She started to sit up. “A week’s not that long.”
I shoved her back down against the bedsheets. “You know what’s going to be long? Today. This afternoon. Tonight. Tomorrow. I’m just getting started with you.”
She looked a little nervous, but she mostly looked happy.
“A shower and some room service?” I suggested. “You’re going to need your strength.”
* * * * *
I woke to a slash of sunlight streaming through the dark velvet curtains, and Price’s heavy form strewn across my back. I turned my head to look at the clock. Late morning already. I’d slept like the dead, which made sense, since Price had pretty much killed me with our sexual reunion. Memories flooded back, all the fucking and grappling of the night before.
I groaned and tried to extricate myself from his embrace. He grumbled but let me go. He’d stayed up even later than me, stroking my back and my hair, whispering to me as I drifted off to sleep. Mine. That was the gist of what he’d told me, over and over. You’re mine. As for me, I’d told him what he needed to hear to soothe his secret, crippling anxieties. I love you. I need you. You’re perfect, and I adore you just as you are.
I stumbled into the bathroom and dialed the lights down low, and started the shower. I was halfway through brushing my teeth before I looked up and saw the writing on the mirror. Not just writing, but art too, hearts and jewels and a cityscape, and remarkably good likenesses of me and Price. I looked closer at the scarlet and pink lines, and realized he’d done the whole thing in my lipstick. There were three empty tubes on the counter. A poem took up most of the mirror, written in his now-familiar hand.
What you see right now
Is what I see when I dream.
Beautiful diamond, beautiful heart.
Beautiful fighter, and a soul like art.
I was so gripped by his poem, so spellbound by the depth of feeling in those scrawls of lipstick, that I didn’t hear him come into the bathroom. I jumped when he hugged me from behind.
“I’m no world class artist,” he said. “And it still doesn’t fucking rhyme, but I hope you like it.”
I turned and threw my arms around him. “It kind of rhymes. I love it. It’s... Holy crap. I love you.” I clung to his neck and breathed him in as he groped my ass. “You wrote ‘beautiful’ three times.”
“Because you’re beautiful in so many ways. You’re everything in that poem, and so much more.”
His caresses were wonderful, but still not as thrilling as the affection in his voice. “When did you do this?” I asked, letting go of him.
“Last night, while you were sleeping.” He glanced at the empty tubes on the counter. “Sorry about your lipstick. I’ll replace them.”
“Forget the lipstick.” I turned back to his artwork as tears gathered in my eyes. “It’s so lovely, Price. It’s my favorite poem ever.”
“Don’t cry.” He frowned at me in the mirror, over my shoulder. “It’s not supposed to make you cry. It’s supposed to make you happy.”
“It does make me happy.” I cried anyway, just a few tears, while he rolled his eyes and brushed his teeth.
“So what now?” he said after he spit. “Do you want to ease back into things?”
I stretched my sore muscles. “Was last night ‘easing back into things’?”
“Last night was hot sex,” he said with a grin. “I mean the rest of our life together. The surrender. The slavery.”
“Yes, I still want that, if you want it.”
“Do I want it? Let me think about that a moment.” He slapped me on the ass. Hard. “Yes. But no more sex until I go back to the apartment and collect a few things.”
“You don’t want me to go too?”
“Not yet. Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” he assured me when my face fell. His fingertips traced along the worry lines in my brow. “I don’t want to hole up in the apartment with you yet. I think we should spend a little more time on neutral ground. The dungeon will still be there, I promise.” He gave me a mocking smile. “Naughty girl.”
“Naughty girls need dungeons,” I grumbled as he went out into the other room to dress.
“I’ll bring back some things for your amusement,” he promised. “And mine.”
The last two words were accompanied by a wonderfully threatening leer.
I sprawled on the bed and watched him dress, pants and clinging undershirt and sweater. God, the muscles. It was still hard to believe sometimes that this powerful, complicated man belonged to me.
“Do you think you would have been able to find me if Vinod hadn’t helped you?” I asked.
