by Hannah Ford
“You think you had to give her a job and take care of her because River broke up with her?”
“No, Chloe. I had to give her a job and make sure she was okay because River destroyed her. The way he destroys everything else around him.”
“River was --”
“Enough!” He roars, and then he throws the tumbler he’s holding across the room, until it shatters into pieces on the floor. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Chloe. You have no idea what he’s capable of.”
“Then why are you considering investing in his company? Why were you talking to that guy, Gavin?”
His eyes blaze with anger, and I’m not sure if it’s because I know who the man is, or because I’m daring to ask questions. “Because I’m not a nice man, Chloe.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Then you’re foolish,” he says, and then suddenly he’s in front of me, against me, pushing his body against mine, caging me against the counter. His body heat warms me, but I dodge out from under his arms, surprised that I’m able to do it – he’s so much bigger and stronger than I am.
But then I realize it’s because he’s let me get away from him.
That he wants me to get away from him, so that he can chase me and catch me again.
So this time, when I reach the living room and he cages me against the back of the couch, I don’t move.
Instead, I look him right in the eye. “You’re not a bad man, Gage.” I believe it when I say it.
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough of you. I know how you treat your sister. How you’re helping Willow. The way you….” I trail off, about to say ‘the way you look at me sometimes’ but I know that there’s no way I can say that.
I look into his eyes and even when they blaze dark gold I force myself to keep my gaze locked on his.
I reach up and trace the strong line of his jaw, cupping his chin in my hand, running my thumb over his flawless skin. I remember what he told me back in the library, about how he got his scar, and I wonder what else he’s gone through, what other traumas are lurking beneath his cold exterior. Something tells me there are a lot of them, and that they would be hard to even hear, much less experience.
“You have no idea who I am or what I’m capable of,” he says, like he’s relishing it.
“I do,” I say softly. “I do.” I’m talking about the nice things he’s capable of, the kind things he does, and he knows it.
The thought seems to anger him, and before I know what’s happening, he’s scooping me up off the ground and throwing me over his shoulder.
My skirt hikes up, and his hand connects with my ass in a hard spank. Pain ricochets through me. He pauses for just a moment, like he’s giving me a chance to safe word again if I need to, but I don’t. My every nerve ending is alive now that he’s touching me.
He walks down the hall, past a row of closed doors. I know that Willow is behind one of them, sleeping off whatever chemicals are coursing through her veins. I believe Gage when he says that nothing has ever happened between him and Willow, that he has no interest in her.
But I also believe that the only reason she’s here, that the only reason she works for Gage, is because of her connection to River. And it’s strange to think about the things that happened between Gage and River in their past, how horrible they must be to spark the kind of anger Gage has toward River -- especially given the fact that Gage is taking me to his bedroom while River’s ex-fiancé lies in a cocaine haze down the hallway.
Except Gage isn’t taking me to his bedroom.
Instead, he takes me into the library, the same one I saw him in the other night at the party, when he pushed me up against the door and used the tie of my wrap dress to bind me.
He walks to the side of the room, where he pulls out his phone and taps in a code on an app. There’s a slight whirring noise, and I glance over my shoulder to see one of the heavy wooden bookcases moving slowly to the side to reveal a door built into the wall behind it.
“Jesus, what is that, some kind of secret door?” I ask.
He slaps me on the ass. Hard. “If you keep it up, I’ll gag that smart mouth of yours until you choke.”
The words are shocking, especially after the way he took care of me at the police station, the way he was so careful not to touch me after I safe worded earlier. But now his dominant side has come out.
I bite my lip to keep from speaking. His words are shocking, but somehow the most shocking thing about them is how much I like them, how the thought of being gagged until I choke makes my cheeks flame with humiliation even as my body craves it.
Gage enters something on his phone again, and then presses his finger to the screen. The screen glows green and there’s a click as the door in front of us unlocks.
He carries me inside, and there’s nothing but darkness and a soft red glow that’s coming from overhead.
He sets me down, and I look around.
It’s a small room, industrial-looking with low ceilings and metal bars that crisscross above us. A string of red lights hang across the bars, casting red-toned rays across the room.
Concrete floors.
Cold air coming from an unknown source.
Silence.
The only furniture that’s in the room is something that looks like a padded bench covered in leather, the kind of bench looks like something a gymnast would use, like a pommel horse.
“Walk to the bench.” Gage’s voice is a low growl and I suck in a breath and then do as I’m told, running my hand over the leather.
“Now bend over.”
Goosebumps bloom across my flesh as I do it -- there are two handles at the top of the bench, and I grab them to brace myself.
“The thing you have to realize, Ms. Cavanaugh,” Gage says conversationally, “is that if you insist on expressing the opinion that I’m not a bad man, I will be inclined to prove you wrong.” He pulls open a drawer that’s under the bench, and pulls out a long black whip.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to think about what that’s going to feel like against my ass. My heart thunders against my ribs, already anticipating the pain.
