Holding Hannah (Masters of The Castle)

by Maren Smith

  “Let’s get this tour underway.” Marshall sighed. He wasn’t smiling anymore, but now John was—straight, white teeth showing like a barracuda.

  “So, how many people did you say this brothel is meant to hold?” He asked.

  Sam stiffened slowly, and Hannah saw a pulse of clenching muscle ticking once along his jaw.

  “It’s not a brothel,” Marshall said flatly, and off they went into the next room.

  Hannah followed a few steps behind them with Sam at her right. “Ass,” she thought she heard Sam growl, but when she looked back at him, his mouth was tightly shut.

  They toured the entire first floor from the massive front entry hall, back through several ballrooms, congregation halls, a type of chapel where beautiful stained-glass windows were still covered in protective paper and confessionals were being built, to three massive dining rooms and two distinct kitchens. Now and then, Sam would tap her shoulder and direct her gaze to something other than her boss’s back.

  “When it’s in operation,” he told her as they toured a very hotel-like guest room on the ground floor, “we won’t just have guest quarters, but long-term employees will have the option of housing here.”

  It was the only fully furnished room they had so far, but it had a private bathroom, a chest of drawers, a hook and shelf-lined closet that didn’t seem to Hannah to be meant to hold clothes, and a king-sized four-poster bed with metal rings attached in deliberate but unfathomable places.

  “What are these for?” Hannah finally asked as she reached up to finger one of the rings.

  She hadn’t realized Marshall and Goodson had already moved on to the next room until she felt the slight brush of a hard chest and turned to find the rest of the room empty apart from Sam, who was standing right there at her back.

  “That?” he echoed, and looked from the ring to her. He smiled and the heat of his chest suddenly felt as if it were sizzling all through her. “Would you like me to show you?”

  Her throat choked in, making the simple act of swallowing and breathing somewhat awkward. “Show me, how?”

  “Employee apartments are located on the third floor. Mine is number three from the top and there’s already a bed like this in it. Come upstairs with me…” His voice was slow seduction and it rippled through her until Hannah forgot how to breathe entirely. “…and I’ll be happy to show you exactly what those rings are for.”

  Her mouth opened, but instead of telling him off or even just laughing—a secondary instinct, which was beginning to bubble up ticklingly inside her—no sound came out. Heat stole up into her face; Sam’s smile only broadened.

  “You look very warm in that jacket,” he coaxed. “Let me help you take it off.”

  From outside the room and somewhere down the hall, her boss called, “The tour is continuing, Miss Alder! Where are you?”

  Tearing herself away from Sam’s hypnotic-like charm felt as physical as tearing away part of her own skin. He still reached the door ahead of her and grandly opened it, grinning as he did so, to let her pass. What had, she had no doubt, started off as teasing began to feel more like hunting. Her heart quickened, her palms sweat. She rubbed them once against her skirted thighs and chanced a quick glance back.

  He was staring at her butt, a light of devilish appreciation dancing in his dark eyes.

  “And how many safety exits are there?” Goodson was asking as he and Marshall moved on, leaving the first floor apartments behind and heading back down the hall toward the ballrooms.

  With her nerves already highly rattled, interesting aspects of the architecture began now to jump out at Hannah. Like the wall sconces. Each carving was unique and depicted either a man or woman, and sometimes both, in very adult situations. Hannah startled when she finally looked at one long enough to notice what it was—a man with an obvious erection, perched on his knees with arms outstretched to either side and weighted with books on each open palm. For some reason, it reminded her strongly of the scales of justice. In the next, however, a stern-looking woman sat on a throne with some kind of whip in her hand, two scantily-clad female attendants at either side of her and a man pretending to be an ottoman under her feet.

  Hannah peered closer, picking out what looked like welt lines on the buttocks and thighs of all three submissives—a pang of sheer and unexpected lust jolted through her loins—and the next thing she knew, Sam had moved in closer too.

