Chapter One Hundred and Eleven

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I arch my brow at his sarcasm, my disbelief now compounded with quickly rising anger. But I'm breathing so hard that I can't even muster the energy to huff incredulously at his mocking question, never mind actually answer it. Which is evidently fine with him because he doesn't wait for one.

"Look at the mess you've made," he says, casually gesturing between our bodies with his wet hand. As if for emphasis, his eyes flit to my jeans before lowering to the floor and back up again. My head feels fuzzy, and I'm still trying to catch my breath when he proceeds to taunt me some more. "You've just pissed all over my dining room floor. And me. These slacks aren't cheap and these shoes were a gift."

My own glazed eyes dart to the items in question, and my ears and cheeks burn with sheer embarrassment when I see the ends of his pants. The posh fabric is positively drenched, now a much darker hue of its original grey color, and wet patches punctuated by tiny beads of liquid are perched on his expensive loafers.

My eyes inadvertently drift upward, my blurry gaze landing on the very noticeable bulge protruding from beneath his pants; evidence that, in spite of his cool and aloof expression, his dick is rock-hard and, on some level, he's still turned on.

I tear my gaze away from his crotch in utter mortification when I realize I've been blatantly staring at the tent in his pants...and I almost shrivel up like a wet prune in my chair when my eyes meet his again and I see that he just clearly caught me looking at it like some depraved idiot.

He leans back in his chair, bringing one leg up to rest over his knee despite the fact that the hem of his slacks and his shoes are soaked, as if to demonstrate and emphasize his words.

"There's only one way I see this working, Ramona," he purrs, his body language giving off an impossibly relaxed vibe. Too relaxed. "You're going to have to take responsibility for pissing on me and my furniture."

A gigantic, vertical furrow instantly forces its way between my brows, and I can't subdue the incredulous scoff that leaves my lips. I don't even try to.

"Excuse me?" I croak, my voice hoarse from the previous strain it was under. "If I remember correctly, what just happened here is your fault. You cuffed me to this stupid chair and just forced me to piss all over myself—

"And me."

"And it serves you right," I spit without hesitation, my voice starting to gain its volume back, driven by sheer anger.

"You would have been given ample time to use the restroom had you been here on time," he counters, his voice lowering dangerously, a scowl starting to form on his face again. "And you wouldn't have been so pressed if you actually drank the water over the course of the day, instead of chugging it all at once, like I told you to."

In spite of the fact that I have no real comeback for his accurate—albeit blood-boiling—statement, I'm beyond incredulous at his nonchalant attitude about what just happened here.

As if he didn't just touch me in one of the most intimate ways a man can touch a woman.

And a part of me almost feels dirty for it...even though my body is still buzzing and tingling in places I'm too scared to name.

"So, this is what we're going to do," he says, leaning forward and forcing my attention back to his merciless eyes. "Normally, I'd deal with something like this on my own terms and make a unilateral decision, but I told you from the beginning that you'll always have a choice in whatever happens to you while you're here. I stand by that. I also told you that all your choices have consequences. I stand by that, as well. So, now you get to make one of those choices. And that will determine where we go from here.

"You have three options: I have my housekeeper come in and clean your mess. In front of you. While you're cuffed to the chair—"

"No!" I yell before I can stop myself, my free hand reaching out impulsively in a 'stopping' motion. "No, I'll clean it myself! Just take the cuffs off—"

"First off, it's rude to interrupt someone while they're speaking, Ramona," he growls, his eyes boring into mine. "Perhaps you need a lesson in basic manners, as well," he adds evenly, the silent threat of his words clear as day.

I bite my tongue, trying not to say anything that'll land me in even more trouble.

"Besides," he continues, "I'm quite particular about the order and cleanliness of my home, and my current housekeeper's the only one who knows how to clean this house the way I like. So I respectfully decline your offer."

I silently scoff, disbelief and irritation tugging my lips into a frown.

Respectfully?

Ha! What in tarnation is remotely respectful about anything this motherfucker has done to me since I got here?

The sheer calm of his voice and body language is unnerving. And the words leave his lips so easily, as if he's practiced saying them a million times before, as if being simultaneously formal and antagonizing is simply part and parcel of his nature.

I want to punch him in the face so badly, to wipe that subtle smirk off his stupid, distracting lips, but I grit my teeth instead, hoping they don't end up grinding themselves to dust before this bloody weekend is over.

"Your second option," he continues, ignoring the fact that the world's most intense glare has just hijacked my face, "is having a third of your total pay for these sessions cut to cover the expenses to hire the kind of professional cleaning crew and equipment that this dining room requires. All the furniture and floors in here are uniquely made with non-commercial material, so they can't be cleaned, sanitized or disinfected using typical, conventional methods. So, essentially, you'd be doing one of your three sessions for free if you—"

"Absolutely not!" I can't stop myself from blurting out my reaction yet again, anger bubbling to the surface at the so-called 'option'.

The whole reason I agreed to this crazy mind-fuck of a situation was for the money. The fact that he's even suggesting I won't get paid for what I've just had to endure...and what I still have to is just...just...oh God, I don't even have the words!

A grin slithers onto his face, tugging on one side of his lips playfully. Well...it would be playful if he wasn't such a fucking demon. It comes off as a victorious gesture, as if he just won something. And it unnerves the hell out of me. But he doesn't say anything else, not even about me interrupting him again. Instead, he moves on calmly.

"Your third and final option..." he looks me squarely in the eyes, the intensity of his own growing inexplicably, the icy blue seeming to turn a deeper sapphire, gleaming with something unreadable. Something dangerous. Something wicked. "I punish you for your actions in a way that I see fit. It will be, for all intents and purposes, an executive and unilateral decision, and mine alone to make. And should you accept this punishment, there will be absolutely no room for complaint, negotiation, or compromise."

His eyes are so focused, unwavering and locked in on mine intently as he asks the final question: "So...what's it going to be, Ramona?"

***

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