Chapter 7

This wasn't happening to me, it was happening to my sister.

It was my sister, half naked, bent over a strange man's bed.

Not me. Not me. Not me.

My mind couldnt escape harsh reality, no matter how many times I repeated the twisted mantra.

This was happening to me.

I was half naked, bent over Matteo Cavalieri's bed.

This wasn't my world. It was my sister's.

She was the one who delighted in toying with men. Who had been using sex as a tool to get what she wanted since she was sixteen. She was the one who reveled in embarrassing me by recounting all the kinky things she had done in some random man's bed the night before.

Not me. Not me. Not me.

I was the quiet sister. The shy one. The one who hid behind her books and music.

The virgin one.

I tilted my head to look at him through my curtain of hair.

His sudden appearance at Carnevale had been alarming. His appearance now was terrifying.

At Carnevale he was a tall, dark, handsome man in an alluring costume who boldly kissed me.

Now, he was Matteo Cavalieri.

Towering over me with his superior height and heavily corded with muscle, bare chest exposed, he exuded power and authority. His body practically hummed with it. Even the strange tattoo of a passionflower surrounded by what looked like pagan symbols added to the demonic mystique which was certainly helped by the black leather mask and breeches with riding boots.

Then there was the riding crop.

Sciatiri e matri, the riding crop!

I wasn't so sheltered I knew nothing about bondage sex games. I just never thought I'd be a participant. Ever. Not in my wildest, deepest, darkest fantasies had I ever imagined this scenario.

Of course, I never imagined a scenario where I would let a man finger-fuck me in the middle of the square while we watched a primal threesome silhouetted by flames.

My knuckles turned white as I grabbed the footboard harder. "I know I got … carried away … in the piazza, but you have to understand, it wasn't at all like me to do something like that."

Positioning himself behind me, he brushed his hard cock against my ass cheeks. "We both know that it was precisely like you."

There was a tug against my lower back from his pull on the corset laces. He continued. "You obviously have never been shown true discipline. That is about to change."

I squeezed my eyes shut as another tug on the corset laces rocked my body. I so badly wanted to scream, My name is Antonella! It's my sister you want! It's my sister's actions you want to punish. My sister is your bride, not me.

I pulled my lips between my teeth to keep from crying out. My father did not share an explanation or his reasoning for why he was ordering Antonia to marry Matteo. He shared nothing with his daughters. I assumed it was to curb the same behavior Matteo referred to, but I could be wrong. Not understanding the true motivation, if I alerted Matteo to who I really was and ruined my father's plans, I could face far worse punishment.

Punishment like my mother faced.

The corset loosened, then floated to the top of the trunk as the heavy weight of my unsupported breasts pulled against my chest because of my bent-over position.

Shame, fear, and vulnerability washed over me as if someone had drawn a warm blanket back, exposing my naked skin to the chilled air.

Then came anger.

Anger at my father for being a cold-blooded bastard.

Anger at my sister for selfishly putting me in this position.

Anger at myself for allowing it all.

Rising on my knees, I covered my breasts with my arm as I faced him and spit out, "Fuck you and your discipline!"

With his leather mask, bare chest, breeches, and boots, he looked like a ruthless medieval executioner. His lips slowly curved into a smile. "You have no idea how badly I was hoping you'd say that."

His hand whipped out to fist my hair. Shoving me back into a kneeling position, where I stared in horror at the riding crop he held high.

Then, in a flash, he brought it down on my ass cheek.

I couldn't even cry out. My mouth opened but there was no sound, just a pitiful sucking noise as I forced breath back into my lungs. If I hadnt known he was holding a riding crop, I would have thought hed tapped a live electric wire against my skin.

He whipped me three more times in rapid succession. The pain escalated with each one.

I clenched my jaw to keep from giving him the satisfaction of hearing me cry out or beg. But with each strike, it was getting harder and harder to remain quiet. My skin burned from the pain and humiliation.

My body jerked at the feel of his palm rubbing over my ass instead of the kiss of the crop again.

He moved his hand in strangely soothing circles, as if by rubbing my skin he could dissipate the pain. "It won't work."

My words came out as a distorted hiss through my clenched teeth. "What won't work?"

"You trying to defy me by keeping silent."

He pulled on my hair, wrenching my head back as he leaned over me. His lips brushed mine. "It only makes me want to punish you harder."

Releasing my hair, he raised his whip hand again. This time striking me just under the curve of my ass, on the top of my thigh. My body rocked forward. He struck again on the other thigh.

I moaned.

