Chains hung from walls, and fixings on the floor had more chains attached. Racks holding paddles, whips and stuff he didn’t recognize dangled from hooks forged to look like skeletal hands. One wall was dominated by a giant steel spider’s web. No spider fortunately. He didn’t like spiders. He shivered. Was this really what he wanted?
A glance at Marina showed her watching him, taking in his reaction. She looked down at his dick, which appeared no more impressed by her toys than his brain. She opened a closet stuffed with clothes on hangers and stacked boxes. One was labeled strap-ons, a larger one said ropes. The other labels were in Croatian.
“Stand still,” Marina said.
Flint felt himself swaying. She moved up to him and circled, rubbing her body against his before she came to a halt in front of him.
“What you want, pain slut?”
Was that a question he was allowed to answer? He almost said love, and the thought made him smile because the one time he’d thought he’d felt it had been the biggest mistake of his life.
“Answer.” She stepped on his toe and he yelped.
“Beat the crap out of me.” The words sprang out unchecked, but wasn’t that what he really wanted, deep down? To be cleansed, to start again? To wipe the clichéd slate clean? He’d fucked around so much of his life, fucked up stuff he knew he shouldn’t have, treated people like shit while they had sucked up every word he said, and he’d wrecked anything good that had happened. A lot of times deliberately. Except for that one time two years ago when he’d been desperate to make his life what he wanted it to be and he’d ended up losing the most precious thing he’d ever had. Now, consumed by self-loathing, he seemed bent on self-destruction. He wondered how bad he could get before someone told him to stop. Was that what this was about? Did he want Marina to push him too far?
He made no objection when she fastened him to the web, his face to the wall. But when he shifted his feet so his tackle wasn’t wedged against one of the metal struts, she gave his backside a hard smack that made him jerk forward and bang his dick. He sucked in a breath at the pain.
The voice in his head began to yell louder, asking him what the fuck he was doing, drowning out the part that reminded him that he’d asked for this. Her warm breath on his neck made him tremble, her lemony scent filling his head. When she licked his shoulder a moan escaped from his mouth, but it wasn’t a moan of desire, though his cock twitched and began to swell. So one part of him was interested, the bit with no sense.
“Should I call you mistress?”
She was suddenly gone from behind him and he cried out when a whip struck his back.
“You don’t speak unless I tell you. You call me nothing. I have yet to decide if you are worthy to be my slave.”
Er—slave? That wasn’t what I signed up for. The next strike had him arching in agony. Now he hurt front and back. Shit.
“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think I am a pain slut.” I fucking know I’m not. What I am is a moron.
The whip flicked his backside and he hissed as he sucked in a breath.
“Fuck,” he gasped. “I mean it. This was for research purposes.” Possibly. “I need you to untie me now.”
He yelped as a flurry of strikes landed on his back and butt and legs, stinging like licks of fire. He wasn’t bleeding, was he?
“Marina, stop this now.”
She didn’t stop. Flint’s head felt as it were about to explode. He didn’t get why the pain was worse in his brain than his back or his arse. His cock was limp, his balls trying to find a hiding place in his throat. He needed the word to stop her but he was having trouble keeping his thoughts on track.
I’m not a submissive. At least he’d found that out. I already knew. He didn’t enjoy being tied up, helpless, having to trust someone. He’d learned the trust thing the hard way. He couldn’t think now why he’d wanted to try this, particularly with someone he didn’t know well. Christ, he’d once trusted someone he did know well and it had almost destroyed him. I’m an idiot. One cheeky grin after that cable snapped against him to make him lust after the long legs of Ms. Whiplash. Big mistake.
The whip came down again and again as if she had some personal gripe against him. Had she? What have I got myself into? She could kill him. It felt like she was fucking killing him. If this had been a search for whatever was missing in his life, he knew for absolute certain that BDSM with a cruel mistress wasn’t it. If Marina had been a dark-eyed, dark-haired male with tight lips and perfect fingers, would he still be thinking no? The whip skittered down his spine and he flinched. The word. Brain in gear. He opened his mouth to say it and it had gone. Shit.
