“If you hadn’t gotten that paycheck and made your escape, what would have happened?”
“I told you. They’d likely have sent me back to the juvie home I broke out of in the first place.”
“Why’d you break out?”
He glared at her. “Goddammit, Celestina—you have no fucking clue what those places are like! You’d break out, too.”
“Do you have any lotion?” She kept her voice mild.
With a muttered curse, he wrapped the towel around his waist and stalked, tense and stiff-legged, to a cabinet. Flung it open and gestured. “Here. Take your pick. I’m going to find something stronger than wine.”
“Sit.” She pointed at the fainting couch—because what’s a luxurious bathroom without one?—and gave him her best tween-quelling stare. “Stay.”
For a moment he looked like he might tell her to fuck off, but he sat, fisting his hands together between his spread knees and fixing his gaze on them. She sorted through the lotions, taking her time.
“I want you to listen to me without interrupting.” She found a rose-scented one, to please him, and started smoothing it on her arms. “This is my take. I think that place likely was horrible—I have some idea, though no experience—and you are obviously a tremendously strong-willed person. Like they show in documentaries sometimes, the people who live through plane wrecks because their will to survive is so strong. I saw this one where a woman felt guilty because she remembered climbing over people to get out. She had a major complex about it—felt like she’d been an animal instead of heroically helping others and that kind of thing.”
“Celestina—”
“Hush. I’m not done.” She put a foot on the couch next to him and dropped her towel, slowly rubbing lotion into her ankle and calf. Of course he looked. “The point of the show was that survival situations are different and we can’t expect to apply lofty thinking. You felt like that juvie home was killing you, so you broke out and cobbled together a plan to better yourself.” Thinking of him living in that awful apartment building, a teenager all alone and scared, only a few years older than her nieces, made her that much more glad that at least she’d managed to do something for Carly and Josie. At least they would never face that. No matter what. “When that bully—which is what he was, make no mistake—threatened your freedom, you did what you had to do to stay alive.”
“Like an animal,” he grated out, gaze flicking up and snagging on the movement of her hands on her naked thigh.
“Or like someone with a passionate will to survive who was pushed past his limits. And then you went on to recreate yourself again, to channel all of that anger and need.” Pulling his gaze with them, she moved her hands up to her breasts. Speaking of channeling, that black rage simmering in him shifted, steaming in another direction as his expression went hard with hunger. “You said you wouldn’t blame me for not trusting you. I trust you more than ever now, because I know what you’ve mastered in yourself.”
It took him a moment, but he transferred his gaze to her face, bemused and suspicious. “What are you saying?”
She knelt before him, spread her thighs and offered her breasts. “I’m saying I’m still bought and paid for, and there’s a lot of the night left to do whatever you want to me. Master.”
* * *
It took him a few moments to assimilate her words and actions. As if a streaming movie had gotten the soundtrack and video out of sync and she’d stopped matching the script in his head. Few people surprised him as she did—which explained why he’d changed the decision he’d made before he walked in the room. He’d barely gotten over the shock of that, telling the ugly story out loud for the first time ever, and his subsequent bitter regret at doing so, before it began to penetrate his head that she somehow didn’t see what he’d done as an unforgivable crime.
And that she wasn’t afraid of him.
...you did what you had to do to stay alive.
He wasn’t sure he believed that. But she did, offering herself into his power, her dark eyes full of lustrous yielding. Compassion and desire.
“Why are you doing this?” He couldn’t help asking—just as he couldn’t seem to stop drinking in the sight of her, the scent of hothouse roses rising from her damp skin.
“This is what I have to give right now.”
“You have more than your body—”
“Not my body,” she interrupted. “My trust. Tie me up. Torment me. Do whatever you like. I know I’m safe with you.”
The hunger rose in him, fervid, insatiable. Craving her and what she offered. The dregs of that stupid teenager he’d been clung to the edges of his mind. Working all those jobs, living in that place among the crackheads and junkies. He’d thought himself clever, above the system, but he’d brought about his own ruin. Amazing, really, that only Whittaker had gone after him, he’d been such a wretched hanger-on. But he’d learned, hadn’t he?
And how amazed his seventeen-year-old self would have been to see this moment. He’d forgotten, over the years, that he hadn’t always lived like this, until he’d conjured up those memories of the squalor and the edge of desperation to acquire enough money to survive. That kid hadn’t been able to imagine this in his future—or the gorgeously sensual, naked woman kneeling at his feet, still offering him her breasts. And anything else he wanted of her.
He stroked her cheek and she leaned into the gesture, trembling slightly. Not with fear, however. “Are you sure you want to do this?” His voice came out rough, full of both ragged emotional uncertainty and potent need to take what she offered.
She held his gaze, then turned her face to press a kiss into the palm of his hand. “I’m your slave. Use me as you see fit.”
Everything else—the dregs of memory, the raw anger of the boy he’d been, the terror of exposure—crumbled at the edges, like paper burning to ash in the face of the raging desire her words crystallized in him.