“You’re not a bad man, sir,” I say.
I tilt my head up to look at him and he smirks, then reaches behind his back and pulls off his sweater. Holy freakin’ hell. Cut abs, broad shoulders, cords of muscle and pure male strength. A line of soft hair starts at his navel and disappears beneath the waistband of his pants, and I close my eyes again, embarrassed at how turned on I am.
“The truth is, you have no idea what kind of man I am, do you, Chloe?”
I think about saying no. But I think I do know what kind of man he is. “No, sir,” I say. “I think I do know what kind of man you are.”
“Okay, Ms. Cavanaugh. If you know what kind of man I am, then why don’t you tell me?”
He slowly moves behind me, and I feel his hands on the hem of my skirt, pulling it up slowly. He arranges the material carefully around my hips, so that my ass is exposed to him.
I’m still not wearing panties – he took those from me earlier, and I haven’t put on new ones – and one of his hands palms my ass cheek, squeezing my flesh and then letting it drop.
“Um, you’re… I think you’re a good man,” I say. But I’m confused, not sure what the right answer is, my mind racing because of his touch, my thoughts scrambled.
“Do you now?” he says, amused. “Do you think a good man would do this?” He slaps my butt with his hand, just hard enough to make it bounce.
“I don’t...I don’t know, sir.” I say honestly as the pain begins to pulse through me. “I just know that you’re a good man.” I want him to know this, want him to know that I think he’s good, that what happened to him when he was younger doesn’t define him.
“If you think that, Ms. Cavanaugh, then I have done you a disservice.”
He reaches down and fists my hair, pulling me up until I’m flush against his body. I gasp at the power he puts
into it, and the intensity and surprise of the gesture. His body feels like a pillar of granite behind me.
“I am not a good man, and if you think that I am, it means that I’ve been too soft with you.” He yanks at my hair again, and the pain radiates from my scalp. “I’ve been treating you softly, but not anymore. This time, I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck you hard, and I’m going to make you come with my cock buried deep in that virgin pussy. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But first I’m going to spank you with this whip until you beg me to stop.”
He pushes me back down onto the bench.
“Spread your legs,” he commands. “So I can see your pussy from behind.”
I do as I’m told.
“That’s it, baby, push your ass into the air.”
I brace myself against the bench, and he makes me wait a beat before he starts, using his hand and not the whip.
The first blow stings.
The second blow stings more.
By the time he gets to ten, my ass is numb. The pain has given way to a relaxing, warm feeling that spreads over my skin and seems to sink deep into my body.
But I know he won’t let it last. Not after he told me that he’d been too soft with me.
“I’m going to whip you now, Ms. Cavanaugh.” His voice travels over my body, and he readjusts my skirt, making sure that it’s pushed up around my hips so that he can have full access. “Your ass is so red already. But I’m going to inflict more pain on you, do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.”
He trails the whip he’s holding down over my backside, and just that slight touch gives me shivers. He’s made my skin sore and raw already, and now he’s going to whip me.
“You will count each blow out loud.”
My eyes burn and my cheeks tingle with humiliation. I tighten my hands around the handles on the bench, holding them tight, bracing myself.
The first one comes, and it hurts to bad that my eyes water.
“Count, Ms. Cavanaugh.”
“One, sir.” My voice is weak, and I wonder how I’m going to get any more of this.
After the second blow comes, I suck a breath through my teeth.
“Two.”
He reaches down and slides his finger over my slit of my pussy from behind, the touch shocking. I’m so wet that he slips right through my folds.
“Are you enjoying this, Ms. Cavanaugh?”
“I don’t…I mean, I’m…. yes, sir.” I try to get control of my breathing, which is coming in ragged gasps.
“You do realize this is a punishment, don’t you, Ms. Cavanaugh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet that tight little cunt is so wet.” The whole time he’s talking, his fingers are playing lazily with my pussy, trailing over my clit, rubbing my own juices over the sensitive tissues. “Which means one of two things. Either I’m still not being hard enough on you, or you’re a dirty little slut who likes being humiliated.”
Tears slip down my cheeks, two slow, salty trails.
His finger slides slowly inside of me, first just the tip and then further and further to his knuckle, and then all the way.
He curves his finger inside of me and I gasp.
“Which is it?” he prompts.
I wriggle at the intrusion, trying to get more comfortable. But his hand presses against the small of my back, holding me down. I take a deep breath and try to steady myself.
“The second one, sir.”
“Say it.”
“I’m a dirty little slut who likes being humiliated.”
“Good girl.”
Another blow with the whip. He keeps his finger inside of me, adding to both the pain and the pleasure.
“Three,” I manage, remembering his instruction to count.
“Thank me.”
“Sir?”
“Thank me for whipping you.”
“Thank you, sir,” I whisper. “Thank you for whipping me.”
Another whip.
“Four.”
Another.
“Five.”
My voice is faint now.