“Eventually. I would have come for you when my willpower ran out, just like last time.” He fastened his belt, then jammed a hand in his pocket. “Speaking of which...” He returned to the bed with something between his fingers. “I suppose you better put this back on.” He held out the garnet ring I’d left with Andrew. His lips tilted down as he slid it on my finger. “You can wear it for now, until I get something better. Something more permanent.”
He put it on my left ring finger, my engagement finger, with a deeply speaking gaze. Wow. Yes. My answer would be yes, of course, when he asked, although I didn’t really need anything better or more permanent.
His rough, pure, achingly sincere love would always be enough.
Chapter Seventeen: Poetry and Love
Price and I stayed at the Gramercy for almost a month. It was an extravagance, sure, but also necessary. As Price pointed out, the hotel was a neutral place for us to relearn how to be together without the emotional dramas of the past. Plus, I wasn’t eager to leave the lipstick painting on the bathroom mirror. It wasn’t something we could take with us when we checked out.
We continued to go to work during the week days, walking together to the bustling office building on Park Avenue. It felt good to return to my studio, to my quiet, peaceful place of creation. While we were apart, Price concentrated on his Vancouver bridge design, and I dreamed up new adornments for the Pan-Asia retail market.
Then we came together again, and we knew as soon as we embraced that what we had was worth every ounce of effort we were putting into fixing our shit. We spent our nights and weekends having sex, yes, and playing plenty of power exchange games, but we also spent time getting to know each other as people, rather than hooker and john, or Master and slave.
We hammered out the rough spots in our relationship and hashed over our insecurities and flaws. Price learned to be patient when I took calls and meetings with male clients, and accepted that I would meet with Andrew whenever and wherever I pleased during my free time. As for me, I learned not to lose faith when his insecurities caused tension between us. I beat the fears back and confronted him, we talked, we moved on.
As for the cameras at my studio and the apartment, they stayed in place, because he had a serious spying fetish, and I had nothing to hide. Not anymore.
After two weeks of this reconnecting bliss, Vinod returned from India bearing spices for Price, and dozens of half-melted candy bars. He brought me a blue and brown pashmina shawl with colors strikingly similar to mine and Price’s eyes.
“I knew your separation wouldn’t last,” he scoffed as I draped the shawl around my shoulders. “You belong together, you two.”
Jino’s frown communicated silent agreement. He muttered a string of foreign syllables to Vinod, who laughed and nodded.
“What did he say?” I asked Vinod.
“He said we were idiots,” replied Price.
“Idiots to believe you could be apart.” Vinod held up a hand in explanation. “The word in Hindi is not precisely as rude as—”
“Whatever,” I said, glaring at Jino.
Vinod laughed again at Jino’s impassive expression. “Please, don’t take offense at his plain way of speaking. I keep him on for his bodyguarding talents, not his charm.”
“Bodyguarding talents. Right,” Price said, rolling his eyes. One of the things we had talked about betwe
en frenzied bouts of sex was the way love came in all forms, whether societally accepted or not. Even if Vinod and Jino couldn’t openly share their love within the strictures of Indian society, it was still there, and it had every right to exist.
In addition to saffron and chocolate, early February brought a letter from Simon’s lawyers. Price handed it to me one evening and hovered over my shoulder as I opened it. I scanned the cordial greeting and paragraphs full of legal words about Simon’s last will and testament. They mentioned a codicil, and the legal parameters of artistic value, and taxes and titles, and unsold works, specifically Heart-Lust. Even though I had no legal or marital ties to Simon, I started to panic.
“Are they asking me for money?”
“No,” said Price. “They’re giving you a painting, although there’ll be tax repercussions. All Simon’s unsold and unfinished works were left to a family trust except for one, which he bequeathed to you.”
I stared at the letter. “Heart-Lust? I thought that belonged to the Louvre.”
“They never bought it, they only displayed it. It still legally belongs to Simon. Well, now it belongs to you.” Price took the papers from my hands and looked at them more closely. “It’s worth a lot of money, starshine.”
