Declan scanned the scene unfolding as he made his way back to the private rooms. An occupied grope box, the submissive’s Mistress inviting people all around to poke and prod her naughty plaything. With gusto, people pushed fingers and entire hands through all the holes. The St. Andrews Cross was no less an object of interest. A rather burly male adorned the heavy wooden frame with his hands and legs locked by ropes woven through “O” rings. The man’s naked backside faced the audience while he awaited his punishment. A violet wand tormented a blonde on the suspension swing. Heavy silver weights hung like Christmas decorations from her nipple and clit rings. Her Master wielded the electric wand as deftly as a magician; violet electric lines danced over her pale skin. Declan stopped, momentarily caught up in their spell. The electric lines both caressed and tortured her with their exacting demand of self.
Pulling himself out of the mesmerizing scene, he found the door where Lila said he could observe Griffin’s punishment. Lila was going to mete out his punishment herself, and when she was done with him, Declan could say his peace. Lila took orders from no one except for Owen, so Declan’s specific desires were, of course, mere suggestions. Owen had said being with Lila was akin to whiplash. Owen had never considered himself in a submissive role, but Lila had changed all that. He allowed her to beat him, but only for pleasure and not for punishment. He had informed her in exacting terms that they could continue to play together as long as she understood the rules were flexible and she could only be his Mistress when he said she could.
Declan smiled at that thought, knocked lightly on the door, and it opened slowly. Inside, the room smelled like sweat. It was a cold room with one light overhead and a rough-hewn wooden table in its center. Thick leather straps, the kind that cut into flesh, bound Griffin to its unforgiving surface. A ball gag rested in his mouth, and his legs were spread open and secured to a titanium spreader bar, which rendered him immobile. A hulk of a man had the skin of Griffin’s forehead pulled taught as he pressed the tattoo needle into his flesh.
“Good evening,” Lila spoke warmly to Declan. “Our Mr. Cohen is just putting the finishing touches on the tattoo for poor Mr. Griffin here.”
“It is a rather nice evening. I knew you provided excellent entertainment here, but I had no idea of your meticulous attention to detail until just now.” Declan moved closer to the table, inspecting the tattooist’s handiwork.
“Yes. Mr. Cohen is highly skilled when it comes to such delicate and discrete work.” Lila set one high-heeled leather boot atop Griffin’s thigh and dug in with the six-inch spike, making him groan as the point pierced his flesh, drawing blood. “Now, Mr. Griffin you must hold still, you wouldn’t want Mr. Cohen here to accidentally slip and hit your eye with that tattoo gun, would you? That might smart a bit, don’t you think?”
Declan stared as Griffin blinked as if in agreement. Whatever had gone on in this room in the past hour had obviously won him over to Lila’s unique methods for acquiescing.
“What do you think? Shall we have him pierced while Mr. Cohen is here?”
Declan gripped Griffin’s arm tightly as the talented Mr. Cohen carefully displayed a piece of cork, a rather interesting looking needle, and a rather painful looking receiving tube. “What do you think, Griffin? Do you think we should show you mercy and allow Mr. Cohen to pack up?”
Lila chimed in. “You certainly don’t show any of your submissives any mercy, do you, Mr. Griffin? I’m quite surprised it’s taken this long for anyone to exact revenge on you.”
Declan removed the ball gag from Griffin’s mouth. “You fucking whore, where the hell are you going to pierce me?” Griffin spat out.
“Now, now, Mr. Griffin, is that any way to speak to someone who holds your rather painful future in the palm of her hands?”
Declan replaced the gag as Lila held up a thick gauged silver ring and Griffin’s eyes grew wide. “Time to remove those oh so attractive boxers, Mr. Griffin.”
Griffin writhed in panic the best he could against his restraints as Mr. Cohen placed a meaty hand on his thigh.
“On second thought, I think we should be merciful this evening.” Declan released his grip on Griffin’s arm and extended his hand to shake Mr. Cohen’s. “Thank you for your fine work, Mr. Cohen. We will call you shall we require your services in the future.” The linebacker sized artist nodded and packed up his things.