Instead of hating myself for breaking, I felt a rush of warmth inside my chest where the tightness I usually felt from stress and anger eased. The leather tongue of the riding crop came down on my flesh several more times. Now the pain was a pulsing heat, the leather drawing my blood closer to the surface of my skin. I was aware of every touch, every breath, every nerve ending. My world was shrinking to nothing more than raw, primal sensations. My mind, usually a chaotic tumble of thoughts and worries, was … silent.

All I could focus on was my body and the strange, creeping pleasure I was feeling as the hot pain turned into a pulsing warmth.

I moaned again, this time deeper and longer.

"That's it, babygirl. Admit it. You like to feel the sting of the leather on your pretty little ass."

He struck again and white sparks erupted behind my eyelids as my inner thighs clenched.

Again, he stopped to rub my skin. "Let me hear you moan again. Tell me how much my dirty girl wants this."

My back stiffened as I bristled.

He chuckled. "Still going to be stubborn?"

Without warning, he slid the riding crop between my open knees and whipped it upward, slapping my pussy.

This time I cried out and slammed my legs closed, curling up on my side.

"Get back on your knees," he commanded.

"No! You have to stop! You're making a mistake."

He pushed his fingers between my legs, pressing his fingertips against my clit.

"You're like a cat in heat, baby. All wet and ready for me."

My mouth dropped open. Shocked to my core that the unfamiliar sensations I was feeling were from arousal. How was that possible? I was in pain. I was being humiliated. I was in a rage that he was treating me this way. Wasn't I?

Sure, the man towering over me was a muscular pillar of power and dominance, but that sort of base thing appealed to my emotional, sexy, crazy sister, not someone logical like me. Right?

I knew if I screamed, no one would come.

To further defy him would only worsen my punishment. Seeing no other choice, I grasped the footboard with a sob and pulled myself back up onto my knees, once more bent over. "I hate you for this. Is this how your marriage to my sis— is this how you plan to treat your wife?"

He went down on his haunches at my side. He pushed my hair away from my cheek as he studied my face. "This is exactly how I plan our marriage to be."

I blinked. Not expecting him to say something so freaking honest.

He rose to his full height and cupped my chin, tilting my head up. "If we are to have even the slightest chance of happiness, you need to give in to me now."

"I can't."

In a weird, twisted way, what he said had as much impact on my life as my sister's.

I may not be fucking men for validation, but I sure as hell was constantly bending over backward for it in other ways. Always saying yes to my family's selfish demands. Never speaking up for myself. Always the one in control, the voice of reason. It started after my mother left or was forced to leave.

I walked the tense tightrope of hiding my true feelings of anger, fear, and frustration behind the calm and controlled mask of the dutiful daughter. I had no idea how to even express myself anymore.

He ran his thumb over my lower lip. "Well then, it's a good thing I'm not giving you a choice in the matter."

He tossed the riding crop onto the bed in front of me then stepped behind me. His left hand gripped my waist as he raised his right arm.

I tensed and turned my head away, bracing for the strike.

He continued to spank me with his open palm, causing a fresh wave of humiliating heat. It was definitely more embarrassing having him punishing me directly with his hand as opposed to the riding crop.

The crop was detached. And in a way too kinky.

But his hand? His hand was warm, firm, and intimate.

As he spanked me harder, his hard cock brushed against my ass, and I wished he would take it out so I could feel his skin against mine instead of the rough material of his pants.

I cried out when he switched to his left hand, freeing his right hand to press down on my lower back, raising my ass even higher, like I was asking for his punishment.

I moaned again, my head falling forward, my eyes closing. "Please, I can't take much more!"

"Then beg me to let you come."

My eyes popped open. Blood pounded in my ears and my entire existence faded into a haze of heated pain … and something else … something darker and more threatening. "What?"

He spanked my left cheek. "Beg me to let you come."

He really was insane if he thought I would ask for something so outrageous. "Never."

His spanking intensified. "I'm warning you."

My back arched as I tried to shift forward, but his grip would not allow it. "Ow! Ow!"

My head spun. Reality slipped away. Nothing else existed but my body's reaction to every painful touch of his hand.

"Give in and I'll show you how pleasurable it can be to lose control."

His right thumb slipped between my cheeks to press against my asshole, and a bolt of lightning shot up my spine.

I was no longer on this boat. I was that woman by the bonfire, surrendering to those men, turning all control over to the primal, driving force of pleasure. Then I was myself again, with Matteo's hands between my legs giving me an orgasm so intense my knees buckled.

With tears in my eyes, I finally obeyed. "Please, Matteo?—"