  She felt the heated brush of his breath caress the shell of her ear. “It’s called a flogger. Have you ever seen one before?”

  A squirm of wanting tickled at the pit of her stomach. She tried to laugh, thinking he was joking, but it came out sounding breathless and squeaky. “What kind of resort is this again?”

  “It’s specialized.”

  She looked at the flogger again and then backed away from him. When he gestured, she continued the tour, only now that she had seen the sconces, her eyes seemed geared toward finding other small oddities. Like the costume boxes stacked up in a room marked ‘Wardrobe’. Each was labeled something that her mind began to twist until her stomach was twisting right along with it—flapper, princess, infant, sissy boy, drop-seat pajamas, sultan/harem, nun/clergy, school girl, Victorian maid, proper maid, sexy maid, butler. An unmarked box sat partially open by the door and she couldn’t resist stealing a peek under the unsecured flap. A black leather mask stared balefully up at her from where it lay atop a carefully packaged whip. Hannah jumped back, crashing into Sam, who caught her elbow before she could fall.

  “Careful,” he said, his dark eyes glittered with knowing laughter.

  Her face flamed; her skin tingled, up her right leg and down her left arm, and suddenly all she could think about was the fact that Marshall and Goodson had moved on again and she and Sam were once more alone. She hurried to find the others, fleeing from the mostly empty Wardrobe and straight into the gift shop with its neat stack of boxes filling up one corner and row after row of naked mannequins filling up the other. Empty shelves divided the space into eight or so aisles and glass display cases created a horseshoe-shaped checkout counter where future customers could pay for their purchases. Purchases like ball gags (written in black felt tip marker across one box) and handcuffs (marked across another) and nipple clamps (her own tightened in dread—or was it eager?—anticipation) and that miscellaneous box marked novelties. A single glass dildo sat in an otherwise empty display case, sending a fan of pure heat flashing beneath her skin and spreading out into every trembling part of her.

  “Are you all right?” Sam asked, smiling, looking down at her as if he could see exactly what was happening within her, as if he liked the way this was affecting her.

  “Of course,” she lied, trembling. She had to get out of here. She hurried to the door, which was a veritable homage to the Kama Sutra of BDSM. It was covered with a series of tiny two-by-two inch carved panels, each one depicting a different submissive act or sexual position. Her hand burned to touch it each one individually, but she resisted and and pushed the heavy thing open. She passed back into the main foyer just as Goodson disappeared with Marshall around a second floor balcony corner.

  Her heart was pounding so hard that it hurt. Hannah touched her chest, wanting to follow, but needing very badly just to get this riot of nerves back under control, the pins-and-needle-like prickling out of her nipples, this languid flow of pulsing, thrumming heat out from between her legs.

  From behind her, Sam’s low voice practically purred, “Have you ever been to a place like this before, Hannah?”

  The way he said her name made her whole body tighten and ache in a way she had never felt this intensely before. Hannah had no defense against him. Safely ensconced within her skirt and blouse, her arm and her thigh burned and tingled. She dared not touch her leg, not where he could see her, but she gripped her arm, squeezing hard in an effort to get the prickling, touch-me sensation to stop. She shook her head.

  The palatial foyer echoed each slow, deliberate step that brought Sam to he
r. His breath caressed her ear again as he leaned in close, looming but not touching, heating that thin sliver of air trapped between them at her back and somehow burning her whole body with the overwhelming heat of his.

  “Would you like to?”

  He was temptation personified, the devil in the guise of a smile and a man she should not want this badly.

  He knew.

  Hannah clutched her arm tighter. “No,” she tried to say, but there was no sound to it. No sound at all, and even less conviction. She tried to shake her head, but no part of her would move. Only her knees, dipping feebly in and out, and her hand, tightening claw-like as she squeezed and squeezed at her left forearm.

  He knew. It wasn’t possible, but he did. She knew he did. She could see it right there, right in the midnight depths of his mocking, laughing, hungry, unblinking eyes.