Declan assisted Lila in removing Griffin’s gag, and then his restraints, sitting him up while Lila held a mirror out so Griffin could see the ink embedded in his forehead. Permanently front and center were the words “Punish Me” in a heavy, thick font.
“You forget you ever knew Charlotte Flynn. Do I make myself clear?”
Griffin nodded, spitting saliva from the side of his mouth. “Fuck, fine! Yes!”
“I protect what’s mine. Charlotte belongs to me. If you even so much as think of contacting the authorities about this, like she should have when you tortured her, I’ll fucking destroy you.”
Griffin nodded again, fear blazing in his eyes. Declan released his grip on him, rapping on the door to signal to Lila’s security team so they could remove Griffin.
Declan slipped into the back of the vehicle where Owen was waiting. There was a long silent moment before Owen broke it. “Any trouble?”
Declan shook his head. “Nope. Everything went as planned. The piece of shit is dealt with, and he’ll have to deal with the physical side effects of his haircut longer than Charlotte had to. Your Lila is something else.”
“That she is. And I’m ready to get home to her. I’m sure you’re more than ready to head home to Charlotte as well.”
Declan relaxed as the car crept out of the alley and into the night.
Chapter Fifteen
Who in their right mind goes running the week of Thanksgiving? Emerson, that’s who. It was freezing out. Charlie cursed him out as she glanced over the text message again. Not only did he insist she go running with him this morning, he instructed they meet in front of her favorite bakery. The hot and cold torture ate away at her. The arctic air burned her face and lashed at her legs through the fabric of her running pants while the smell of freshly baked pastry and hot espresso taunted her.
Charlie started to open the door to the bakery when she caught a glimpse of Emerson walking toward her.
“Charlie!”
“Morning.” She walked to meet him, stepping forward to wrap her arms around him, hugging him tightly.
“So six miles this morning?” Emerson smiled down at her.
Charlie moved back and smacked her brother on the shoulder. She hated when he was in town visiting. He always cajoled her into running with him. “You’re a sadist, aren’t you?” She laughed. “Why can’t we just go warm up with some espresso instead?”
“Running is good for you. It releases all the toxins from your body and mind. Besides, we both know you couldn’t manage yoga like Mikki. You’d fall flat on your ass.”
Emerson had a point.
***
“You do this every day?” Charlie panted. She could feel a trickle of sweat from her forehead coursing down her neck.
Emerson nodded, looking like he was just out enjoying a brisk walk. Charlie felt like she was going to die.
“How much farther?”
He looked over at her, smirking. “Three-quarters of a mile.”
She straightened up. I can do this. “Great.” Her lungs seemed to have filled with lead, and she could only take shallow, gasping breaths. “Feels amazing.”
“So, not cold any longer?”
“Not a bit.” Charlie could hear the blood surging through her veins. Their feet pounded on the trail, and no, she definitely wasn’t freezing anymore.
“So, how is your boyfriend?” Emerson asked, his breathing not even the least bit labored. “Are you bringing him to Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Umm … he’s not exactly my boyfriend,” she gasped. “Besides, I don’t know if he’ll be back in time.” It was the tr
uth after all, they weren’t exactly dating, and she worried that Mikki would confront him about the bruising. Moreover, she had a good excuse not to invite Declan; he was in Toronto working on finalizing some new distribution contract.
“Okay, completely your call. No pressure.”
Charlie collapsed to the ground, exhausted.
“It will get easier,” Emerson insisted, looking down at where Charlie sat, slumped over in a complaining heap on the ground. “Be patient.”
“Which, the whole Master/sub thing or the running?” She pulled a few blades of crunchy grass from the frost, mumbling. It was early, the sky was dull and gray, and she was sore in places she didn’t even know she owned.
“Both.” He stopped for a moment before adding, “And stop being so bratty.”
“What did you say?”
