“You pissed me off, Adam.” Adam seems unamused, his body squirming on the table as he tries to break his bonds. It’s a shame, because the vision’s extremely humorous, comical even, enough so that I get my phone out and take a few photos as I sit on the velvet seat. “I’m not friendly when pissed.” I lean back, putting my feet up on the table within in an inch of the glass bottle currently twitching about, neck deep, from the asshole.
“I don’t know what you…”
Already uninterested in the conversation, I look back at the girl, smiling at the way she still quivers in her corner, her blanket neatly drawn around her as she gazes at the bottle, her feet tucked up again.
“Go around the front,” I suggest, wanting nothing more than for Adam to see what he has caused himself. He needs to see it, and he needs a definitive negative response to the action, one I’m happy to deliver. She doesn’t move, she just sits and quakes more. “Go.” I growl it the second time, resulting in a more enthusiastic response as she gets up and slowly inches the perimeter, her body weaving quietly through the throng and eventually ending up in Adam’s eye-line. “What did I say to you before I left, Adam?” I tap the bottle, nudging it further in and then watching it pop back out a little with a smirk. “I could have sworn I said not to touch anyone.” I tap it again, harder this time, listening to the taut, pained grunt that results from the impact with a smile. “She looks like she’s been touched to me.”
Something’s said. It could have had please attached to the end of it, or it could have been someone else protesting about the behaviour. I barely hear it, or care. This is a lesson in discipline, not a conversation about why. They’ll learn with barely any words involved before someone gets truly hurt. The girl’s face is becoming more interesting as she begins smiling at me, anyway. Which is diverting. She hardly sees the man in between us anymore. She just stares, a mix of awe and wonder tracing her eyes. She looks pretty with her tear-stained cheeks and her bruises, her fingers still gripping the blanket as she waits. Fuckable. Just a waif of a girl really, not my type at all, but she trembles so beautifully as she stands there. She’d be an entertainment for a while, one that would fall into my hands with just one click of fingers.
“Drop the blanket. Show him,” I murmur. She does, slowly, causing my eyes to travel ravished skin hungrily. It might be a fucked up reaction, but it’s mine, still. The stripes and scratches arouse me as I skim her outlines and transfer my cock’s intentions to Adam’s prone body instead.
Just the thought of aggression makes me raise my foot a little more than I should, nodding at Adam to get the girl to look into the face of the man who has hurt her. She does that too, already in my spell as I slam my heel onto the end of the bottle, repeatedly. Bellows and pleas for mercy ring the air. Chains shake, rattling and scraping the table’s metal surface. The girl’s eyes widen as she gasps, possibly in fright. Who fucking cares? I’m awakened as people in the room scatter across the back wall, some of them retreating to the corners in fear. Their whispers and mutterings just heighten my scene, making me look at a few of them, wondering which would take the most pain if I chose to carry on. I’m not concerned anymore about the initial issue as I continue slamming the bottle. At some point I’ve become provoked, absorbed in more than simple disciplinary repercussions. The thought makes me imagine Alana Williams and her lips again. That vision only enhances the room’s equipment ten-fold as I gaze around it and catch glimpses of several subs. Perhaps I could lose some time here, become involved in what my hands harbour, show Adam what real sadists choose to do with their time.
The sound of the crack makes me tilt my head and stop, my eyes following the fissure that runs a rivulet along the base that’s still protruding. Done.
I stand and wander around the front, buttoning my jacket again and instantly smiling at the tears that course over Adam’s cheeks. They’re as provocative as the girls have been in some respects, more so given the fact a man can take so much more, but still not as beautiful as Alana’s trembling lips or the taste of her snide skin. For once, Cole’s right. She has sparked my interest. I could almost say I’ve become invested in the idea. Alana Williams, rightly or wrongly, is a thing that needs attending to, regardless of how she made me feel in that pool or the concerns that came with that thought.
