Perfect Vision (The Vision Series Book 2)

by L. M. Halloran

  When that piece of my soul—formless, nameless—was torn out, its ichor stained what was left of me. Even the idea of sharing tender intimacy with a man makes my hackles rise. A relationship? Shared dreams and long talks and private laugher? Panic-inducing.

  Cross was right—I don’t want him to be kind.

  I’m not so far gone that I can’t admit I’m not a pillar of psychological health. If Cross knew the real reason I want him, he would’ve never agreed to our arrangement. Yes, I want his touch. His mouth, teeth, hands. Other parts of him, too, if I’m honest with myself. But sexual gratification and emotional catharsis aren’t my end goals.

  I want punishment.

  At exactly five-fifty that evening, I ring the bell beside the black door. A small crackle from an intercom precedes a curt, “It’s unlocked. Come up. Present at the top of the stairs.”

  Am I doing this?

  I’m doing this.

  I open the door with a steady hand and slowly ascend. Each step brings me closer to him. Closer to what he can give me. Excitement trills in my blood; my heart flutters and accelerates.

  If it weren’t for Nate’s coaching and help this evening—not to mention his soundtrack of obnoxiously catchy dance music—I might be more nervous. But there was something calming about the lengthy routine. Showering, shaving, slathering on almond body oil. Drying, then straightening my hair. Putting on the lingerie Nate surprised me with, brand-new with the tags still on. The flirty red dress, the sky-high heels.

  Steph arrived halfway through to apply my final layer of armor—makeup that transformed me into a sexy version of myself. The process and result reminded me of tagging along with Paris to college parties and clubs, and special nights out with girlfriends.

  This night is special, too.

  When I reach the top of the stairs, I stop and clasp my hands before me. Head lowered, I wait. Soft music filters through the loft, along with street noise from an open window. The air is cool, scented with savory aromas from the kitchen.

  Finally, soft footsteps pad across hardwood until his legs fill my line of sight. “Hello, London.”

  It’s that tone. I haven’t heard it since my interview months ago, and then it wasn’t even directed at me. Smooth and rich, indefinably powerful. A voice that doesn’t demand obedience but manifests it.

  My skin tightens. My knees weaken.

  “Sir,” I squeak.

  “Take off your shoes.”

  I toe them off. One of them falls over. I stare at it, frozen with uncertainty. Do I pick it up?

  Cross reads my mind. “Leave them. I’m going to walk you through how I’d like you to present yourself for our assignations. On your knees.”

  I release a pent-up breath and drop to my knees.

  “Sit on your heels. Hands in your lap. Yes, like that. Shoulders back. Perfect. This is how you’ll present unless I specify otherwise. Now, lift up and tuck your toes. Spread your knees. Farther… there. Hands laced behind your neck. When I ask you to display, this is how I want you.”

  Obeying him is surprisingly easy. Intellectually relieving, even. Here and now, I don’t have to be in charge of my life. I could never live like this day in and day out, but for brief periods? So far, it’s fucking magical.

  My breath comes raggedly, audible to my ears. The position isn’t comfortable, its intent obvious. My back is slightly arched, my breasts straining against the bodice of my dress. And if I were naked, I’d be completely exposed. The thought brings warmth to my chest and face—and a throbbing awareness between my legs. Closing my eyes, I imagine it. Having his eyes on me, watching, wanting…

  Giving voice to my fantasy, he says, “You present or display for me naked, London. Do you have a problem with that?”

  I shake my head.

  “Good.”

  The edge of satisfaction roughens his voice, and pleasure swells inside me. I remember Charlie’s advice, to think of this as an adventure, at the end of which I’d know if the lifestyle is for me. But she was wrong. I already know.

  “Look at me, London.”

  I lift my head, feeling drugged and loose-limbed. Standing above me, his hands tucked into his pockets, his black dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, Dominic looks anything but aroused. Severe. Coolly judging. Not angry, but tense with purpose. It’s exactly what I wanted—exactly what I need. I don’t know what’s coming, but I hope it hurts.