“Get your ass up here. Let’s go get an espresso and warm up.”
***
The door closed behind them, the soft snick echoing into the darkness as the latch caught.
His hand released hers without comment as she sidestepped into the bathroom, half-closing the door behind her. He made his way into the suite, flicking on the lamp, a subtle glow illuminating the room.
She heard the distant clink of glasses and the subtle pop of a cork easing from the confines of a bottle, as she prepared for the night.
She released her hair from the French braid she had so carefully wound only hours earlier for dinner, the pins dropping into the sink, one after another, allowing her thick dark locks to curl about her shoulders. She wiped the slick of red gloss from her full lips but left the traces of scent her perfume had imprinted on her skin. It wasn’t expensive—she’d picked it up at the counter on impulse when shopping for stockings at a local department store. He had liked it, and so it became her signature scent, replacing the more costly Chanel she was so fond of wearing.
They had spent a long time getting to know one another over the course of the summer, there had been no rush, no hurry, no pressure. She stared at her reflection in the mirror wondering how it was that she felt so safe with him, so tethered to him.
As she walked back into the bedroom, he moved to stand behind her, lacing his fingers through hers and wrapping her in both their arms. She relaxed into his embrace, dropping her head forward. He reached up and brushed her hair to one side, kissing her neck. She reveled in the pressure of his lips and the warmth of his breath as he murmured something.
She kept her eyes closed, and her head bowed, enjoying the pleasure of his mouth against her skin. She moved with him, offering no resistance to his direction. Holding her just a little tighter, his stubble brushed against her earlobe as he whispered, “Open your eyes, Emma.”
Emma lifted her head, taking in the room around her. The moment her gaze focused on the bed, she froze in his arms.
“Oh! I, umm, no … Please, not …” she choked out.
“Emma.” He spun her to face him, looking intently at her.
“Yes …”
“What do you think is going to happen? I’m not going to touch you unless you ask me to … ”
She watched him, struggling to regain her composure. His stare danced across her, and he inhaled slightly. Her mind searched to explain her own physical reaction, dismissing the dampness between her thighs as a consequence of his kisses, but knowing it wasn’t quite true.
An open cello case rested on the bed, nestling a beautiful dark cello within its plush velvet lining. It was just like the one in the picture she had sent him.
He smiled softly, taking both her hands in his own. “If you do ask me, then I shall play our own private concerto. I shall play you, Emma, just like in the picture.” He looked at her intently. “And if you don’t, I will pack the instrument away and we shall do whatever you choose for the rest of the evening … ”
“I don’t … I don’t know.” She stared at the cello and then back at him.
He walked slowly to the bench at the bottom of the bed and sat down, spreading his knees. He beckoned her with his stare.
She shuddered at the realization that she wanted this.
He smiled at her, picking a bow from the case behind it. He held it up to his nose, inhaling deeply. “Rosin,” he said nonchalantly. “Almost my favorite scent.”
She exhaled deeply and with trembling hands, fumbled with the little buttons on the front of her dress, turning away to ease the material from her shoulders and drop the dress on the bed. Emma stood in just panties and stockings, focusing on the wall in front of her, trying to ignore the sensation of his gaze trailing across her flesh. Her panties joined her dress on the bed and she turned to face him, wrapping her arms across her nakedness.
“Please, will you play me?” she requested in a hushed tone.
“Yes,” he spoke softly, “but on one condition. You have to let go. Let the tears flow and don’t try to hold back or wipe your eyes. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl, now kneel and ask me again properly.” He untucked his shirt from his pants and unbuttoned it.
“Please, Sir,” she pleaded, kneeling between his spread legs, her hands on his thighs, fingers lingering near his crotch. “Please,” she looked up at him. “Will you make me your instrument, Sir? Will you play me, please?”
Wordlessly, he reached around her neck, sliding her hair forward over each shoulder as he placed a light kiss on her forehead. His hand moved up to take a firm but gentle grasp of her neck, sending shivers down her spine.
