“He crouched in front of me and really examined my pussy, his face up close. I got self-conscious and I tried to close my legs, but he stopped me by putting his hands on my thighs and telling me to hold still.” She blew out a breath. “So, um, he said he wanted to eat me.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve always hated that expression.”
“Me too.” Ronan agreed with a scowl. “Go on.”
“I admit it, I was pretty curious what it would be like. I’d only ever come with my own hand at that point. I was nervous, but I said okay. And then he…” She trailed off, closing her eyes a moment as the painful memory washed over her.
“Go on,” Ronan encouraged softly.
Hailey opened her eyes. “He said I…” Her mouth worked but no words came out. She willed the words to come. “He brought his face right up between my legs and then he kind of reared back with a sneer.” She pressed her lips together, surprised the memory still carried such a sting. “Gosh, this is harder than I thought it would be to say out loud, even after all these years.”
Ronan lifted his hand and stroked Hailey’s cheek. “It’s ancient history, but it’s still got a hold on you. Go on. Get it out, and then we can let it go together.”
Hailey leaned gratefully into his touch. She steeled herself for her next words. “He said I stank—that I smelled like rotten fish,” she finally managed, fixing her eyes on the clear water rushing nearby. “He said maybe if I hit the showers before stripping for him like a whore, he might reconsider.” Hailey hugged herself a moment, before recalling she was still supposed to be in position.
As she dropped her arms, Ronan reached for her, gathering her into a comforting embrace. “I apologize, Hailey. I apologize for the whole male population. And just for the record, beautiful girl, your scent is intoxicating, and your cunt is absolutely beautiful.”
Letting her go, he stepped back, shaking his head with disgust. “That guy was nothing but a stupid, insecure punk. I bet if the little chickenshit had pulled down his pants, you’d have found pimples on his ass, not to mention piss stains and shit tracks on his tighty-whities. But don’t think for a second he’d have had the slightest qualms about ramming his sweaty dick down your throat for all twelve seconds it took before he prematurely ejaculated.”
Hailey burst into startled laughter. Ronan’s mouth quirked into a smile as he watched her. He began to laugh too, a big belly laugh that made Hailey laugh harder. They both sank to the blanket, still laughing. Ronan reached for her, once more pulling her into his arms. Their laughter slowly subsided into chuckles, but then the vivid picture Ronan had created of Chris Bell, reduced now to the teenage jerk he, in fact, had been, rose in her mind’s eye, and Hailey began to laugh again until tears were rolling down her cheeks. Her laughter set Ronan off again.
Finally they both quieted. Hailey felt a deep sense of peace moving over her, the kind of peace that comes not only from a good, hard laugh or cry, but from finally and truly letting go of something that had quietly but insidiously festered inside her all these years.
“Thank you,” she whispered to Ronan.
He pulled her closer. “You’re welcome,” he whispered back. They were quiet a while longer, both staring into the mesmerizing flow of the tumbling creek. While it didn’t hold a candle to Pacific Ocean in terms of size, its effect was just as peaceful and, for Hailey, far more personal and inviting.
Ronan lay back on the blanket and put his hands behind his head as a pillow. Hailey lay down beside him. She felt her eyelids begin to droop. It had been a long day, and she was exhausted. She stole a sidelong glance at Ronan. His eyes were closed, his expression relaxed, a nice contrast to the worry lines that had furrowed his forehead since the video from the restaurant had hit in the internet.
She snuggled against him, resting her head on his chest. She was nearly asleep when she heard him say, “Don’t think I forgot your punishment, slave girl. After our nap, you’ll select a nice whippy branch from one of these trees to use as a switch, and I’ll remind you who’s in charge here.”
Hailey’s eyes flew open, sleep banished for the moment as her skin tingled in anticipation of his promise.
~*~
It took two days before the media hounds and paparazzi found a new angle on the story. In a way, Ronan was surprised it had taken them so long to uncover something about his secret life, despite his efforts over the years at total discretion. Oddly, he wasn’t nearly as upset as he supposed he should be. In a way, he was kind of relieved.
