by Wendy Leigh
Chapter Sixteen
“No riding crops, no canes, no punishment, no tests, just the two of us, alone together in paradise,” Robert says as we are about to leave Hartwell Castle, bound for a romantic interlude in Palm Beach to celebrate my upcoming birthday.
Then he kisses my neck so passionately that I can’t catch my breath.
“You mean just vanilla?” I say once I’ve recovered.
“For the first time in your life, Miranda. I think it could be good for you,” he says, and gives me one of his devastatingly seductive smiles, the kind that makes me feel as if he has just stripped me naked.
“But will you like it, Robert?”
“As long as I’m with you, Miranda, I will. I just want to give you a new experience, one I think it’s time you had; otherwise you won’t ever really know any other alternative to dominance and submission,” he says.
It’s as if he has morphed into a father, trying to educate me for my own benefit, and I feel slightly uncomfortable.
So I change the subject by asking him whether we are going to stay on board the Lady Georgiana, as I know that she is sometimes berthed in Palm Beach.
He pulls away from me, stiffens, and then shakes his head.
“Too many memories,” he says. And then I realize the reason that we didn’t stay in his castle in Switzerland but in a hotel in Geneva.
Too many memories of Georgiana. Of the good times, as well as the bad.
“But we’re staying somewhere just as wonderful as the yacht,” he says, and I can’t wait.
As the limo speeds from Palm Beach International Airport along South Ocean Boulevard, I sit close to Robert, dazzled by the soft sunlight, the blueness of the sea, and the endless horizon of my happiness at this romantic escape he secretly arranged for us.
Then, right on the edge of the ocean, Eau Palm Beach Resort and Spa comes into view.
“All of it, just for us,” he says.
He has rented out an entire superluxury hotel and spa, just for the two of us!
At the end of the imposing drive, on the hotel’s terrace, the hotel’s managing director is waiting and presents me with the biggest bunch of red Baccarat roses I’ve ever seen in my life.
Then Cristal in the lobby before we are escorted up to our suite.
“Must have named it just to please you, Robert,” I whisper to him when I see the sign on the door: “The Commander-in-Chief Suite.”
“Don’t push it, Miranda, I could still . . .” he whispers back, and the vision of me over his knee flashes through my mind and I blush.
“The suite has been so named because of the US presidents who have graced us with their presence, from President Clinton to President Obama,” says the hotel’s managing director, who must have great hearing.
Then we step into the suite, and in front of us a magnificent view of the Atlantic Ocean beyond our terrace, dark blue and stretching out into infinity.
Infinite. Just like our love will be, just as long as I can help Robert transcend the shadows of his past, and also work through my own, as well.
But not here, not during our glamorous Palm Beach interlude. An interlude so romantic that on our bed the hotel has arranged shimmering rose petals. Roses without thorns and perfect.
Just like our time here is destined to be.
Twilight, we are strolling along our private beach, hand in hand, while the scent of the ocean fills the air.
Then dinner by candlelight at Angle, the resort’s signature gourmet restaurant, where we sup on intricate and sophisticated creations starting with pea and coconut soup with crème fraîche, which Robert feeds me, spoonful by spoonful, as the waiters keep a discreet distance from us.
Then wild Atlantic salmon, followed by Chocolate Indulgence, a combination of dark chocolate mousse and chocolate mint sorbet that has my name on it.
“You must have ordered it for me specially, Robert,” I say.
“No, my darling, sometimes serendipity takes a hand.”
He’s right, and I raise my glass of Cristal and say, “I’d like to make a toast to our serendipity: my sister, Lindy.”
And we do.
After supper, when we are alone in the hotel’s Serenity Pool, a sensational beachside pool that gives the illusion that it is part of the Atlantic, swimming together, naked, Robert brings up Lindy’s name again.
“Lindy will make a beautiful bridesmaid,” he says.
I burst into tears of happiness as, above us, a thousand fireworks explode and form the words Marry Me, Miranda.
“Is that an order or a question, Robert?” I say once he’s kissed the tears of happiness off my face.
His answer is to pick me up in his arms and carry me into the hotel and up to our suite, where he sweeps the rose petals off our bed and starts to make passionate love to me, as I marvel at his strength and power.
And all through it he looks straight into my eyes, and between every movement, every thrust, he whispers words of love to me, as we come together gloriously.
I make a silent wish to freeze this moment, this night, and stay in it for all eternity.
“Yes, Robert, I will marry you,” I say, and as he kisses me, a thousand fireworks explode within me.
The following morning, after a champagne breakfast on our terrace, we visit the spa, where Spa Fairies dressed as angels greet us and I have the opportunity to make a wish at the spa wishing well.
Never let me go, Robert, never let me go, I wish, although I’ll die before I tell him, for fear of jinxing it.
Our days at Eau glitter by us like a beautiful dream. And while we are there, I never once have my nightmare.
Instead, each and every night, I sleep in Robert’s arms, snuggled up close to his broad chest, his strong arms around me, feeling safer than I could ever imagine.