The bow began its pass, back and forth over her spine, in what she recognized as four-four time. She looked up quizzically at him, and he smiled, closing his eyes and rocking slightly with the motion of the bow as though he was losing himself in the unheard music.
Emma opened her mouth to speak but then thought better of it, giving herself over to the hypnotic movement of the bow as she floated into the sensations.
He paused a moment, tracing her spine with one hand. She heard a dull click as he released the second bow from the case. His fingers were gentle, whispering over her skin as he hummed.
The bow returned to her skin, but it felt different. She felt a scratch, but first dismissed it as fantasy, and then the itch burned. The sensation went cold, then warm, and then began to sting as she tensed and relaxed. She tried recapturing the trance, but it evaded containment, her pulse racing. The bow continued its passage back and forth across her back, increasing in pressure until a sharp bite caused her to tense again. It bit and cut over and over, her eyes brimming with tears.
He knew her pain. He restrung the spare bow with wire himself and cut his finger in the process. He marveled at her calm acceptance of this exquisite torture. Her maestro leaned down and kissed her cheek, fueling their mutual ardor.
She felt the warmth of her blood trickle down her back as he continued the same pattern of strokes across her spine.
Over and over …
Deeper and deeper …
He continued showering her with light kisses on her hair as she wept and shuddered. He played her as though he owned her, and for now he did. As her weeping turned to sobs, he set the bow aside and cradled her in his arms, brushing her hair out of her face, and holding her tightly. There is time for an interlude, and there will be more, so much more.
“Holy fuck!” Charlie’s hand clamped her mouth immediately after the words escaped her lips. She looked around to see if anyone heard her unintended outburst, laughing when she remembered she had the house to herself tonight. Mikki, Aaron, and Emerson were at the movies and Declan was out of town on business. There were no witnesses to her reaction.
She contemplated how to best research this portion of the book for a moment, and then decided perhaps she would find a cello concerto to listen to. Could something like a cello bring about such a hypnotic state of mind? She turned on her laptop, opened up Spotify and typed in “hypnotic cello concerto.” A long list of items appeared, so she scrolled until she found a composer whose name she
recognized, Schuman, and selected the first movement from Fantasiestucke. Closing her eyes, she immersed herself in the fluid, rich sounds of the concerto. The lush swell of the notes sucked her under a wave of passion and emotion, and her thoughts traveled to Declan.
Charlie closed her eyes to imagine it better. Played … like an instrument … oh my God, people actually did that? She was unsure if she liked the idea or not; she needed to test it out and taste her initial reaction. People did that? Charlie didn’t think that people did that, but if anyone did do it, Declan definitely could. Maybe. Perhaps. And if he did it to me, would I like it? Maybe. Or maybe not. What if the pain overcame the pleasure, and then I hated it and him?
She found it all exhausting. She didn’t want to and didn’t mean to, but she drifted into a light sleep. An early evening nap of sorts, right? Nothing wrong with that, except she didn’t mean to do it. She had wedding favors to assemble and Mikki to answer to if she didn’t finish them. There were no attempts to fight it, only shallow breaths, and dreamy thoughts.
Charlie shifted in her sleep, reaching out for something. Mumbling through a yawn, she blinked her eyes, glancing around the room with a hazy, dreamy gaze.
“Declan?”
“Charlotte,” he whispered.
“When did you get here?”
“Just about an hour ago.” He tended to the fire as the snow continued to fall outside.
“It’s cozy. Lay down with me, please? We don’t need to … I would really love to take a nap with you though.”
“All right,” Declan whispered. “Only a short nap.”
“Yes.” Charlie offered a sleep-heavy giggle.
***
Charlie lay on the floor in front of the hearth, huddled in blankets, dozing. She vaguely recalled that Declan had left her there. Through half-lidded eyes, she glanced toward the window where Declan stood. He was looking out of it, not bothering to spare her a glance, intent on his current task.
Push (Bound #1) Page 16