  A small softening of his intensity. An infinitesimal curl of his lips. Then, “Do you like chicken piccata?”

  Thrown, it takes me a few seconds to reply, “Yes, sir.”

  Cross nods. “Up you go, then. Take a seat at the table. White wine or water?”

  He walks away, leaving me wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Halfway to the kitchen, he glances back. His lips quirk higher.

  “We’re having dinner, London. Then we’re talking about the contract.” His head tilts. “I didn’t take you for the house slave type.”

  “I’m not, sir,” I say quickly.

  He watches me a moment more with that level stare that does spirally, tight things to my core. “Do I need to tell you again to sit at the table?”

  I scramble to my feet.

  “Since you didn’t answer my question, you’re having water.”

  20

  Dinner is uncomfortable. An awkward first date with stilted conversation. Not helping is my general edginess as I try to act like I’m supposed to while also keeping up with boring small talk. And saying sir a lot, which is starting to grate on my nerves.

  Cross sits opposite me, but he might as well be in another room. He eats as he does everything else, with purpose and poise. In a conversational lull, I try to picture him as a young soldier, bright-eyed and smooth-faced. It’s hard. On the other hand—thanks to Hollywood and his physique—I can easily imagine him as a super-soldier. Face camouflaged with black paint, a wicked knife in his hand. Big gun strapped to his back with ammo wrapped around his torso. Running toward an enemy yelling, “Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker!”

  I cover my smile with my napkin.

  “You’re not eating.”

  His voice wipes the smile off my face. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Cross throws his napkin on the table. “For fuck’s sake, London, look at me.”

  Startled, I meet his gaze, taking immediate note of the ticking in his jaw. My stomach sinks. “Sir? Have I done something wrong?”

  He swipes a hand down his face, mulling thoughts, then sighs heavily. “Your behavior during dinner has been perfect, but I’m not interested in a slave. In fact, I wish you’d stop acting like someone you aren’t.”

  I blink. “I thought… um, how do you want me to act, sir?”

  Cross leans forward, features tight and fierce. “Cut the shit and tell me what you want.”

  My palms are sweating, nerves clamoring. No, no, I’m ruining this. Looking around the loft wildly, my gaze hits and snags on a St. Andrews Cross. It’s beautiful, handcrafted wood. Oak or maybe ash. Black restraints wait for wrists and ankles. The piece dominates a white wall; subtle lighting makes the wood glow.

  “You want that, do you?” he asks, tone lightly mocking.

  I gaze at it another moment, then meet his stare. “Yes, sir.” My voice—unlike the rest of me—is calm and confident.

  At my answer, something changes in him. Nothing quantifiable. More like a door opening in another room, or a shift of light just before dawn—too faint to see but nevertheless detectable to the senses. The air changes between us. Crackling with promise that wipes away the last forty minutes of superficial chitchat about the weather, current events… All of it disappears.

  My breath hitches. His gaze narrows.

  “I want pain,” I tell him. Unspoken is the conclusion, You want to deliver it.

  “Give me the contract.”

  I jump to obey. In reaching for my purse, I knock a fork off the table. My face hidden beneath the surface, I freeze, half in embarrassment, half in excitement. Will he punish
me now?

  “Nervous little kitten,” he murmurs. “We’re not playing yet.”

  The words are flame to dry kindling. I’m instantly aching. Singular in my want. Him. And when the thought arises that I’ve never felt this intensity of need before, I slam it down. It’s just been a long time. It’s the newness. The illicitness.

  “Quit stalling,” he snaps.

  All doubts and insecurities dissolve in the onslaught of nuclear desire. I grab the fork and the contract, handing the latter to him and setting the former near my plate with a trembling hand. Cross scans the contract, spending long minutes on my checklist of limits. Though he wears a detached expression, I sense his readiness. He is predator in repose, ever aware of his prey, merely waiting for the perfect moment to act.

  Finally, just when I think I might die without some release of the pressure inside me, he looks up and smiles. Slow and satisfied. It’s not a nice smile—not kind—but it’s everything I want.