During in-between time we play pool on the table in our suite, and he wins so resoundingly that I tell him I feel like switching roles and giving him a good spanking.
“Dream on, Miranda,” he says, then scoops me up in his arms, takes me out by the pool, puts me in the swing chair, and makes love to me so vigorously that I almost faint from pleasure.
I bask in my time here with Robert. We are together 24/7, except when he works out in the gym and impresses me with his dedication to fitness. Meanwhile, I have a makeover in the spa, then a massage, and float away as I relive in my mind every minute of our time here.
On our last night, we stroll along the beach, hand in hand, as the sun sets into the Atlantic Ocean. Then we dine by an open fire pit, while a cabaret singer sings love songs, just for us. She ends her performance with Edith Piaf’s anthem, “Hymne à l’amour,” sung in French.
When she sings the first line of the song, “Le ciel bleu,” Robert whispers “The blue sky” to me, and then translates the rest of the lyrics, ending in the sentiment that no matter what befalls the lovers in life, they will always have each other, never leave each other, always be together, no matter what.
“Our song, Miranda, now and for always,” Robert says, and all I can do is nod, my heart is so full of love for him.
On the way to the airport, Robert asks the limo driver to make a detour, and suddenly we are on Worth Avenue, Palm Beach’s equivalent to Geneva’s Rue du Rhône, where he bought me so many beautiful things.
“Please, no more, Robert,” I say, not wanting him to shower me with gifts all the time.
“Just a small birthday gift, Miranda,” he says, and stops the limo and gets out in front of an antique store, the pride of the avenue.
Five minutes later he’s back in the car again, carrying a large gold package.
Assuming that he is about to give it to me, I reach to take it, but he pulls it away from me.
“Not until ten minutes after midnight on the morning of your birthday,” he says.
Two minutes after midn
ight on the morning of my birthday, and, at my request, Robert and I are alone together in the Honeymoon Suite.
The suite where he spent his wedding night with Lady Georgiana, the suite that he has never since entered.
Of course, I feel strange being here, in the Honeymoon Suite, where he and Georgiana spent the first night of their marriage. But I wanted us to be together here, just once, so as to erase the past once and for always.
The Honeymoon Suite, a poem to opulence, is filled with ornate gold, violet, and silver furniture, gilded mirrors, and candelabras, and has large windows framing Long Island and, in the distance, the shimmering edifices of downtown Manhattan.
Just as Robert has decreed, I stand before him, naked but for jeweled, diamond-encrusted stilettos.
In six-inch heels, with my legs apart, I struggle to maintain my balance.
A challenge.
But then, challenging me has always been his forte.
On his instructions:
My hair is piled high, secured with five diamond clasps.
My fingers are locked tightly behind my neck.
My makeup is exotic.
My eyes are lowered.
When he finally allows me to look up at him, he takes my breath away.
The desire reflected in his smoldering emerald eyes causes me to flinch with a combination of intense pleasure and extreme sexual tension.
For the heat and the passion he exudes are contrasted by the determined set of his sensual and unyielding mouth.
Though torn by my fear of what he has in store for me, I am wet and throbbing.
I avert my eyes from him.
As he towers over me, I am suddenly enveloped by the extraordinary heat of his magnificent body.
“Present your breasts,” he orders.
I instantly unclasp my fingers from behind my neck and cup my breasts so that they thrust up, out, and toward him.
I start to tremble in anticipation of what he is about to inflict upon me.
Cool, confident, and knowing, he attaches nipple clamps to each of my breasts and I wince.
The two clamps are connected by a heavy silver chain.
The weight of the chain pulls on the clamps and increases the pressure on my trapped nipples.
I grit my teeth, determined not to cry out until he gives me permission.
“Hands behind your neck again,” he orders.
I obey, thus raising my breasts so that the chain swings, then drops, causing the clamps to tighten on my nipples excruciatingly.
My humiliation mingles with the acute pain I feel and, of course, the pleasure.
An intoxicating combination.
“Now close your eyes,” he says.
I obey.
I hear him stride away.
Leaving me bereft, the clamps affixed to my breasts, the chain taut, the weight of it tugging on my nipples, distending them.
After what seems like hours but is probably only a few minutes, I feel the heat of his body against mine once more.
“It’s exactly ten minutes after midnight on the morning of your birthday. Open your eyes, my darling,” he says, his voice gentle and caressing.
As the light strikes the emerald, gold, and diamond cuff he is holding in the palms of his big, strong, muscular hands, I am lost in wonder at its savage beauty. Gold, diamonds, and emeralds. Emeralds even darker than the dark emerald of his eyes.
“Once Marlene Dietrich’s, and now yours,” he announces gravely.
I am speechless.
But before I can summon up any words to express how overwhelmed I am by his generosity, he places a black silk scarf around my eyes, which, despite the thickness of his long fingers, he is able to tie in a tight knot.
Then he removes the clamps and I feel stabbing pain, then sweet relief.
He is standing so close that his rock-hardness presses into me.
