by Henry, Jane
“Where’ve you been, mate?” one asks. “Missed you at the weekend.”
“Had some business to attend to,” Nolan says, then he grabs my arm and yanks me over in front of him. “But I brought a guest tonight. My older brother.”
The men incline their head in greeting. “Heir to the throne, aren’t you?” one asks. I nod, not wanting to attract the attention of anyone else. Nolan beams with pride. “Best leader we’ve ever had,” he says. “You boys treat him well, aye?”
My younger brother’s proud of me. Proud.
“Certainly,” the one on the left says. “Aye. This way, sir.” He slides a card in a slot by the gleaming elevator door, and we step inside. The elevator quickly swoops downward, and when the doors open, I realize these two are right. This is nothing at all like I’ve seen above. Down here is another world altogether.
I step off the elevator and try to take it all in, but it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. The bar lines the left side, a gleaming affair lit with golden lights that highlight the bottles upon bottles of drinks and taps. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling in golden clusters, and circular glass high top tables welcome patrons to come and sit for a while. But it isn’t the bar scene that catches my attention first.
A woman walks by on stilettos wearing nothing but the shoes. Her breasts hang free, full and beautiful, and her arse is utter perfection. I blink in surprise, when my eyes cast behind her to a couple on a golden leather loveseat. The woman’s dressed in what appears to be pink latex, her hair plaited, and she’s kneeling before the man. She’s attached to him by a thin metal chain around her neck that clips onto his belt, and he’s spreading his legs for her to service him.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Light strings of melodic music plays in the background, and the air is thick with the smell of whiskey and sex. In the far corner of the room, I see various accoutrements lined up, and I’m familiar enough to know there are several spanking benches, a whipping post, and metal rings for restraints.
“Come with us, brother,” Nolan says, leading me past the bar and to another room just off the main entrance. “We’ll see you sorted.” He beckons to three beautiful women dressed in violet dresses that barely cover tits to arse.
“Get me sorted?” I ask. “I don’t want to be sorted. I came here for a drink, not an orgy.”
Boner guffaws and slaps my back. “Need to get you laid, boss.”
“Bite the back of my bollox,” I mutter. “Screw off.”
It only makes him laugh as the women approach us. “Give him the special,” Nolan says, nodding to me, and two of the women make their way toward me.
I turn away. “I’m here for a drink.”
Nolan sidles up to me. “Keenan,” he says, as if he’s trying to get me to see reason. “Honest to God, brother. You need a night off where you aren’t bearing the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
I don’t contradict him. He’s right, and I know it.
“Taste just a little,” he says. “It feels fucking good to take control. Tie one of them up and use them. Wear her out. Trust me, that’s why they’re here.”
The idea leaves a sour taste in my mouth, but not because I don’t like what he’s suggesting, that I’m not tempted by the idea of tying one of them up and using them well and good. All I can see in my mind’s eye is the innocent look of the woman that waits for me. None of them is the woman I’m interested in.
“Drink only,” I insist, taking my seat on one of the stools. “That’ll do.” I wave to the bartender. “Pint of the black stuff.”
He shoves a frothy mug of Guinness my way, and I empty half of it one gulp, then sigh contentedly. Christ, but it’s good. I polish it off and order a second. “Round on the house,” I say, waving to my brothers. I don’t want to be a wet blanket. I’ll drink alongside them, I’ll fucking drink them under the table, but I’m not touching any of the women.
I watch the scenes in front of me, and my mind begins to churn.
I want to bring her here.
I want to use her.
I want to tie her to one of those posts and mete out perfect punishment, to bring her to the edge of bliss before I release her into ecstasy.
Over.
And over.
And over.
Chapter Fourteen
Caitlin
I wait for him until my eyelids droop, and the book I’m reading falls on my face.