“No more,” he gasped.
She yanked his head back by the hair. “How big can you take in your ass?”
What? She twisted his head and he saw a purple plastic dildo in her hand. The thing was huge and knobbly. No way.
“I’ve had enough,” he said. “I want to leave.”
She let go of his hair. His sigh of relief was cut off by his gasp as cold lube slid down the crease of his buttocks.
“I’ve forgotten my word. Stop. Please.”
He jerked against the wire frame when he felt the dildo slide down the seam of his backside.
“No,” he shouted.
When it burrowed deeper, he tried harder to wrench free. The pressure on his arse increased and Flint’s fear bubbled over. “I mean it, Marina. Fucking untie me. Right now.”
He clenched his muscles and yanked at the leather straps around his wrists, but she rocked the head of the dildo against his hole. He cried out in pain, humiliation and anger.
“Marina. Stop. This is rape. I’ve changed my mind.”
“Your word.”
“I can’t remember my fucking word.”
“You don’t want to remember. You bad boy. Want—need punishing.”
His heart raced. “I asked you to beat the crap out of me, not fuck me. This isn’t about sex. Not fucking me with a dildo anyway. If you don’t release me, I’ll go to the police once I’m out of here.”
He wouldn’t. How could he?
The bitch laughed. “You good actor.”
Flint wanted to cry. “I’m not fucking acting. What do I have to do to make you stop?”
“Give me word.”
What the fuck had he said? He sucked in a breath when the head of the dildo slid partway inside him. Oh Christ. He had to relax or this was going to hurt a hell of a lot more than it already did. Why couldn’t he remember the word? There was a tornado swirling in his head, and his eyes were going to explode.
What wouldn’t I want to say? What—?
“Love,” he blurted and the pressure on his arsehole disappeared. He bit back his sob.
She unfastened the straps around his ankles, then those at his wrists. His knees shook so much he had to hang onto the frame to stop himself falling. The collar came off his neck, and he took a deep breath as he turned to face her.
“Disappointing.” She sneered at him. “Come back when you ready not to say stop, when you ready to love what I can do for you.”
All he wanted was to get out of there. He stumbled up the stairs and let out a strangled groan of relief when he saw his clothes lying where he’d left them. He fumbled with his phone, called Josip, and dressed. The amount of trouble he had coordinating his movements alarmed him. He knew he’d done his shirt buttons up wrong, but didn’t care. Getting out was all that mattered.
Josip had to help him into the car, then out of the car and into the villa.
“Sure you okay?” Josip asked.
He nodded and slumped on the couch. When he’d pulled himself together, he’d go to bed and wipe tonight from his mind. Josip let himself out and Flint sighed. He ached. Not just his back and butt and legs from where Marina had whipped him and the discomfort from where she’d started to shove that dildo inside him, but all over, his arms, his feet, his neck, particularly on the right side of his body. He shivered. Maybe once he’d had
a few hours’ sleep, he’d feel better. He needed to drop straight off because Josip would return at seven to take them to the airport.
Flint pushed to his feet with no small amount of difficulty. He was halfway across the room when he suddenly staggered and knocked a vase off a table. It crashed to the ground and smashed. Shit.
He held his breath, hoping that Corin hadn’t heard, but she appeared at the door of the main bedroom. “What the hell?” She stalked toward him. “We’ll have to pay for that, idiot. Well, you will. How much did you have to drink?”
“Not…” was the only word he managed.
He tried to straighten and fell the other way, grabbing the back of a chair to stop himself tumbling.
“You’re disgusting.” She went back into the master bedroom and slammed the door.