When Price said something was worth a lot of money in a hushed and shocked voice, that meant it was really worth a lot of fucking money.
“I guess you’ll want me to sell it,” I said.
He shrugged. “We can deal with the taxes.”
“No, because it’s Simon’s, and you hate Simon.”
He folded the letter and gave it back to me. “As long as it stays in Paris, it’s fine. I don’t want his painting hanging in our apartment, but he did create it for you. I hate him, but I respect that he found you art worthy. Heart-Lust was one of the few decent things he ever did for you.” He nodded at the letter. “And it was generous of him to leave it to you in his will. Once you pay the taxes, you’re going to own a piece of art history that’s going to continue to go up in value. His work will bring Warhol prices one day, and his early stuff will probably bring more.”
I was amazed for two reasons. First, that Price wasn’t angry or jealous over Simon’s generosity, and second, that he was actually giving him credit for something he’d done.
“I wonder when he decided to do this,” I mused, running my fingers over the law office letterhead. “I mean, why not leave it to his family with all the others?”
“Maybe, even through the drug haze, he realized it belonged to you. That it would have the most meaning to you.”
I gave Price a look. “You’re taking this very calmly.”
“I’ve changed.” He took the letter from me, put it down on the table, and led me toward the bed. “I love you, Chere. I’m happy for you, and I’m not jealous about the painting anymore. I understand how you could drive anyone to make art.” He flicked a glance toward the bathroom, where his lipstick-art poem remained undisturbed, his own heart and his own lust on a silver-reflective canvas. I’d taken a dozen photos of it, so I could keep the memory forever. I was happy about inheriting Simon’s painting, but much happier about the love I found in Price’s arms.
“Are you going to do it to me?” I asked, as he hooked a finger in my collar.
“The idea crossed my mind.” He exerted not-so-gentle pressure to force me down between his legs. “But first, you’re going to do it to me.”
I opened my mouth and welcomed his rough, demanding thrusts, even when he made me gag a little. It wouldn’t be Price if he wasn’t gagging me. It wouldn’t be his power and girth, and the sense of panic that came with serving him. He kept his fingertip hooked in my collar so I couldn’t pull away or alter the rhythm he set. That was the wonderful thing about Price. He always let me know exactly what he wanted.
When he finally released me, I came up drooling and gasping for air. He flipped me over and shoved my face down into the sheets, and held me by the neck as he thrust into me from behind. He didn’t say a word, didn’t negotiate or suggest, he merely bent me to his will—and it felt like heaven. Even without the dungeon and all his torture instruments, he had no problem making me feel utterly surrendered and ecstatically hot.
“Please. Oh God,” I groaned into the sheets. “Oh, please.”
“You going to come already, little slave girl?” he asked. “Don’t dare. Not yet.”
When I tried to reach down and stroke my clit, he captured my hands and forced them over my head.
“Yes, I’ve been letting you get away with that the last couple weeks, but I think it’s time we got back on track. Who gets to touch you and make you feel good?”
I arched up, pressing my back to his chest. “You, Sir. Only you.”
“That’s right. Who owns your pussy?” he asked, squeezing my mons in rough fingers.
“You, Sir.”
“Who owns your mouth and your asshole, to use whenever he fucking wants?”
Oh, shit, I was going to come from this litany alone. “You, Sir,” I wailed. “Please, it feels so good. I just forgot for a moment.”
“Then I’ll have to remind you, after we’re finished, what happens to naughty girls who try to stroke their clits without permission.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, with equal parts misery and joy. I knew what happened to naughty girls who stroked their clits without permission, at least back in the dungeon. Ten hard punishment strokes, and a night in the chastity belt with dildos in that naughty girl’s pussy and ass. I wasn’t going to enjoy those strokes—or the chastity—but I was thrilled that he was getting back to our old rules. When I’d said I didn’t want that part of him to change, I’d meant it. I wanted him to control me sexually, to the deepest extent he wished.