“Ow,” I mutter, glaring at the traitorous copy of The Sun Also Rises on my nose. It’s a decent enough book, and I’ve read it before, but this time it’s boring me. I place it on the bedside table when I hear footsteps outside the door, followed by the low murmur of voices. I sit up. Is he back? A moment later, the door swings open, and in the darkness, I see Keenan’s silhouette enter the room.
“Keenan?” I call out, needing to hear the reassurance that it’s him.
“Sir,” he says. “You’ll call me sir.” His words are slurred, and he walks a bit off balance. Is he drunk? His voice is laced with danger, and though I find myself a little apprehensive, my pulse begins to quicken.
Sir.
“Yes, sir.” I swallow hard. There’s something seductive in the words of submission, something sacred in the acquiescence. I watch him amble toward me, and I wonder why I’m not frightened. He’s a powerful, ruthless man, and I’ve no doubt he’s done terrible, wicked things. But I’m not scared. Maybe I should be.
I left the window open, and a gentle breeze stirs the bedclothes. He looks toward the window, when the thinnest glimmer of moonlight casts across his features. His dark brown hair looks lighter in the moonlight, the green of his eyes mesmerizing. I swallow hard when his eyes swing toward me, his look voracious.
“Where were you?” I ask, but he holds up a finger to warn me and shakes his head.
“I told you not to ask that,” he admonishes. “It’s late, Caitlin. Do you want to be punished at this hour?” He’s off kilter, as if he’s looking for a reason to punish me.
I shake my head, watching him as he reaches me and kneels on the bed, his knee beside my body. “You ought to be punished.”
“Why, sir?” I don’t know why, but this feels like a form of foreplay. The low, seductive sound of his voice laced with anger and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. He smells of whiskey and something else, something sweet and pungent like warmed honey. I note a smudge of pink on his cheek, and feel my body go still.
Is that lipstick? Did someone kiss him?
He stands, his large form looming over me, and shrugs out of his jacket. Tossing it to the chair behind him, he keeps his gaze on me. The harness comes next, as he lays one gun after another on the bedside table.
“Why spank you?” he asks, his voice smooth as silk with a note of danger. “You don’t ask me questions, Caitlin.”
“Are you drunk?” I ask before I can stop myself, before I’ve processed that he just asked me not to ask questions.
He shakes his head slowly from side to side. “You’re a naughty little thing,” he whispers. “Just begging for that spanking, aren’t you?” He stands before me, wearing only his t-shirt, the fabric stretched across his biceps. I swear his arms are as thick as my thighs. I watch, enthralled, as he grabs the bottom of his shirt with both hands and yanks it up over his head. It’s somehow arousing, just watching him remove his shirt.
Tossing the shirt behind him, he points to the headboard. “Turn around,” he says, in the same deep, velvety voice, “and place your hands on the headboard.”
My heartbeat quickens. Is he looking for a reason to punish me? Does he crave this? Or is there something else going on?
My eyes on his, I gently push down the bedding. I’ve worn a simple silky sheath nightie to bed, white as snow and sensually soft. I’m covered fully, but the delicate fabric clings to my curves, dips between the valley at my breasts, hangs at the gentle part of my thighs.
“Bloody hell,” he whispers. “Christ, woman.”
<
br /> I don’t respond, determined to do what he says. Rising to my knees, I turn my body to face the headboard. Still kneeling, I grasp the very edge.
And then I feel him beside me, his warm, reassuring body pressed up against mine. “Stay right there, lass,” he whispers in my ear. “Stay. Right. There.”
I close my eyes. I’m going to do exactly what he says.
I hear him open the drawer beside the bed, hear him remove something, but I don’t turn to look, for I don’t want to bring on his displeasure. I want to please him. And I have to admit, I’m a little scared. But a part of me is neither scared nor eager to please. He has lipstick on his cheek, and I don’t like that one bit.
Why don’t I like that? Why does it trouble me?
Could I be jealous about my captor, so soon? Why? Why do I wish it were my lipstick on his cheek? He’s a powerful man. Others obey his orders. What could he possibly want with a girl like me?