Hailey was resting beside him in the bed. She lay on her stomach, her face cradled in her arms. His heart contracted with both pleasure and pride as he regarded her. He ran his fingers lightly over the welts on her ass and thighs he’d placed there with a single tail earlier that morning. Hailey sighed sleepily, her mouth curling into a soft smile as he touched her, though her eyes remained closed.
The peace of the past few days was like none Ronan had experienced in his life, and while he hated to disturb it with this phone call, he could no longer put off the inevitable. In fact, he was ready, even eager, to let his handlers know he’d come to a decision.
Reaching for his cell phone, he pushed the speed dial for his agent. Armand picked up on the first ring. “Ronan, finally! Jesus H. Fucking Christ, where the hell are you? And don’t tell me Baja. I’ve checked every damn hotel and resort in the place. Damn it, you can’t just fucking disappear like that! Tell me you are back in LA. Tell me you’ve come to your senses, for crying out loud. I can’t believe you bailed on me like this. Do you have any fucking idea what a cluster fuck you’ve left for me and Pat to fix?”
“Armand, there’s something you need—” Ronan began, but Armand overrode him.
“I could actually forgive you for that little, uh, indiscretion with the mystery girl. The buzz over that has been better than any advertising campaign. Who is she anyway? I know, I know, you’re a man of honor, blah, blah, blah. Actually, that can work to our advantage. Or it could have, before this latest mess. But now you’ve gone too far, Wolfe. Way the fuck too far! Have you seen the latest pictures of you that have surfaced on the internet?”
“Yes. I’ve seen them. That’s why I’m calling.” It had been something of a shock to see those photos, which must have been surreptitiously taken by some scumbag at The Exchange Club during one of Ronan’s training sessions there. Cameras and cell phones were strictly forbidden in the club for just this reason, and until now at least, the place was known for the utmost discretion. Clearly someone had circumvented the system, and then sold the pictures for god only knew how much money to the ever-hungry media. The pictures were several months old—maybe the person who took them didn’t realize what they had at first, or maybe whatever gossip rag bought them had been biding their time for the most impact. While there was nothing all that compromising in the photos, at least not in Ronan’s estimation, the media was having a field day with them.
“Are they really you?” Armand demanded. “Please, tell me they’re photo-shopped. We might be able to salvage something from this—claim someone stuck your head on some random pervert’s body. Please tell me it’s not really you. Tell me you’re not into this sick shit. I’m begging you.”
Despite his promise to himself to remain calm, Ronan was becoming annoyed. “Armand, stop it. It’s not like I’m killing babies or something. This is a consensual lifestyle, and those pictures were taken without my knowledge or per—”
“Holy shit!” Armand interrupted, his voice rising in an incredulous squeal. “Am I really fucking hearing this? Having whores suck you off at restaurants isn’t bad enough? Now you’re into sadomasochistic sicko weird shit? America’s squeaky-clean action hero is into whips and chains? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Armand, listen to me—”
“No, you listen to me. I made you, Wolfe. I got you those initial auditions when no one else would touch you. I’ve worked with a whole team of professionals to sell the Ronan Wolfe brand, and you are not going to
fuck it up, you hear me? The producers on the True American Hero series are threatening to pull out. Damn it, I told you to sign that fucking contract two months ago and now your hemming and hawing might end up costing us millions. Billions!”
Armand actually paused to take a breath, or maybe he was having a heart attack—Ronan wasn’t sure. Each round of spluttering invective the man spewed only solidified Ronan’s decision. He waited a beat to see if Armand was done ranting.
Apparently he wasn’t, though at least his tone was slightly less hysterical. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Ronan. Pat wrote a brilliant press release you will personally issue. We can call a press conference, just like the president does. We’ll just need one camera guy. We’ll keep it simple. You will, of course, deny everything and apologize profusely to your shocked and disillusioned public for the smear campaign that’s been leveled against you.