  “Don’t be afraid, Hannah.” He reached for her hand and took it gently, loosely, giving her every opportunity to pull free if she truly wanted to. She did and yet she never even tried. He coaxed more than he pulled, but the end result was still the same. He drew her back with him toward a thin door tucked practically unnoticed under the shadows of the curving staircase. “Come. I want to show you something.”

  She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to see any more. What little she already had seen was having such a terrible effect on her. She could feel them, all those dark familiar urges stirring so deep inside her again. She didn’t need that, didn’t want it. They weren’t a part of her anymore.

  She was better now. She was better!

  But her legs wouldn’t stop walking and her hand stayed willingly captive in his. She couldn’t look away, not even when he opened that thin door to reveal a narrow corridor of grey stone steps trailing down into darkness. He tapped what must have been a light switch tucked up behind the door’s molding and a long series of wall sconces came to instant life. They flickered, casting the illusion of real flames on one wall and the shadows of carved supplication on the other all the way down into the room below.

  It was a dungeon. Her knees weakened all over again. They had a dungeon. Twelve small steps and she’d be down in it, standing next to row after row of implements hanging neatly on the wall. From here, she could already see at least one spanking bench and, straight ahead, a single leg of a St. Andrew’s cross—black, padded, restraints standing open, empty and waiting as if just for her.

  The dark need inside her rolled and roared, surging back to life as if it had never fallen silent.

  Ten days. She’d only been better for ten short days. This time.

  Hannah stared helplessly as Sam began to descend, one step, then two, then he stopped, waiting on her.

  “Have you ever been?” He asked.

  Her mouth was dry as sawdust. "Been what?" She croaked.

  "To a place like this."

  Her arm and leg were on fire, burning muted within her clothes, screaming in half-remembered pleasure, half-remembered pain—screaming with the ghosts of sensations that wouldn’t stop no matter how tightly she gripped at her arm and prayed for them to. She didn’t need this anymore. She didn’t want it.

  She’d never stopped wanting it and she’d never wanted anything more in all her life.

  "No," she whispered.

  “Would you like to go?” Sam’s grip on her hand was nothing more than his open fingers lightly resting under hers. He took another step down, tempting her to come and stand right at the very top of the staircase, trembling as she stared down into the abyss of what she desired most of all.

  Everyone would be so disappointed in her.

  Her will was crumbling anyway.

  “Come with me,” he coaxed. He really was the devil. “We won’t do anything more than just look around.”

  Her fingers on his shook, but when he took another step back, she took her first step down. Her heart was beating so hard and so fast, her nipples tightened, her womb shivered—

  “I think we have everything we need,” Goodson announced, his thumping footsteps echoing through the stones right over her head and through the empty entryway behind her. “Where are you, Miss Alder?”

  Just like that, the spell was broken.

  Hannah snatched her fingers off of Sam’s. Stumbling backwards out of the shadows and into the light of the foyer, she crashed into a marble pillar and for a moment just stood there, hands pressed against her stomach and chest, furiously willing her heart to slow, her nerves to untangle, her body to stop shaking.

  “Here,” she stammered, then cleared her throat and tried again, this time careful to keep her voice steady and even. “I’m here.”

  But it wasn’t until Sam came back up the stairs—frowning at the underside of the staircase in supreme annoyance—that she managed to make herself actually move. His hand caught her arm when she tried to scamper past him, but just as quickly she felt a soft tug at her skirt pocket and then he set her free. She hurried after Goodson, already holding open the front door and offering Marshall, who stood with his hands braced upon the second floor balcony rail, a smile and a farewell wave.

  Don’t look back, Hannah told herself. Don’t look back. But as she stepped through the door, that itch at the back of her head overwhelmed her. She stole a quick peek over her shoulder.