Cool metal against the silky nightie makes me shiver. I swallow, but don’t speak, curious what he’ll do next, when I feel the metal graze my neck.
“A naughty little girl ought to wear a collar,” he says, clucking his tongue. “So she can be trained properly.”
My mind is a jumble of thoughts.
What on earth is he doing?
What will he do next?
Why do I feel excited?
He clicks the collar in place, and I gasp at the weight of it. It’s heavy and cold, and it’s connected to something else. I look down when I hear the clink of metal.
It’s… a chain?
There’s another clink of metal, and he produces two thick metal bands he slides around my wrists.
I’ve read classic literature, and in those books… men don’t hurt women. They don’t abuse them and degrade them and… and spank them… and yet why do I feel so hyper aware of all things Keenan? His voice, his scent, the way his warm fingers graze my skin when he fastens the locks in place.
The feel of his mouth—oh, God—his mouth on my neck when I’m well and securely fastened to the bed with yet another chain. I shiver in delight, and there’s a low pulsing between my legs, and deep in my belly. I swallow hard and close my eyes. I don’t know why I feel this way, or how I can possibly control the erotic flare of heat that weaves through my body like a teeming river. He licks my neck and cups my bottom in his large hand, giving me a gentle squeeze.
“Do you need a spanking?” he whispers in my ear.
“I…” I don’t know what to say. A spanking is a punishment, a humiliating one at that, and I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t think.
He slaps my backside and I straighten my back.
“Do you?”
I don’t think twice before responding. “Yes, sir.”
Yes, sir.
What is going on with my crazy mind? Am I addled? Insane? Somehow under the influence?
I feel a thin, sturdy something on my lower back, like he’s tracing the edges of my curves with a stick. His hand wraps around my waist, a thin whistle of something cuts through the air, and I squeal when a line of fire cuts across my backside.
“Count,” he says, his voice as sharp as whatever just struck me.
I inhale.
“One.”
Another hard strike lines the lower curve of my backside, then another. It hurts, it hurts badly, but the sting quickly dissipates into heat that flares to my core.
“Two.”
“Three.”
When I get to five, my skin is throbbing, but the ache between my legs has only magnified even further.
He parts my legs with the same thin, supple rod he struck me with, and I quickly move my legs apart. The edge of the rod glides against the silky triangle of fabric between my legs. He’s touching me there, and I might fly out of these shackles with the intensity of my need.
The friction he builds goes faster, and faster, until I’m whimpering with need and the pulsing between my legs is so intense, I can hardly breathe. He taps the rob, a quick swat between my legs. I gasp in pain.
Then he stops.
Stops.
I stifle a sob.
“Are you disappointed, lass?” he whispers in my ear. “You wish to come?”
I shake my head from side to side. I don’t know what he means.
“I… I don’t know,” I falter.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he groans. “Christ Almighty, woman. You’re so fu—you’re so innocent it’s intoxicating.”
I don’t understand what he means, what he wishes from me. And why did he stop himself from cursing?
I hear a clink and whirr and see him unfastening his zipper. He holds my gaze with determination as he removes his jeans.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“I want to mark you, lass,” he whispers back. “I want to fuck that sweet, virgin cunt of yours until you scream my name.”
I’m shaking with fear and anticipation, wondering what he’ll possibly do next.
Seems he’s forgotten his momentary desire not to curse, and as he speaks, I feel my cheeks flame with heat. His words are wicked and dirty, but somehow, I feel more powerful, more attractive, as if the very words he speaks are an aphrodisiac.
I’ve never done this before. I have no idea what to expect, and it makes me a little nervous. No. It makes me a lot nervous.
What will he do to me? Why do I want this man to do anything he wants?
“I want to be the first to make you feel everything,” he whispers in my ear, his breath pungent with the sweet heat of liquor. Is he drunk?
Do I care?