“If there’s a god, maybe the producers won’t pull out, and we can salvage this thing somehow. Who knows”—he barked a laugh—”maybe in the long run it will even help your career. Good boy has a bad side, that sort of thing. If you can’t clean it up, then make damn sure you are so, so fucking sorry for having let down your fans. That’s key here.”
Ronan shook his head and found he was smiling, if somewhat wryly. How in the world had he let this man run his life for so many years?
He understood Armand’s concern at the impact these latest photos might have on his acting career, but why should he hide who and what he truly was? Why should he be made to feel shame and remorse because of his sexual orientation and consensual lifestyle?
Maybe a decade ago, hell, even a year ago, he might have been freaking out over the recent events in the media, but now he found he honestly didn’t care. Though he didn’t want the BDSM club where he’d trained compromised in any way, he was done keeping his real life a secret. Let his detractors and his so-called fans make what they would of the stolen images. He frankly didn’t give a damn.
He glanced over at Hailey. She was awake now, watching him with those lovely dark blue eyes, the very picture of submissive grace and serenity.
“Well?” Armand demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Just one thing.” He paused for dramatic emphasis. “I quit.”
Chapter 11
Ronan lay in the bed listening to the chirp of birds outside the open window. Hailey was already up, and he could hear the sound of eggs being whisked in a glass bowl. The warm, yeasty aroma of baking biscuits wafted into the bedroom, along with the inviting smell of frying bacon.
Since he’d escaped to Vermont, Ronan found his appetite was as hearty as a lumberjack’s. He preferred Hailey’s down-home cooking to the artfully crafted and prepared dishes his chef had worked so painstakingly to prepare for him back in California. Though Ronan no longer had a private gym, he kept fit by clearing away the brush and deadwood on the property, and chopping and stacking seasoned wood in preparation for the winter.
Hailey had returned to the yoga studio in town for several days a week. With her blessing, Ronan had cleared out some of the older, unusable equipment and tools in Hailey’s grandfather’s workshop, a workshop he was increasingly coming to think of as his own. He’d bought a few new tools and some supplies, and was at work on a set of dining room chairs to replace the spindly, rickety chairs that presently sat around her kitchen table.
He had become a regular at the two local lumberyards and the reclamation center that served as a dumping ground for the many antique stores in the area. Though he routinely wore a baseball cap and sunglasses in an effort to remain incognito, word had gotten out locally as to his identity, but the townspeople were respectful of his privacy, which was a welcome change from what he’d come to expect back in Hollywood. Thankfully, no one had yet connected the mystery girl in the internet video to Hailey, and as interest in it faded, hopefully they never would.
Hailey and he talked about how they would handle it if the connection was ever made among people she knew. Hailey had surprised and impressed him with her philosophical attitude. “This may be a relatively small town, but Vermont is a surprisingly liberal state and folks aren’t nearly so judgmental as you might think. And if they do judge”—she had shrugged and smiled—”it’s really their problem, not mine.”
As Armand had predicted, there had been some noise and fallout over the leaked photos from the club, but with BDSM erotica moving steadily into the mainstream consciousness over the past few years, it had been less of an issue than his agent, or rather his ex-agent, had feared. Word of Ronan’s retirement from acting had made more of a splash, but the speculation now was that it was just a publicity stunt. Time, he supposed, would give lie to that particular rumor.
Now, at thirty-four, he was in the extraordinary position of being independently wealthy, and able to do what actually made him happy, with no strings attached. And what made him happy was being with Hailey, and returning to his passion of creating things with his hands.
He’d been both startled and pleased at how easily his carpentry sense came back to him, even after all these years. Time ceased while he was working, and he sawed, shaved, sanded and whittled, as much by instinct as finite measure, to create the shape of the piece he saw in his head. The scent of small engine oil, wood shavings, and especially of the homemade concoction of beeswax and china wood oil he liked to use took him back to happier days. What amazed him was not how easily he’d said goodbye to his acting career and everything that went with it, but that it had taken him so long to do it.