“My slave.” He slid his hand to the slim column of her throat, her pulse thudding harder at the gesture. Moving slowly, he raised her to her feet, then to her toes, hand snugged under the fine line of her jaw for leverage. Her eyes darkened as her pupils dilated in the deep brown irises, but she remained totally pliant in his grip. Sliding his other hand between her thighs, he found her slick and ready for him.
She moaned, undulating a little, and he knew she meant it. All of it. For all the artifice that brought her here, whether either of them truly believed he’d bought her or not, she’d given herself over to his possession. And he planned to use her as such.
Ruthlessly.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He set her flat-footed. Then, enjoying her flash of shock, bent and tossed her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
“Ryan!” she gasped, and he smacked her naked bottom, silencing her protest.
“Quiet. You know the rules.” He spanked her a few more times, just to hear her whimper, feel her wriggle against his grip, her full breasts bouncing against his back. Carrying her through the house, the power of possessing her filled him. He felt strong. Gloriously so, in a way his younger self never had.
In a way no other woman had inspired.
Taking her into the library again—so much more pleasant than a dungeon—he put her down on a padded table. Even with her dusky skin, she gleamed in contrast to the black surface.
“Spread yourself for me,” he ordered, mostly for the satisfaction of observing her trembling obedience. She did, catching her breath when he assisted, brusquely pulling her wrists to the far corners and widening the spread of her thighs. She watched him in wide-eyed anticipation, not resisting but clearly wondering what he planned for her.
What he planned was to keep her in suspense for a while yet.
He showed her a slim glass dildo, then slid it into her exposed pussy. Not enough to really do muc
h for her besides keep her attention there. Moaning a little, she flexed her hips.
“No. Stay silent. Stay still. If you move too much, that will fall out and you’ll suffer for it.”
Using rope—red, for passion—he took his time binding her hands to the corners of the table above her head. Her fine-boned wrists showed the loops of rope nicely, so he brought her elbows out to the sides and bound those also. Though her breathing deepened in aroused distress and her lips parted as if she wanted to ask a question, she didn’t break the silence he’d demanded of her. Staying true to her word to yield him whatever he wanted.
Looping more rope under the table, he made several passes and bound her tightly to it with a series above her lush breasts and then another below. For good measure, he took smaller lengths and circled the base of each tit, tightening them so they began to strain full and red. She whimpered and he let that pass.
His poor suffering slave.
Going to her ankle, he drew it up flush against her bottom, then wrapped the rope between and around her thigh and calf, so her knee remained deeply bent. He repeated the process with her other leg, then ran another length of rope under the table and attached it to the ones binding her thighs. Working meticulously, watching her face, he adjusted the tension on the ropes so her thighs were splayed as widely as she could bear.
She mostly stared up at the ceiling, bound breasts rising and falling with her frantic breathing, likely concentrating on holding the slick glass dildo inside her. He pumped it in and out of her, loving how she shuddered but managed not to move her hips in response. Of course, the way he had her trussed up, she could barely move anyway.
Ready to show her his favorite trick of that particular table, he undid the latches beneath, then folded it down, so her bottom and exposed pussy hung helplessly in midair, suspended by the tension of the ropes. She gasped at the shock, her gaze flying to his. Pulling the dildo out, he set it aside and worked his fingers into her, one, then two, then three. A snug fit that made her squirm. Just enough to demonstrate how vulnerably open she was to him.
For fucking and worse.
Leaving her there, he picked out red candles from the sideboard and set them on the table around her, lighting them so her sweat-slick body glowed with their soft flames. Putting on a condom, he entered her without ceremony or warning, simply sheathing himself to the hilt in her as she dropped her head back, exposing her throat in the erotic realization she could deny him nothing.
He rocked inside her and a low moan fluttered from her lips. Ideal that he’d come twice already, or he’d never last for this particular game. Stroking her turgid breasts and pinching her already sore nipples, he reveled in the way her muscles flexed around his cock, squeezing him as he held still, attempting to draw him in.
“Celestina,” he murmured, waiting for her to meet his eyes. “You’ve done very well. You’re a good slave. You may thank me.”
“Thank you, Master,” she replied, throaty with desire and the strain.
“However, even good slaves receive punishment, if only because that’s what a slave is for. You exist to please me and my pleasure is to give you pain. Understand?”
“Yes, Master.” Her dark eyes filled with tears and she licked her lips.
“I don’t think you do. But you will.” He picked up a candle and held it poised over her naked belly, waiting for her to catch on.
She did, a rush of trepidation crumpling her face. “Please don’t!” she cried.
He paused, listening for her to safeword, and she stared at him in realization. Perhaps she considered it, her full lips moving silently over the word, but at last she pressed her lips together. Then sighed. “As it pleases you, Master.”
“That’s right. For your reward, you may make as much noise as you wish. You may even struggle.” He allowed himself to laugh, loving the way she responded to the dark sound. “If you can manage it.”