I leaned down and kissed the hand planted next to me on the bed. His other hand was still clasped over my mons. His fingers teased my engorged clit, making my hips jump at the delicious trails of sensation.
“Don’t come yet,” he said again, and I wouldn’t. I didn’t dare, or I’d get more than ten strokes with whatever implement he pulled out of his travel bag. Quite a few of them had migrated over to the Gramercy during our stay, and they were mostly the quiet ones. Nylon switches, canes, thin whips, and Lucite tilt wands. Ouch.
“Who do you belong to?” Price asked as his strokes deepened. “Tell me again who owns this body.”
“You do, Sir.”
“Arch your hips up. I’m going to come, and then you can come too, if you can manage it before I’m through.”
Oh, shit, oh, shit. He was holding my hands on the bed again so I couldn’t stroke myself. I jerked back against him as he pounded me. His balls banged against my swollen clit, and along with his rough possession, it was enough to send me over the edge into a mercurial orgasm. I felt his thick organ pulsing inside me as he came at the same time. He made a growling sound of satisfaction and tightened his hands on my wrists. Who needed manacles? I felt as tightly bound as any prisoner, except, unlike a prisoner, I liked being captured.
Even if I was about to be punished.
“Don’t move,” he said as he pulled away from me. “Keep that ass in the air, bad girl.”
“Yes, Sir.”
I stuck my ass up high. Hell, I deserved it. I knew the rules, and now that I knew he was starting to enforce them more strictly, it would make everything easier. My pussy was his. My pleasure was his. Any punishment I deserved was his to dole out.
He came back with the short, whippy rattan cane, and while I made a sound of dread into the bedsheets, that was the extent of my protest.
“Are you ready?” he asked, tapping the cane against my ass.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Count them for me. I don’t want to hear anything but counting, and Yes, Sir.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The first stroke whipped across my ass cheeks. I tensed and drew my legs together. Ow, ow, ow. “One, Sir.”
The second one fell just above the first, and the third below it.
I trembled with the effort to be still and quiet. The fourth one brought a wail.
“Owwww. Four, Sir.”
“Get that ass up. This is what happens to girls who try to touch themselves without permission, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir. Ahh! Five, Sir.”
“We’ve taken a little time away from real life—”
“Six, Sir!”
“But now it’s time to get back to some rules and discipline.”
“Oww. Yes, Sir. Seven, Sir.”
My ass was on fire with seven throbbing cane tracks, and the next was on the way. “Eight, Sir,” I choked out when it fell.
“Nine, Sir” was so painful that I lost my composure and collapsed on the bed. He gave me one warning tap, and I hustled to my knees and stuck my ass out, because anything that counted as resistance earned five extra strokes. I gripped the sheets and cried out at the last stroke, which was always the hardest.
“Ten, Sir.”
“Look at me.”
I turned around to stare up at my disciplinarian, my owner, my Master. My cheeks burned hot beneath my tears.
“Are you going to be a good girl now?” he asked.
“Yes, Sir.”
Oh yes, Sir. I want this. I want you and your authority and your rough love forever.
Later, after dinner, he assembled the chastity belt, then traced the ten cane welts as he held me over his lap. “I think we’ll be ready to go back home soon,” he said. “What do you think? Do you feel ready to try again?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m definitely ready.”
“You won’t miss the Gramercy? All this luxury?”
I gave a little feline stretch of pleasure as he ran a hand up my back. “As long as you’re there, I’ll be happy.”
He laughed. “I don’t know why I make you happy. I’m so cruel to you.” He slapped my poor, wet clit and slid the first of the chastity dildos into my pussy. It was thick and textured, to tease me all night, and my body couldn’t help squeezing on the ribbed surface. It felt good. Horribly good, because I wasn’t allowed to come. He forced me to be still as he inserted the anal dildo next. As much as I was used to this treatment, I moaned at the invasive ache. It was also thick, and since it attached to the belt, there was no narrower neck for my sphincter to contract around. It kept me open and worked up all night.
Trust Me Page 19