  Sam had followed only as far as the bottommost stair. Now, propped against the banister, arms folded across his chest, he simply watched her go. Another slow smile curled his mouth, growing in amusement the longer it took for her to tear her gaze away. In the end, she only managed it because Goodson closed the door between them.

  They left their hardhats near a toolbox at the edge of the half-finished gate, and as they walked back to the car, Goodson asked, “Did you notice anything?”

  A thousand things, none of which had anything at all to do with her job.

  “No.” Hannah admitted. “Did you?”

  He smirked his barracuda smile. “No. I suspect they must have at least one person familiar with building codes and law on their little S&M club roster.”

  “They passed then?”

  Goodson snorted. “And let them open this…this devil’s playhouse to tempt the good Christian people of our community into sins of flesh and degradation? Ha! Not on my watch. I am going to ruin this man, Miss Alder, and not just financially. I have made it my immediate goal to make him rue whatever decision made him bring his foul flesh trade into my jurisdiction. He knows he’s not going to get his permits through me.” John glanced at her sideways. “No doubt that’s why he had his friend pay such close attention to you.”

  Startled, Hannah looked at him.

  “Oh, he might not recognize you by appearance, but I’ll bet it took all of two seconds for him to connect ‘Hannah’ with the niece of David Alder. If he thinks he can get around me by going through you and your uncle, he can think again.” Goodson chuckled. “Bringing you was the best idea I’ve had all morning. I’ll bet it’s raised his hopes all the way up to his tallest tower. But there is no hope for him, Miss Alder, and do you know why?”

  Having reached his car, Hannah slowed her walk. She didn’t answer, but he didn’t seem to want her to. He was just lording, and it was all she could do right now not to show how disgusted that made her feel. Insufferable jerk!

  “Because he’s never going to get the licenses and permits he needs. Not from me, certainly not from you, and I don’t care how perfect this place is,” Goodson announced. “This is my jurisdiction. My fiefdom, my pantheon. And in this pantheon, there is no god higher than me. He’s the ant under my magnifying glass, and I intend to smoke his ass all the way out of town. The day he tries to open this place anyway, I’ll be waiting to hit him with so many fines I’ll own every one of them until the day they die.” Satisfied, he tapped the hood of his car and then pointed at her. “Get in the car.”

  As soon as he popped the locks, Hannah made herself slide into the passenger seat. She rubbed her arm, trying her best not to touch her boss, not even accidentall
y. He made her feel sick to her stomach. Her skin was crawling just to sit this close to the man.

  It wasn’t until they were back at the office and she was standing at the Coke machine, digging for change, that Hannah found Sam’s business card stuffed in her pocket.

  Chills ran down her back, over her bottom, across the backs of her tingling thighs.

  The urge to call him was so strong it made her ears ring.

  But did she dare?

  * * * * *

  The two men stood on opposite floors, both leaning against the railing, both staring at the door.

  “Did we pass inspection, do you think?” Sam finally asked

  On the floor above him, Marshall snorted. “What about her? Might be nice to have a friend in City Hall.”

  “It might.” Pushing off the banister, Sam circled around the stairs far enough to look up at his friend. “I invited her to the meeting tonight. Think you can clear it with the regulars?”

  “Probably. You think she’ll come?”

  He wasn’t sure, but Sam did know one thing: he wasn’t going to need an icepick.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hannah sat on the edge of the tub with the business card Sam had slipped her between her fingers. Living with her uncle and his family and sleeping on the living room couch meant she had very few moments of real privacy. What moments she did have, she safeguarded zealously. She’d locked the bathroom door. That gave her five or so minutes before her aunt came knocking with the same timid inquiry that she’d already received that morning: “Hannah, honey…are you okay in there?”

  Idly rubbing at her right thigh, Hannah studied the card. On the one side, it said, ‘Sam Cooper’ with a phone number. On the other, was hand-written: Club meeting tonight, 8 p.m. You and me. Call for the address.

  She’d been staring at this card off and on since she discovered it in her pocket. She looked at her watch. It was just after seven now.