Isabella

He's looking at me with those vivid, green eyes—staring so intently it's making me want to squirm in my seat.

"I told you to fucking sit." I narrow my eyes at him, tone volatile since I hate having to repeat myself. So, he's a switch? Let's see about that, test his limits, because I still think he's full of shit.

As he walks over to the sitting area and stands in front of the loveseat, I get up. I sigh dramatically, disappointed in his behavior before I pinch the back of his neck and force him down. He resists, until I nudge the back of his knees with the toe of my boot, and he falls down onto the carpet. If he really is a switch, he's got to brush up on his protocol. He's a poor excuse for a submissive, needs a whipping to be brought to his senses. Whoever trained him might as well step out of the scene forever.

"You'll sit on the floor. Nowhere else," I bark. I watch him—his body language, his silent cues. Edward Masen may be full of shit, but it doesn't mean I can't play—enjoy this while it lasts. I need to break him, or at least bend him a little. See when he crumbles. The thought alone makes my pussy clench. There's nothing better than making a powerful guy bow down to you.

"You've been a complete ass, haven't you?" I ask him.

"I know," he retorts. I tug his hair, making him sit up on his knees, his neck straining from my grip.

"You'll answer with 'yes, Mistress' or 'no, Mistress.' I don't need any other words from you." No words at all would suffice if he would at least behave.

I watch as he swallows, his eyes dark and stormy—dangerous. The dominant side of him is fighting back, baring its teeth at me. I fucking thrive on it.

Answer me. I count back from ten silently, waiting to react, giving him some time to get his act together. But he doesn't.

I crouch down, grab his handsome face in my hand before I spit on him. Fuck, I've been wanting to do this all night long. If he wasn't this kind of jerk, I'd have agreed with the truce, maybe even fucked him—just fucking, nothing else. And I never do that. Not even drunk, or tipsy, but something about him makes me want to throw all caution to the fucking wind, sit on his face so he can show me what else he's good for.

Suddenly, he laughs. It's not just an ordinary laugh; it's maniacal and powerful and it makes me shake in my boots. Goosebumps arise on my arms, and I lose focus and gasp when he grabs me, hand on my throat, fingers holding me in place without him putting any force on my skin. I feel my nipples straining against my bra, almost as if I can't cope with any fabric touching them right now. I'm on fire, aroused in a way that I haven't been in ages. Pure, raw lust without any complications; any rules.

"You better lick that clean, Mistress. Or I won't continue to be this nice to you," he gloats. He knows, fuck. He knows what he's doing to me. It's like he knows my type, my weakness for humiliation and the way my kinks make me lose my power. "What's wrong, huh? You're blushing, Mistress." He chuckles darkly. The way he uses my title almost as an insult makes me lick my lips, my breathing hitch, as he rubs his cheek on my face, coating me in my own saliva, making me groan. "Why's that, princess? Are you soaking through your panties?"

I try to get myself together, lift myself and get up. I push him off me until his back's on the floor, and then I straddle his body before my boot lands onto his chest. I know my heels are sharp, digging into his chest through the thin material of his T-shirt.

"My blush, Ginger, is from pure fucking rage." I sneer, pushing down my heel, watching him hiss, his fingers curled around the toe of my shoes. "If there's anything in this world that I hate, then it's fucking lies. And the people they come out of."

"What lies, Mistress?" His lips purse, and he's biting back a grin. I lift my leg off him, sinking down to my knees, straddling his chest. "That you're lying about that pretty blush of yours? Because it's running all the way down in between your tits…" Ginger's hands trail up my thighs, his strong hold keeping me in place.

I'm struggling to find the right words, the ones that might do the kind of damage I'm looking for, but Masen takes it for weakness. In a matter of seconds, he's got us flipped over, my strength no match for his.

Frustration rolls through my body, searching for a way out, when he runs his hands along my sides, feeling my curves until he pins my hands next to my body.

I hate the fact that he's got this hold on me—this kind of power I'm not used to.

"Isabella." He sighs, cocking his head to the side. He looks at me with pure lust in his eyes, longing. Maybe we could just fuck and get this over with. "I don't lie."

"You're a mannerless pig, Ginger," I spit, eyes narrowed. I struggle against his grip, use my legs to trap him and get on top of him again.

"Then why is your pussy sopping wet, Havoc?" He wiggles under me, aligning us up perfectly, hard cock against the crotch of my pants. I've worn them so much they've gotten a bit thin.

"It's not, trust me."

"Thought you hated liars?" He mocks me, hands on my thighs again, inching closer to my zipper. "I can fucking feel how hot and wet you are through these pants, princess. There's no denying it." His whisper is menacing.

My heart beats a million miles an hour, and my mind is stuck between letting him do what he wants and slapping his hands away. I end up leaning in, my hair a curtain around us, sealing us in. I grind my hips against his, hear the way he groans, and feel how he struggles to keep his cool.

I lean even closer, our lips so close I can almost taste him. Just when he leans up, craning his neck so he can narrow the distance between us, I turn his head to the side, licking his razor-sharp jawline, coating him in even more of my spit instead of getting it off him.

He's taken aback, strength gone while I gyrate my hips against his, and I grab his hands, pulling his wrists above his head. His deep green eyes focus on mine again, promises of punishment swimming deep inside as something else flickers at the surface. He fucking likes this, me on top of him. Me fighting for control.

Just when I think I've got him where I want him, the knock on the door startles us and I lose my grip.

He's on me in seconds, grabbing my face, pulling me down on top of him. I stop resisting, taste him, and feel my lips give in, becoming pliant to his tongue; his piercing cold and hard.

I feel hot hands wander, trace the sides of my tits before he fiddles with my top to get underneath it, then changes his mind and aims for my zipper. He groans into my mouth when he gets it down and feels I'm not wearing any underwear.

"I fucking told you." He moans into my mouth, ripping the seam that runs from the zipper of my pants.

I gasp and slap him in the face before I scramble off him.

"Those are my favorite, ass." I throw over my shoulder as I walk to the door, where I take my order from the guy in the hotel's uniform.