  Everything.

  “Stand up, kitten.”

  I stand, my bare toes curling against the wood.

  “Listen very carefully,” he says, standing and walking around the table to my side. Pinching my chin lightly, he lifts my face and catalogues my features with precision; memorizing me, unmaking and remaking me. “From this moment on, you do exactly as I say when I say it. If you don’t want to do something, you use your safe word. What is it?”

  Staring at his firm, perfectly shaped mouth, my own lips part. “Felix, sir,” I whisper.

  He nods, expression hard and sharp. “Very good. I’m in a giving mood tonight. I’m going to whip you, and then I’ll make you come. If you come before I give you permission, I’ll forgive you this once. But from now until this is over, your orgasms belong to me. Understood?”

  All I can manage is a nod.

  “Voice,” he snaps.

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  Touch me more. I’m burning. Please, please.

  Cross steps back. My chin tingles with an echo of his warm fingers. When his lips curl again, there’s the undeniable edge of cruelty. He knows exactly how aroused I am—and he likes denying me pleasure. It’s a torture I didn’t consider, didn’t crave. But I understand now that it’s pain. Different, but just as exquisite.

  “Stand facing the cross. Dress and bra come off. Leave the panties.”

  My feet barely acknowledge the ground as I walk across the room. I’m not sure how I make it to the cross without falling on my face, but I do. As I draw down the side-zipper and let the dress pool at my feet, I have no shame at my near-nakedness. Still none when I unclasp my bra and it falls atop the dress. My loose hair slides across my bare back, heavy and soft.

  Staring at the subtle whorls in the wood before me, I feel… weightless. Insulated. Sensual. Like an ancient goddess readying for a mighty ritual. Like nothing and no one can touch me.

  Cool air on my spine is the only warning I have before my head is jerked back. Pain shimmers white at the edges of my vision. The thick cable of my hair secured in one hand, Cross steps close. Hard thighs meet the curve of my ass, my thong a laughable barrier for the thick ridge of his cock. Lowering his face to the exposed side of my neck, he breathes against my skin. There’s no contact other than breath, but my body reacts almost violently. I barely hold back a moan.

  “Did you really think it was linear?” he whispers. “A to B, pain then pleasure? Oh, little kitten, you have so much to learn.”

  His lips find my neck, grazing, then pressing firmly. Kisses trail from my ear to my collarbone, each sensation compounding until I’m lost in soft, hazy pleasure. For a moment, I wonder if this might be enough, that perhaps I don’t need—

  Vicious teeth.

  “Oh, God,” I rasp, jerking against unforgiving wood.

  A second later, my ass is on fire. When my brain catches up, I realize he spanked me hard. Really hard. Pain in my neck and ass curls together with the arousal in my blood.

  “What’s my name?” he asks mildly.

  “Sir, sir, sir,” I chant, sagging against the cross.

  Gentle stroke of his palm over my stinging backside. “Mmm, look at that bloom. Better than I imagined. Are you ready, kitten?”

  “Yes, sir.” My voice is a thready moan.

  He mutters something under his breath, then, “Flat to the cross. Arms up, legs out.”

  My cheek pressed to the wood near one arm, I glance back, seeing first his face—expression shockingly soft and human—then his hand at the apex of his thighs, curled around his daunting erection.

  Before I can stop myself, I ask, “Second thoughts, sir?”

  A dark brow arches. “Not remotely, though I’ll consider a gag if you sass me again.”

  The way he says it, like he wants me to talk back, hits my system like a drug. With sudden insight, I understand why this is referred to as play. My safe word holds the boundaries, but like an unsupervised playground of youth, anything goes. The last thing I expected was to have fun, but here I am, hiding my smile with my bicep as smooth strides carry my salvation to me.

  He makes quick work of my wrists, then crouches to attach my ankles to the wood. The rope is smooth but not soft, and a few experimental movements confirm that I’m well and truly bound. Before I can even consider panicking, warm fingers skate up my bare legs. They tease my knees, swirl across my trembling thighs, and finally stroke outside the edges of the flimsy fabric between my legs.