Flint was so relieved to make it to his bed without tripping, he collapsed fully dressed and closed his eyes. Toeing off his shoes was as much as he could manage. What would Corin do if she woke and found him dead? Moan about the inconvenience, how selfish he was? Play the part of a grieving girlfriend and wallow in the attention? Yeah, that was exactly what she’d do.
I’m not going to die, though. But something was wrong, he just didn’t know what. Bad coke? Then why hadn’t anyone else been affected? Maybe they had been. But he was more inclined to suspect that something had been slipped into his drink, the opened bottle of beer he’d been handed. He’d sleep it off. Everything would be fine in the morning. For once, he felt like he really would sleep. He closed his eyes and tumbled into oblivion.
Chapter Two
Mollie heard the key turn in the front door just after she put the ironing board away. Lewin walked into the kitchen holding a huge bunch of flowers.
“Someone’s given you flowers again?” She pretended to scowl.
Lewin chuckled. She loved the way his face crinkled when he laughed, but keeping him happy seemed to be getting harder and harder. He wrapped an arm around her, kissed her on the neck and rubbed his stubble against her chin. Mollie shivered in delight. That always turned her on.
“Stick them in some water, Molls.”
She lifted the flowers from his hand and went over to the sink.
“Aren’t you going to thank me?” Lewin came up behind her.
Mollie turned to face him. “Sorry. Yes. Thank you. They’re lovely. My favorites.”
No matter what flowers he bought her, she said they were her favorite. It was their joke. She grabbed a vase from under the sink and filled it with water. She was grateful for the flowers, though a little bit of her wished he hadn’t bought them. It sometimes felt as if Lewin had a checklist of what to do to be a good boyfriend. Thursday—buy a big bunch of flowers from the garage on the corner. Saturday—buy a box of chocolates from the shop on the other corner. Sunday—buy croissants from the café next door. She knew she was being ungrateful, though she also knew he’d bought three of her birthday gifts from the garage, which annoyed her when she’d made so much effort to find the perfect presents for him.
Once she’d arranged the yellow and white daisies, she put the vase on the windowsill and turned to see Lewin staring at her. Before she could work out whether it was a good or a bad stare, Mollie stepped into his arms and kissed him. “You’re such a softie.”
“Don’t let my mates hear you say that.” He patted her on the backside. “Right, go and get changed.”
Mollie looked down at her dress. “I am changed.”
Lewin frowned and his brow furrowed into deep wrinkles. “You think that’s suitable?”
She tensed. His tone made it clear what he thought about her choice of dress.
“I thought you liked this one?” Last time she’d worn it, he’d wolf whistled.
“I do, but I don’t want every guy in the pub staring at your boobs thinking you’re a hooker.”
What? The material covered what she didn’t have much of and it wasn’t short. Why would anyone think she was a hooker? She almost opened her mouth to protest, but there was no point starting the evening with Lewin in a foul mood. She went into the bedroom with him on her heels, and pulled out her blue dress. “This then?”
“Yeah, I like that one. Hurry up. You’re going to make us late.”
Mollie bit her cheeks to stop herself from reminding him she’d been ready and had ironed for forty minutes while she’d waited for him to come home. She tossed the red dress on the bed and pulled on the blue while he was in the bathroom. It wasn’t such a big deal, changing to please him, but she’d noticed that he seemed to be picking fault with her more and more. Wear different shoes, curl her hair, don’t curl her hair, less lipstick, more lipstick. When she did stand up for herself, he acted hurt, telling her he only pointed these things out because he wanted her to be perfect. Mollie knew it was wrong that she’d let him get away with it so many times. I am not a doormat. I just want to make him happy. Being perfect isn’t important. But…
He emerged from the bathroom without his shirt and Mollie’s gaze dropped to the well-defined muscles of his chest and stomach. He had a great body, though he worked hard for it, going to the gym several times a week, eating healthily unless they went out with friends. So that went for her, too. She wondered if he looked forward to meals out as much as she did.
“Much better. Now you look beautiful.” Lewin slid his hands onto her backside and squeezed.
