on my tongue and counted to five. “Fine. I’ll pay you back for the repairs. All of the damn repairs.”

  “Keep your money.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  Anthony grabbed a shirt from his drawer and stalked to the door. “Nothing. Go to sleep.”

  “Nothing? Look, I’m sorry about the audition—”

  “It isn’t about the audition. This is about you. Your life. Your ambitions. You’re drifting, Morgan.”

  I patted the bed. “Feels pretty stable to me.”

  “Does it? Maybe it feels that way because you’re happy to fail.”

  “Why would that make me happy?”

  “Because it’s so goddamned familiar to you.”

  Sucker-punched and he hadn’t even touched me. My fingers tangled in the blankets.

  Now? At one in the morning, after I hadn’t seen him for five days, he decided to make an example out of my life?

  Cold sweat blended with a mounting irritation. If I didn’t want to talk about this before, what the hell made him think now was the best time to discuss my life goals?

  Life Goal Number Ten: Don’t ruin this.

  “I think we should go to sleep.” I shouldn’t have spoken so sharply to him, but at least I didn’t swear. “I’m done talking about this.”

  He shrugged. “Going to hide from it some more?”

  “Yes.” No point in lying. “Yes, I am. Because it’s really stupid to talk about this.”

  “Your future is stupid?”

  “Trying to figure it out in the middle of the night isn’t too smart.”

  “Then when? How many more months will you waste at that coffeehouse before you decide to do something productive with your life?”

  “I’m twenty-three years old. I can’t even rent a car by myself yet, and you want me to invest in a 401k by Tuesday?”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am serious.” I tangled my fingers in hair. “Why do I have to figure my life out right now? I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I need to do. Christ, Anthony, you’re my dom. Aren’t you supposed to make those decisions for me?”

  The silence crashed into the conversation.