The minute the door shut and we were alone, I knew I was in trouble. I thought about running to another room, making some sort of excuse, but what would be the point in that? It'd only hurt worse when you caught me. You always catch me. I checked the lock, fiddling with the metal longer than necessary. I could hear you moving about in the kitchen, rinsing out the wine glasses. And then you began to walk toward me, footsteps heavy and steady. I felt your presence behind me, swallowed hard, turned around.
I looked up into your eyes and saw nothing but coolness reflecting out of the steel gray pools of your irises. Your hands were at your sides, you loomed above me. I felt impossibly small. Opening my mouth to speak, I was stunned by a hard slap across my left cheek. I didn't have time to react before your fist was in my hair, pulling hard and tight enough to make me wince. You slammed me against the door with a thud, your other hand going to my throat. The smallest pressure but it was enough to elicit a small, sharp intake of breath. You smirked.
"You like that, slut?"
My knees felt weak and I choked out the words. "Yes, Sir."
"Good."
Slamming the back of my head into the door once more, you slapped my face half a dozen times with your palm and then the back of your hand. It hurt like hell. As your hand flew down to land another strike, I flinched and jerked my head to the side.
Shit.
Your fist tightened painfully in my hair and you pulled my head back so my chin was tipped upward, throat exposed.
"Don't you fucking move. Eyes open, look at me."