She melted against him. He didn’t melt against her, part of him was doing the opposite of melting. He nuzzled her neck and pulled her closer.
“You are such a little tease,” he whispered.
Am I? A moan slipped out of her mouth.
“Time for a quickie.” Lewin spun her around so she faced the bed. She heard the rasp of his zipper and the snap of latex before he yanked her dress up and her pants down.
“You…are…gorgeous,” he grunted as he pushed straight into her.
His hands slipped onto her breasts and his weight shoved her down onto the bed. Mollie found herself wishing he’d hurry up and get it over with and immediately felt guilty. But she did require a little more tuning up than her neck being nuzzled. Should she tell him? She could guess how that conversation would go—you have no idea about effective foreplay followed by a guy shifting straight into a world-class sulk—and kept quiet.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He moved faster and faster, driving into her in long, hard shunts until Mollie felt the beginnings of sexual interest stir in her core.
“I brought the handcuffs back,” he gasped. “We’ll try them out later.”
The sinking feeling following that announcement squashed any chance of her coming. Not that she was totally against handcuffs, but she’d have preferred the fluffy pink fun kind she could snap apart if she panicked, not the metal ones Lewin was talking about. He’d frightened her last time, even though he’d made it up to her afterward. But he was into kink, getting kinkier, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
Oh God, lying to myself? She knew how she felt. Kink wasn’t supposed to mean pain, was it? Not unless you both enjoyed it. It was power play and Lewin got off on it, she didn’t. She didn’t mind the filthy language, but she didn’t like the pinches and the slaps and the hands a little too tight around her neck. She gulped as she realized how far she’d let things slide.
“You close, Molls?” he asked.
No, I’m talking to myself so stop interrupting. It annoyed her that he had to ask. Why didn’t he know? She made some non-committal moaning sound, added a couple of grunts and took a few rapid noisy breaths to avoid lying and a moment later he stiffened against her as he came. For a fraction of a second she considered faking orgasm, but decided not to. She had once before, then stupidly confessed when he’d pushed her, and he hadn’t spoken to her for two days. On the third evening he’d returned home with a bottle of champagne and made sure she came. She’d hardly been able to walk the next day.
Lewin went to the bathroom to get rid of the condom and she put herself back to rights,
checking her face and hair in the mirror. If she wanted things to be better between them, she had to work at fixing them, get Lewin to see that he needed to change. But when he came back into the bedroom, he ignored her and her shoulders slumped. Now what have I done? Not come? I should have faked it. She grabbed her purse and followed him down the hall.
“You driving?” he asked, his tone curt.
“Okay.”
It might have been couched as a question but Mollie knew better. She took her keys to Lewin’s car from her purse. Just for once, she’d like to have been the one to have a drink or two, but it wasn’t worth the lecture about how selfish she was being when he’d had a rotten day dealing with pieces of shit just to keep people like her safe. Going out with a cop had turned out to be much harder work than she’d imagined, even a good-looking cop like Lewin.
Her ten-point turn to get out of the tight cul-de-sac put Lewin back in a good mood and she wasn’t going to risk ruining that by suggesting improvements to his lovemaking skills. He was almost crying with laughter by the time she had the vehicle facing the right way. She was petrified of denting his car or damaging the wheels on the curb, both of which would have brought out a furious Lewin. Better to make ten maneuvers and be sure. His laughter was worth it.
“Wait until I tell Jock,” he said. “You beat your own record tonight. I can’t figure out how you passed your test.”
“I passed first time, how many goes did it take you?”
She knew it was three. She also knew he didn’t like to be reminded it was three. Why did I have to say that? Because sometimes he pushed her into it.
“Who’s coming tonight?” she asked as they headed away from Surrey Quays toward Deptford.
“Usual gang. Mick and Jayne, Will and Sam, Jock and his current fuck.”
Talking Trouble Page 2