I pull in a long breath, accepting the inevitable, and nod at the girl as she smiles meekly, her tears now gone as she looks at Adam and fidgets. I simply hand her the key to the locks on the chains and begin leaving the room, happy to let her have the final say on what should happen to little cunts who don’t follow my rules.
“It’s about to shatter,” I say, tapping the glass one final time as I walk by and then glaring at a new man who stands between me and the door. “One more shove and magic happens.” I stare at the dick in the doorway, willing him to try something and provoke me further. What would be next? A stripping? A beating? The lash of the nine tail hanging beside my head layered over flesh for an hour? This dick’s cock in a vice? I tilt my gaze at the guy, licking my lips in thought and wondering if this one likes magic, too. Unfortunately he moves, his body making room for me to leave and lessoning my fun as he does. “Next time, do as you’re fucking told, Adam. I won’t have this conversation again.”
Chapter 7
Alana
I can’t stop writing. I’m fucking possessed. And not like with normal Valerie books. Oh no, I’m involved in this. It’s pouring out as if I have no idea what I’m writing or where I’m writing to. It’s normally so planned and mapped, like I know the story well before I’ve started. Lines drawn, chapters made and noted out, but this—this is like it was when I started writing. It’s higgledy-piggledy. A mess. I can’t concentrate on any one bit. My hero’s an arsehole. My heroin’s weak as piss as she flaps around not knowing what to do with herself. Oh, and sex scenes. Wow. Whoa. I almost had to go for a shower at one point, which would have been nowhere near as inspiring as my dip in the pool at Blaine’s house.
The thought of him makes my pen halt halfway through a word that I now can’t remember. Everything’s gone blank apart from him and his mouth. What is it with his mouth? It’s either delivering filthy words or smiling, no, smirking at me. And oh god, that kiss too. So soft. So warm. Nothing like I expected, not that I know what I should have expected. The frown’s good, too, almost edible. It makes me want to lick it off his face and run my fingers through his dark hair.
I haven’t even changed out of this old running outfit since I got back. I’d like to say I’m pissed off at the way he shut the door in my face, and I suppose I was in some ways, until he opened it so I could slam it back in his just to prove my point, but I’m not really. I’m not pissed at all. I’m enlightened by something. It’s making me excited to write again, just like I was in his house. Notes are scattered around me over my small kitchen table. Names, dates, times—it’s all here. I’ve no idea where it’s leading me, but it kinda makes sense, to my mind anyway. And it’s all because of him.
Standing up, I stretch my body out, letting the pen fall to the table for the first time since I got back and looking around. Things look different for some reason, as if they’re too perfect for me. The kitchen area is immaculate, but the small dining area I’m in seems lacking in warmth, and for some reason, even the lounge looks scant, which is normally the way I like it. It all just seems deficient in some way. Lacking homeliness. I scan the rooms again, walking about as I have done a thousand times in my own home. The light blue tone seems cold suddenly, and the pale creams and yellow accents that I chose to match perfectly now seem devoid of any heat at all, and then, as I look over my beloved grey, chesterfield in the middle of all this modernity, I realise even that seems empty. It’s not. It’s got a few cushions scattered over it in greys and blues, but it seems huge sitting there all on its own by the cream coffee table. My face scrunches up, not understanding where this new sensation is coming from. I spent time and money here, creating the look I loved and filling it with
not too much so as to construct peace around me while I write. Maybe I need a makeover.
