After sending a few likes and typing some comments, I click on Remi’s profile.
Since Creighton is completely, absolutely, and irrevocably against having any sort of social media, Remi’s account is the closest thing to getting updates on him.
Considering Remi’s religious nature about posting updates, I’m sure there’ll be something there…
Sure enough, he shares a selfie where he’s in the middle of three guys. Two of them are the twins, Landon and Brandon. One is smirking, the other is smiling. The fourth is the mysterious Eli King, Creighton’s oldest brother and the reason Ava gets defensive whenever his name is mentioned.
In the background, Creighton sleeps while sitting on a chair.
I pinch the picture to zoom in on him. How can someone look criminally gorgeous even when he’s sleeping? I’ve always found Creighton hot, but that has long since bypassed the superficial beauty and reached new depths.
Dangerous depths.
He’s wearing the same clothes from earlier and since the picture was posted ten minutes ago, that means he got home.
Ava told me the five of them live in the mansion that’s dedicated to the Elites. They throw parties, too, or more like Remi does, but neither Ava, Cecily, nor Glyn ever wants to go there.
Not even when I told them I was curious about what their mansion looked like.
Seriously, they’re okay with tagging along with me to go to The King’s U, but when it’s their own club, they’re suddenly not interested.
I release the picture to read Remi’s caption.
Rare as fuck picture of these fuckers together. Thank me later, fangirls. Also, we’re so going to paint Creigh’s face with a permanent marker. Think he’ll look good with a mustache?
Smiling, I like the picture and comment.
annika-volkov: I’m sure he will. Share pictures.
It’s only fair after the map of handprints he left on my ass then went to sleep as if nothing had happened. How dare he?
Remi replies to my comment immediately.
lord-remington-astor: Your wish is my command, my lady. Stay tuned.
I smile and go back to scrolling through my IG feed, then switch to TikTok. I’m about to post one of my drafts when a text appears at the top of my screen.
My heart skips a beat at his name and I’m seriously wondering if this is even a logical reaction anymore?
The text is a photo of Remi. Sulking. Wearing an ugly mustache drawn with a marker.
Creighton: I heard you wanted pictures.
Annika: I didn’t suggest it, he did, and I only played along.
Creighton: Don’t play along next time.
Annika: Or what?
My heart beats in my ears as I type the words.
Creighton: Your arse knows the exact answer to that. Don’t be a brat.
Well, damn.
He has no right to sound so hot when telling me not to be a brat. I can even imagine his lowered tone if he were to say the words.
In an attempt to ease the ache that’s blossomed between my thighs, I slide onto the bed and retrieve the ointment, then take a picture and send it over.
Annika: Do you give these to everyone you spank?
Creighton: Only the brats.
My chest aches and I refuse to honor the feeling crawling inside me with a name. Or even my attention.
And no, I’m not going to think about how many women have experienced what I did. That what I consider an awakening of sorts is a normal occurrence for him.
I’m simply not going there.
Annika: I thought the whole purpose of punishment was me feeling pain.
Creighton: It is. But I don’t want it to bruise. Not for long, at least. That way, I can mark it again.
Annika: That started swoony and turned creepy real fast. Oh, and by the way, I’m better. Still sore as hell, but I’ll survive. Thanks for asking.
Creighton: Watch it.
Annika: So I’m just supposed to take it and shut up?
Creighton: Preferably.
Annika: Well, that’s not me.
Creighton: Don’t I know it.
Annika: And you’re okay with it?
Creighton: I’m not.
My chest aches again, that familiar pain becoming more potent than the one on my ass.
Annika: But you still insist on pursuing me.
Creighton: I wouldn’t call it pursuing.
Annika: Then what is it?
Creighton: I’m punishing you, little purple, and I’m getting off on every moment of putting my mark on your translucent skin.
I rub my foot again on my leg. Somehow, the throbbing between my legs has gotten worse and my ass feels like it’s on fire.
He’s a true sadist, isn’t he?
Then why am I not more scared? Hell, the least I can do is stop being intrigued.
Creighton: Is that smart mouth of yours finally speechless?
Annika: Not in this lifetime. I was just thinking.
Creighton: About?
Annika: One: Why do you call me little purple?
Creighton: Aren’t you obsessed with that color?
Annika: But you aren’t.
Creighton: In my mind, you are the personification of that color.
I try not to blush, but considering the heat in my cheeks, I’ve definitely failed.
Creighton: That’s one. What’s two?
Annika: When did you start having these…singular tastes?
Creighton: Since I hit puberty.
Annika: So you’ve been experimenting since?
Though I wouldn’t call his lashes experimental. He knew exactly what he was doing. Despite the pain from his handprints, they’re not meant to leave a permanent mark.
Which means he’s done this countless times before.
To a dozen other girls. Maybe more.
Nope, no. I’m simply not going there.
Creighton: Not experimenting, engaging.
Annika: With girlfriends?
Creighton: With sex partners.
Annika: As in, whores?
Annika: Sorry, I mean sex workers?
Creighton: No. Willing submissives.
My fist tightens at the thought of how many submissives have gotten on their knees, taken his beatings, and thanked him for it later.
Hell, if the fangirls at the shelter knew he was this kinky, they’d be like ‘Choke me, Daddy.’
Annika: And are you still seeing these willing submissives?
Creighton: Why are you asking?
Annika: I don’t want to compete with girls who are already into your stuff.
Creighton: Stuff?
Annika: You know. At any rate, they need to go.
Creighton: Will you take their place as my plaything?
Annika: Aren’t I already?
Creighton: What happened today was a mere demonstration, a little taste of what I’m capable of. It’s by no means the entirety of my ‘singular tastes.’ You think you can handle me? Think again.
Well, shit.
If that was only a taste, then what else does he plan to do to me?
This is probably that moment where I should backpedal and abort whatever twisted feelings I have for the sadist.
One small problem, though.
No matter how much it hurt, no matter how painful it will be to sit at all, there’s something else. I’ve never felt as empowered and free as in the moment when he held me down and ‘punished’ me.
When he threw me against those shelves and dominated me, I never thought to fight or escape his savage hold.
For some reason, it felt…right.
And my toxic trait is definitely curiosity because I type.