The promise is so seductive that I long to touch him, to run my hands through his lustrous jet-black hair, to kiss his mouth, his face, all of him.
However, I know better.
At this point in the proceedings, he—and only he—will decide what will happen next.
Consequently, my moment of ecstasy is brief, for he attaches the clamps to my nipples again.
And as he abruptly steps away and lets the chain fall, I am plunged into agony.
He removes the blindfold.
“Look down at your breasts, my darling,” he says.
I do, and then I understand.
On the chain joining the left and right clamps attached to my engorged and tormented nipples, he has hung Marlene Dietrich’s cuff.
He has hung a love goddess’s ransom between my breasts, close to my heart.
A love goddess’s ransom, which—with the gold, diamonds, and emeralds—weighs at least a pound.
As the cuff swings between my breasts, the combined weight of the clamps, the cuff, and the chain distends my nipples viciously and the pain is unbearable.
I am close to breaking.
But as I gaze into his eyes, they flame with a love and passion so bright, so intense that it eclipses the light of any jewel and reverberates through my heart, my body, and my soul.
The moment belongs to us.
As the lyrics of “our” song say, I am his, now and for all eternity, and he is mine.
We go to sleep in each other’s arms. Then, in the small hours of the morning, I sleepwalk, fling open the closet opposite our bed, and put on a long, white lynx coat, nestling it around my naked body.
My eyes, I know from experience, are wide open. But I’m still in my sleepwalking state.
Suddenly Robert is by my side; he takes in the situation and carries me back to bed, still in the lynx.
When I’m fully awake, and realize that I was sleepwalking, he explains that I took the lynx from one of the closets.
“May I see what’s in the rest?” I say when I’m fully awake and curious.
Without hesitating, he slides open the second closet door to reveal rows of gowns, all different shades of purple.
Then he opens the third closet. Rows of shoes. All purple. All with five-inch heels.
“Tall as she was, she longed to be even taller,” he says.
Once upon a time, his statement would have made me feel insecure and competitive with Georgiana. She longed to be taller? So do I. Am I like her? Or aren’t I? And so on. But now that I know the whole truth, all those fears and insecurities are a distant memory for me.
Robert opens the fourth closet door to reveal tray upon tray of necklaces, chokers, bracelets, rings, earrings, brooches. All diamond.
“Always diamonds. No sapphires. No rubies. And no emeralds,” he says.
Then he flings open the fifth closet door, the door directly facing the bed, and sweeps aside the clothes hanging there.
And looks into the back wall of the closet, horrified.
“The secret door,” he says, almost to himself. “After what happened, I ordered it to be cemented over. But it’s not. It’s open!”
His face is dark as thunder.
Then he takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, Miranda, it’s your birthday and I don’t want to spoil it. This will have to wait until tomorrow. Security will deal with it then,” he says firmly, and pulls me close to him.
Then we kiss as if this were the very first time we kissed, or the very last.
As we lie together on the canopy bed I cling to Robert, careful not to snag him with the emerald cuff I am still wearing so proudly on my wrist.
First a romantic Palm Beach interlude. Then Marlene Dietrich’s gold, diamond, and emerald cuff. The best birthday gifts I’ve ever received in my life. And the best birthday surprises. Except for . . .
“I wish I could forget . . .�
�� I start, then stop myself because the pain of remembering is unbearable.
“Forget what, Miranda?” Robert asks, his voice full of concern.
I don’t want to remember, but I owe him an answer.
“The special birthday surprise with which Grandpa always ended every one of my birthdays, Robert.”
“A special birthday surprise? You’ve never mentioned that to me before,” Robert says, leaning toward me intently.
“Oh, I always loved it. My grandfather screening me the movie he’d spent all year secretly making of me,” I say, adding, “His movies were so brilliant, you see, because before he became an astrologer, he was a cinematographer.”
“You once said something to me about your grandfather knowing Georgiana for a short time,” Robert says slowly.
I feel a stab of guilt.
“That’s not the whole truth, I’m afraid, Robert. Grandpa made me promise not to tell you. And I trusted him my whole life, so I didn’t.”
“You don’t have to be loyal to your grandfather anymore, Miranda,” he says.
I take a deep breath.
“Grandpa was Georgiana’s astrologer. From the time she was in finishing school in Switzerland, and then when she moved to America afterward,” I say.
“Show me a picture of your grandfather, Miranda,” Robert says.
Mesmerized, I open my wallet and take out the picture of Grandpa I always keep in there.
He stares at the picture for what seems like ages.
Then he turns to me.
“When I last saw your grandfather, he was calling himself William Masters,” he says.
At that exact moment, there is an almighty bang and all the lights go out, leaving us in total darkness.
I feel a sharp object shoot into the back of my neck.
I hear a woman laughing.
Her laughter is like the sound of glass shattering.
And the air is filled with the scent of violets.
Don't miss the rest of the Unraveled Series by Wendy Leigh!
Coming summer 2015 from Pocket Star! And look out for the third installment in fall 2015!