After a quick shower, Ronan pulled on some running shorts and walked into the kitchen. Hailey was just scooping eggs onto two plates already piled with crisp bacon. Ronan came up behind her. Pushing aside her hair, he kissed the nape of her neck. She leaned back against him a moment, and then set the pan back on the stove.
“Perfect timing,” she said, turning toward him with a smile. “Breakfast is served.”
As they ate, Roman remarked in a casual tone, “When you come home from the studio this afternoon, I want you to strip and present yourself in the yoga room. Today we will explore your fantasies regarding Shibari rope bondage.”
Hailey touched the new leather slave collar he’d fashioned for her, her mouth opening in a small O. He had come to recognize the gesture as one of nervous but eager anticipation. Like all subs he’d ever worked with, she responded as much to the anticipatory expectation of bondage and discipline as to the acts themselves.
“Yes, Sir,” she murmured throatily, and his cock jutted against his shorts with anticipation of its own.
Once she had dressed and gone, Ronan went to his workshop. He lifted the St. Andrew’s cross he’d designed precisely to her dimensions onto a hand truck and strapped it in place. He wheeled it to the house and positioned it in front of the huge picture windows. As he ran his hand over the smooth wood, he imagined Hailey naked and bound against it, the sunlight illuminating her from behind. Soon he would make that image a reality.
He returned to the workshop to check the rope he’d been working on the past week, pleased to find it was dry and ready for use. He’d bought a large hank of hemp, but had decided it was too rough to use on Hailey’s soft skin. So, after doing a little research, he’d purchased an industrial-sized pot from a kitchen supply company. Earlier that week, when Hailey was at her in-town studio, he’d boiled the rope in a special solution and it had dried as soft as silk, but much stronger. As a finishing touch, he’d dyed the rope a rich, dark red, the same color she’d used when developing the film for her Shibari photos.
He coiled the rope and hoisted it over his shoulder. Returning to the yoga studio, he cut the rope into various lengths, using the bondage sheers he’d brought with him from California. As he worked, he imagined Hailey artfully bound in the knotted rope, her face softening in that way it did when desire and submission overtook her. He started to reach into his pocket for his cell phone to check the time, and then smiled when he realized he
’d forgotten even to turn it on that morning, much less put it in his pocket. Instead, he looked out the windows and gauged from the angle of the sun that Hailey would be home in about an hour.
He couldn’t wait.
~*~
Hailey’s skin was glowing from head to toe, as if it had been slathered in a warm, honey-like substance. The session on the new, beautiful St. Andrew’s cross had been slow and sensual, the intensity gradually increasing from the first swishing strokes of soft leather through the stinging graze of the dozens of sturdy tresses to the hard, thudding beat of a full body flogging. She had turned inward at that point, drifting in a haze of sensation, occasionally pulled back to the world by an especially powerful stroke. She’d been lost in the white drift of utter peace when she was recalled to the world by her Master’s low, sensual voice.
“Now that your skin is properly sensitized to receive the rope, I want to bind you. Are you ready, slave Hailey?”
Her eyes moved toward the coils of red rope waiting on the yoga mat. “Yes, Sir. I’m ready.” Though her voice sounded calm, a surge of adrenaline kicked its way through her bloodstream. Master Ronan had bound her in the past, but this was the first time they would engage in an extended Shibari session, and Hailey had been thinking of little else since his statement that morning that today was the day.
As an added element of excitement, the session would take place outside in the glade. Ronan had remembered her wistful remark when they talked about her photo shoot of the Shibari session that she would have rather been the subject than just the recorder of the event. Today her wish was going to become a reality.
Master Ronan released her cuffs and helped Hailey from the cross. While she watched, he unzipped his gear duffel bag and placed the coils of red rope inside. He stood, hoisting the bag over his shoulder.
Beyond the Compound: The Compound Trilogy - Book 2 Page 14