Gage tosses the whip onto the floor, and I heard the clatter of it against the concrete a second before he takes my hips and flips me around. Now I’m pressed against the side of the huge leather bench, his lips just inches from mine.
For a second, the hard line of his jaw softens, the look in his eyes going from cruel and unbreakable to something else, something that looks like caring.
But then it’s gone, and he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he pushes me back down onto the leather, on my back this time, and then starts to tie me down.
There are straps – restraints – on each side of the bench, and when he’s done, I’m lying on my back, my wrists restrained, my ankles strapped down with my legs spread.
He leans down and breathes onto my exposed pussy.
“So wet, Ms. Cavanaugh.” He dips a finger into my channel and pulls it out, showing me the moisture there, my own arousal betraying me.
I close my eyes.
“No.” He slaps my pussy, and I cry out. “Eyes open.”
His tongue slides up my pussy, over my entire slit, and my body shudders in pleasure.
“Oh,” I say, my hands tightening into fists.
“You want to come already, don’t you, Ms. Cavanaugh?”
“Yes, sir.”
His stubble brushes over the inside of my thighs as he beings to kiss my pussy, open-mouthed, his tongue and lips working together in deft skill. The exquisite difference in the two sensations – the rough brush of his stubble and the wet slide of his tongue – is enough to almost push me over the edge to orgasm.
“Don’t come yet,” he growls. “Do you understand that you won’t come until my cock is buried inside of you?”
“Yes, sir.”
He continues to tease me with his mouth, in, out, over, across, slide, friction. He pushes me to the edge then backs off, playing with me until my toes are curled and my body is aching for release.
He finally backs off, then stands up, towering over me, all hard muscle and cords of strength.
I moan as he picks the whip up from the ground and slides it over my belly.
“Please,” I whimper.
“Please, what?”
“Please, I … “ I twist on the bench underneath me, as much as I can while being tied down. “I want you inside of me.”
He reaches down and pulls up my shirt, yanks my bra down and twists my nipple until I cry out.
“Is that what you want? You want to be fucked right here, your clothes still on, your hair disheveled, your skirt yanked to your waist, while I push past your virginity and make you cry?”
“Yes, sir.” My cheeks are flaming now with a humiliation so intense it feels like it’s moving through my veins, like it’s a part of me.
As if he wants to add to it, Gage walks until he’s on the side of me, unzips his pants and pulls out his cock.
My breath hitches at the size and width of it, and I gasp as he fists it, then slaps it against my cheek.
He pushes it into my mouth.
“Get me wet for your pussy,” he commands. “Just like that, yes, what a good little cocksucker you are.”
I suck greedily, until he pulls his cock from my mouth and replaces it with his balls. I don’t miss a beat, running my tongue along the outline of his balls. A deep groan escapes from Gage’s mouth.
I love that I’m having that kind of effect on him, and again, I slide the flat of my tongue over him, this time sucking softly.
He groans again and our eyes lock.
Something passes between us, something so intense and primal it’s like I can feel it in every part of me, every cell coming alive with such pleasure and a feeling of such closeness to him that it can’t be put into words.
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, the hard look on his face dropping for a moment, and then it’s back.
His strong arms hook under my knees, pulling them up so that my legs are spread even further. He lays his body down on top of mine.
“I’m going to fuck you hard and deep,” he murmurs against my lips, sending shivers down my spine. “I’m going to fuck you until you scream, until you beg me to stop and then beg me to keep going. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” And I do understand. I want this. My body is overriding my mind, wanting him so badly that when the head of his cock bumps against my opening, I almost lose control and come.
The tiniest bit of him slides inside of me, not breaching me yet, the head of him just a millimeter inside of me.
Already I feel stretched, even though I’m soaking wet from his tongue and his dirty words.
He pushes in just a tiny bit more.
Then he pauses, holding himself up over me.
At first, I think he’s doing it to tease me. He told me that he wasn’t going to be soft with me, and so of course he’s going to push into me when I least expect it.
I brace myself for the feeling of his thickness inside of me, but he doesn’t move.
Instead, he looks down at me again.
“Please,” I say. “I want it.”
I wait for him to prompt me, to tell me to tell him exactly what it is that I want.
When he doesn’t, I tell him anyway. “Please, sir. I want you to fuck me.”
“Chloe,” he whispers. “Jesus, Chloe.”
His gaze locks on mine, his muscles tight, his jaw strong. I arch up into him, desperate, waiting for him to sate the need inside of me.
Instead, he pulls away and begins to undo the restraints, first the ones on my wrists, then on my ankles.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer.
Instead, he turns toward the door, grabbing his shirt off the floor and tossing it over his shoulder angrily.
“Sir? Are you… are we….?”
He hesitates for a second, and then says, “You can sleep in the guest room three doors down on the right.”
And then, before he even waits for my answer, he walks out the door, leaving me alone in his room of torture, wondering what the hell just happened.
Chapter 5