My fingers run along the walls, as I head towards my bedroom, already knowing the sensation will be magnified once I reach it. If anything’s lacking life in this house, my bedroom certainly is. It’s a place of rest; that’s it. Nothing else happens in there. Never once has a man been here. I’ve purposely made it so. I don’t really know why. It’s not like I ever had a really bad relationship, or someone did something unacceptable. No rape incidents. No off my face and doing something stupid. I just haven’t seemed to like men very much over the years. Of course, I like them, and some of them have been reasonably entertaining for an evening, but they just don’t appeal as something I need to complete me. I’ve tried a few weeks, one a month or so, but it just doesn’t work for me. There’s nothing about them that makes me feel they’re needed or that they’ll give me something that adds to my sense of life. I am complete. I have done all this on my own, without the need to hang from a man or have his opinion alter my course. They seem unnecessary normally, something I can either have or leave alone. Unfortunately, nature calls on occasion, tempting me into its bidding. That bidding tends to end up with me feeling reasonably satisfied with the experience, but not overly bothered if it happens again. Frankly, the vibrator that’s hiding in one of my matching cream bedside cabinets is just as useful, if not more so. It doesn’t ask me to divulge information or give away emotions. Not that I have too many to give away. I’m reasonably happy, reasonably sensible, mostly calm and calculated about decisions. Occasionally something sets me off kilter, ruining my chakras or whatever, especially lately now I come to think about it, but nothing really gets in my way or hinders me to the point of frustration. I’m what you’d call settled, I suppose. Settled and happy to continue being so. Rushed and hassled about deadlines permanently, of course, and constantly in need of my little pick me up pills, as I like to call them, but mainly I’m on track. Or I was, until I started thinking about what else is out there.
I turn from the room, a little irritated at why my perfect cream look suddenly seem devoid of anything interesting, then make my way back to the table and smile. It feels so good to want to write again. So good, in fact, that my hands graze across the paperwork, finally believing in something other than what my publisher asks for. This is me, right here in front of my eyes; this is what I started doing it for—passion, suspense, a love story based on something beyond the usual. So many times I’ve written the same words, changing up the storyline obviously but then always coming back to the same ending, but this… I don’t know what this is. This seems darker, a mix between Peter and Val. A new type of intrigue. To anyone else this would look a jumbled mess. Chaos. But to me it’s littered with brilliance, ready and waiting to be pieced together harmoniously—if I can actually make that happen without him. It’s a shame, because it reeks of something I wouldn’t have gotten close to without being shown or experiencing something new. In fact, now I really think about it, it reeks of Blaine Jacobs, his abs and mouth included.
The thought makes me plonk my arse down on the chair, wondering how the hell I’m going to be able to pull all this together without his help. I know he said he’d find me someone else, and I know I told him, basically, to go screw himself, which was kinda stupid, but no one else is going to cut it. I trust him. I’m unsure why given what happened on his landing, which was quite odd and a little scary, but I do. It’s some kind of pull. Something is real and tangible with him, as if we’re just out of reach but lingering in readiness nonetheless. I’ve read snippets of it in some of the other books I’ve leafed through for research. A sense of connection unlike anything else, they said. And the subs said the same thing really, with their sighs and moans. If what happened with Blaine is anything to go by, they’re right. It’s a draw, an enticement that makes me want to give him something. I’m not sure what. I don’t even think it’s me, not physically anyway. It’s more emotive than that, more poignant. Oh god, I don’t know. It’s just something that’s more than I’ve given before.
My phone bleeps, dragging me back from my musings as I shift another piece of scribble covered paper around. I don’t look at it. I haven’t got the time or inclination to bother. It’s probably just another hassle I don’t want to deal with. And anyway, I’ve got more of this to do. It’s my way. Knuckle down and get on with what’s flowing. There won’t be food or bathing until I’m satisfied I’ve achieved enough for the day. I just need to get all of this into the laptop, at least in some semblance of order, and then I can worry about how I’m going to make Blaine show me more. I gently lift the pages, keeping them in order as I make the first run over to the office. It has to be placed correctly. In order. If it’s not in order then I’ll lose my way. It’s already disturbing enough in my mind, making me try desperately to contain it in its rightful place and find a current for it to travel along. The last thing I need is for it to start falling over on paper, fucking it all up before I’ve had chance to plot it properly.
Just as I’m about to go back for the next lot, my phone bleeps again twice, tempting me to have a look. I snatch it up, ready to switch it off for its interference, but notice Blaine’s name and freeze.