  “Second thoughts, kitten?” he mocks, punctuating the words by dragging his thumb over my swollen flesh, bound in its own way by black lace.

  “Fuck no,” I whisper. “Sir.”

  Whack.

  The sound arrives first. Then the pain, radiating angrily from my inner thigh. I gasp, my eyes screwing shut on instantaneous tears. A second later, one long finger sinks inside me and curls. The edges of agony blur and reshape. I catch a sob with my lips, but he hears it anyway.

  My relief given voice.

  A soft kiss presses to my shoulder. “Welcome home, London.”

  21

  There are no clocks in this place. No light but artificial, dim and flickering far above us. I don’t know how much time has passed since Cinder was here. Since the ultimatum. Minutes. Hours. An entire day?

  I don’t know why certain people last longer under abuse or deprivation. Don’t know which layers of the mind must be hardest, thickest, to prevent fracturing. What makes a survivor? What determines how many layers must crack before the vulnerable core of a person is exposed? I only know that what’s on the inside of a person can’t be determined by what’s on the outside.

  Some of the women have broken already. No commonalities have existed between them—old and young, hard-eyed or not. When they break, their wails are piercing. Unearthly. They throw themselves at the walls or the heavy doors, hands bloody, faces bloody, nails scraping skin, cracking against metal.

  The guards let them exhaust themselves. Let the women sag, fall like puppets with cut strings. Then they haul them out.

  Where do they go?

  Nowhere.

  22

  “London?”

  “Hmm?”

  Nate’s frowning face fills my vision. “Damn, sugarplum. I’ve called your name probably ten times. Have you been in bed all day?”

  Yawning, I stretch my arms over my head, then halt with a wince. “Ow.”

  Nate chuckles knowingly and plops onto the bed near my hip. Sunlight haloes his fair head. “I can’t believe you slept all day with the curtains open. But actually, I can. You look used good. Did he drive you home at least?”

  I nod and sit up, groaning at the stiffness in my muscles. “What time is it?”

  “Close to three.”

  My brain awakes in fits and starts. Images carousel in my mind. Sound and sensation.

  Crack. You look so beautiful covered in my marks. Red haze. Two more, kitten. Can you handle it? Too much—yes, sir. More, sir. You were so good, such a good girl. Soft kisses tracing lines
of pain over my shoulders, back, down my legs. Hands on my ass as he kneels behind me. His tongue… You taste like heaven, kitten. Now for your reward…

  Nate’s fingers snap before my nose. “Earth to London?” His voice is teasing, but his eyes are not. “You’re freaking me out. Come on, out of bed. Show me.”

  “I’m okay,” I say but accept his help as I carefully maneuver to standing. I couldn’t bear wearing anything to bed, so Nate’s reaction is immediate.

  “Jesus-fucking-Christ, you took a beating.”

  I close my eyes and sway.

  “Minimal bruising, which is great, but it’s too early to tell how long recovery will be.”

  “I’ve always healed fast,” I mumble.

  His sigh makes my welts burn. “I need to ask you—did you agree to this?”

  “Yes,” I say on a strangled laugh. “And I’d do it again.”

  “Uh-oh,” he mutters. “Stay put, I’m going to get my kit from the living room.”

  I glance back. “Kit?”

  His brows lift. “Survival and recovery kit. You know, for when your Dom beats the shit out of you. At least tell me he gave you decent aftercare.”

  Weightless in his strong arms. Soft, satiny sheets against my stomach and breasts. Cool, thick salve quenching the fires of pain. Wrists and ankles covered in warm, wet washcloths.

  “Do you know how difficult it was for me not to fuck you, London? Not to shove my thick cock in your tight little cunt?”

  “Please, sir…”

  “Soon, kitten. You have to earn it.”

  Nate’s gaze is sharp and amused. “Rocked your world, did he? Damn, I really wish he liked dick.”

  My lips twist with wry humor. “He’s everything they say he is. Even the word cunt sounds good when he says it. How is that even possible?”