A crimson drop of melted wax hit her abdomen and she hissed at the sting. Then another, larger one made her cry out. She started to struggle—inevitable, really. Asking her not to would have been too much. Besides, her writhing made her that much more beautiful to him. Methodically, he dripped the wax over her belly, exulting in her pleas and how her pussy, hotter than the candle flames, clenched and spasmed around his cock.
Tears ran down her face and, when he dripped some wax on her crimson breast, she screamed, her body convulsing. Taking that for his cue, he unchained the beast and set the candle aside, fucking her in earnest. The black and red wave overtook him and he pounded his hips against her in savage delight.
* * *
The orgasm ripped her apart, filling her veins like the melted wax burning her skin, her heart pounding frenetically to push her thickened blood to keep up with the rolling, slicing knives of pain and pleasure.
Like a madman, Ryan pounded his thick cock into her, stretching her unbelievably in her tightly restricted position, face clenched with black lust, his hands digging into her as if he wanted to tear her open. Bound as she was—as she’d invited him to do to her—she could only receive what he did, dragged from one exquisite peak to the next without surcease.
With a hoarse cry of triumph, he slammed home and held there, staring down at her with a ferocity that hollowed her out. Even at this moment, when he so utterly possessed her, had her totally in his control, he watched her face, searching out her every tear, her every gasp of pleasure.
His hands on her relaxed and he bent over her, breathing as raggedly as a man chased by demons. Which, no doubt, he was.
Then he pulled out of her, ditched the condom and came around to her head. He stood over her, his chest still pumping with his harsh breaths, then brushed her sweat-drenched hair back from her forehead. He pressed a finger against her mouth and she opened, drawing it in and sucking on it as he seemed to want. A smile of tenderness softened his face and he replaced the finger with his mouth, drawing on her with a greedy hunger.
Lifting his head, he caressed her throat, spanning it in one big hand.
“Mine,” he whispered.
In that moment, it was utterly, obviously true. Nothing else existed but this, belonging to him. His slave. She could deny him nothing. Not even her shredded heart.
“Yours,” she answered.
He kissed her again, softly. Then he began cutting her free of the ropes, loosening her aching breasts first, then going in reverse order of how he’d bound her. The blood rushed back into her limbs and she grew sleepy with the release of tension. Emptied, unable to even form a coherent thought, she simply let her limbs fall where he dropped them.
He took warm oil and rubbed it into her skin, dissolving what wax that still clung and soothing any lingering sting. Working his strong hands into her muscles, he massaged her from temples to toes, sending her into such a stupor that she barely noticed when he turned her over, repeating the lulling treatment on her back.
Blearily she noticed him moving around the room, turning off lights. Then he lifted her into his arms, murmuring reassurance when she protested, and tucking her securely against his wide chest. Gratefully she sank back into oblivion.
* * *
She woke to bright sunlight and a roaring sound that took her a minute to place. The surf, rushing against the cliffs outside, the sound drifting in the open patio doors to the garden. A warm breeze scented with roses wafted over her face, followed by the brush of Ryan’s fingers.
Turning her head to find him in bed beside her, she smiled.
“Awake then?”
“Barely.” A yawn overtook the words and she stretched, feeling her body protest in every joint and muscle. Rode hard and put up wet, her grandmother would have said. Uneasily accurate, in this particular circumstance.
“I wasn’t sure when you needed to get back or I would have let you sleep longer,” Ryan said.
He pointed his chin at the bedside table, where her purse sat. She’d left it upstairs when she’d stripped to play slave girl and after that last check before the bath and round two. Blushing at the recollection, and at the kaleidoscope of vivid sense memory of all that had happened since then, she picked it up, grateful for an excuse to reach for it, turn her back and look away for a moment.
A hell of a morning-after.
And, whoa, almost nine thirty already. No texts showed on her screen, but she unlocked the phone and checked anyway. Nothing. They were probably all shocked that she hadn’t checked in as usual. As she should have.
She texted both girls at once, in their ongoing group conversation. And waited.
“Would you like coffee?” Ryan touched her shoulder. She jumped at the contact and glanced back to see him frown a little.
“I should really go.” Jesus—what if something had happened to the girls? What if they had gone home and found her not there? She made a terrible mother. Why weren’t they answering? They could have died and she wouldn’t have known. A final way to let Ara down.
“Of course, if you need to, but—”
Her text alert interrupted him. Josie. Oh, thank God.
Stayed up to 5 playing Dragon Age. Sleeping. Can we come home later?
Apparently it had been a night for it. She tried to quiet her heart. Think of something reasonable.
Do you have homework?
We’ll do it 2nite. Promise.
OK. Be home by 4. Call if you need a ride.
K.
“Good,” Ryan said. He’d been reading over her shoulder. “Then you can stay awhile.”
She hesitated and he took the phone out of her hands, tossed it aside, and turned her to face him. “Regrets?”
Under Contract Page 21