- This is not going to be enjoyable for you.
What isn’t? And why has he said that?
My mind searches the words for some hidden meaning, as if he might be trying to convey something in between the actual letters. Nothing’s forthcoming, so I scan the next one.
- Pack a bag and be ready for 9pm.
I don’t know what that means. What does that mean? 9pm? Why?
- Wear an evening gown.
An evening gown? What sort? What?
If messages could be vaguer, I’m not sure what they would say. My fingers scrabble back a reply asking why, what sort, and why I need an overnight bag. I refrain from asking who the fuck he thinks he is, or telling him that a please might be nice. Not because I haven’t got the balls, more because I haven’t got a choice. I need him for this. I need what he has to offer so I can get this book done. And regardless of how much I might hate to admit it, the flutter of nerves in my stomach is mind-blowing. It’s that mouth of his, isn’t it? It’s the way it connected with mine, making me feel al gooey and significant in some way. The thought makes me stutter as I swear at the phone, at him really, for some reason unsure if I’m even allowed to swear in my own home.
He doesn’t reply swiftly as I sit here for ten minutes staring at the phone. In fact, it seems there isn’t going to be a response at all. Great. It’s not going to be enjoyable for me, I need a bag, and I need an evening gown.
I check the clock, trying to imagine what’s in my wardrobe as I do. 1pm. An evening gown? What do I have? We must be going somewhere posh. My favourite high-end thing is still in his house, ripped, from what I can remember. Why did I leave that there? I loved that dress. It was me. I look down at the tracksuit I’m still wearing and consider just tipping up in that. Perhaps that would show him who’s in control of this relationship. Not that we’re in one. He’s just research. Research. For god’s sake. A relationship? What is wrong with me? I need Bree.
I’ve sent a message to her before I reach my bedroom, telling her to meet me at Saks in an hour. It’s not like she’ll have anything else on. She never does. Apart from yet another release, which she can do on her tablet, anyway. But what Bree does have in bucket loads is style. It pours from her. She’s the sort that throws stuff together, somehow making them look both ingenious and elegant at the same time as sexy. I need sexy. Properly sexy. I need more of what he did to me. I need to feel the same sensations so I can write them.
I get one single letter back as a response.
- K
It’s all I need to propel myself into the shower, discarding the tired old tracksuit into the bin as I go. It might have been comfortable but it’s not nice. It makes me wonder why he had women’s clothes in his house at all. That thought, for the first time,
makes me halt my furious scrubbing and consider whether he’s actually got a partner. I’ve assumed not from his behaviour. No one talks about cunts and fondles breasts if they’ve got a partner, do they? Or maybe they do in his world. I stare at the tiles, watching the water splatter the wall, and wonder what the hell I’m doing. This is supposed to just be about a book. That’s all. Just information gathering, no feelings involved. No thought other than getting what I need from him. If he’s got a partner, what does it matter, I suppose? If he’s happy to initiate that sort of thing then it’s either okay, or he doesn’t care, in which case, I shouldn’t worry. I won’t worry. Whatever’s going on in his family life is nothing to do with me. I’ve asked for his help. This is obviously his way of giving it. Why that involves me wearing an evening gown, I’m not sure.
I’m out of the shower, dressed and walking to the front door without much more thought on the matter. I don’t really care in all honesty. It’s not my problem to deal with. I grab my bag and slam the door behind me, checking my phone in case Bree’s cancelled. She hasn’t, thank god. And then I start thinking about it again. It wouldn’t be surprising if he’s got a partner. I mean, he’s gorgeous. He could have several of them dotted about. One in every port, so to speak. He’s the type we all write about. Bad boy with an attitude. Or intelligent man with unfairly good looks to boot. And psychology professor? That was an interesting little nugget of information, one I haven’t really given any thought to either. How does a psychology teacher get involved in BDSM, let alone become what they call a Master of it? I’m still not sure what that accolade entails.
Once Upon A (Stained Duet Book 1) Page 12