I feel something both hard and soft at my back, and when I look down, I see him hard and erect, pressed up to my back. It doesn’t scare me, though. I’m more curious than anything. I’ve been hidden away so long, I managed to convince myself I wasn’t wanted by anyone. That I was an insignificant little creature, a forgotten soul that had no impact in the world in the least. But the way he’s looking at me now, as if he owns me, the way he wants to own my body as well… I like it. It makes me feel special. Attractive. I’d even go so far as to say… sexy.
“Keenan…” my voice trails off when he wraps his hand around my throat and squeezes. I can’t breathe, but it doesn’t frighten me. He’s in control. He wants to control this, too. He breathes warm air on my neck, rustling the tendrils of hair and making me shiver, and still, he holds his hand on my neck. I feel a little dizzy and lightheaded when he releases me, and as I gasp for breath, he sinks his teeth into the bare, tender skin at my shoulder, but like all things he does, this pain tempered with the promise of pleasure, my fear quickly dissipates.
“How did you learn such bravery, sweet Caitlin?” he whispers in my ear, then he mumbles in a foreign language, one that sounds so ancient it’s as if he’s drawn it straight from the past. I want to know this language that he speaks, to understand the hidden depths.
I don’t respond. I don’t know how to. It isn’t that I’m intrinsically brave, or anything like that, really.
It’s easy to be brave when I’m with him.
He slides a key to the cuffs at my wrists, but leaves the collar on my neck, then he moves at my back, stroking his hard length with one hand while holding my gaze with the other. My mouth goes dry, for I don’t know how to handle this, what I should do. I’m holding my breath while he strokes harder and faster, his breathing becoming labored, and he manages to whisper, “Touch yourself.”
I don’t need to ask him to repeat himself, or what he means, my need for pleasure between my legs is all-consuming. With a trembling hand, I push down the silky edge of my undergarments, and slide my fingers to the slick, swollen folds. I gasp when I stroke up once.
“Work yourself,” he whispers in my ear, closing his eyes as rubs his length on my bare back, and I know he’s going to mark me, just like this. I marvel at how little I need to know and how natural this all feels.
It feels exquisite, putting pressure right there, building to something bett
er than even this.
And then he’s behind me, his swollen length against my back, pulsing and rocking while he moves my hand away and puts his own there instead. I brace myself on the headboard, breathless with the feel of his fingers working expertly, massaging and stroking and bringing me to where I’ve never been.
“I own this pussy,” he growls in my ear. “I own your orgasms. I own your pleasure and pain.”
He’s stroking himself with one hand and working me with the other, until I’m keening with pleasure, my breath caught in my throat. With a guttural growl, he jerks, hot liquid splashing on my naked skin at the same time my pleasure reaches its pinnacle.
My pulse races and he groans against me, both of us writhing in ecstasy. Spasms of pleasure ripple through me, pulsing against his hand while I explode into blinding pleasure. I close my eyes, unable to look at anything or focus beyond the feel of his hands on me, the feel of my whole body teeming with utter bliss. His groans of pleasure echo my own, until we’re panting and sated and a ridiculous mess.
“Stay there,” he orders, his voice a harsh slap of reality after that little bit of heaven we tasted. I don’t move, still panting with pleasure and surprise, not sure what just happened or what his purpose was. “Right there.” I hold onto the headboard as he instructed, trembling from the aftershock of what just happened. He dresses beside the bed and pads off to the bathroom, returning a moment later with a small towel, a warm washcloth, and a clean nightgown. In silence, he cleans us up. I let him dress me, removing my hands from the headboard before he spins me around to look at him.
He drapes the new nightgown over my head and points to the bathroom. He looks suddenly weary, his beautiful, vibrant eyes sated but tired. “Get ready for bed,” he instructs.
I walk quietly to the bathroom, disliking the separation from him. Something’s missing, but I don’t know what. Many things are missing, though. So many. I know we aren’t following the rules, whatever those are. So I do what he says, rushing through brushing my teeth and washing my face, because I’m weirdly and inexplicably eager to get back to him. I stare at the ring of metal on my neck. Will he take it off?
