by Nia Farrell
Rose blushed furiously but did as he asked.
“This isn’t the military, but you can expect surprise inspections, of your room, of your journal, of your body. If you’ve followed my instructions, there’ll be no problem. Get lax, or lazy, or stubborn, and you will be disciplined. Stuck out here, with only what’s on hand, I’m going to have to be creative, with rewards as well as punishments. Your first one is tonight, after supper. For now, I’m going to check the job you did shaving. After that, I’m going to leave you alone. You’ll have thirty minutes to write in your journal. You’ll do a second entry tonight, after everything. Do you understand?”
Rose’s brow scrunched with worry lines. “Yes, Sir,” she croaked. “Will you need my safe word?”
“I shouldn’t. What I have planned is more psychological than physical. You can give me your safe word, but if you wimp out on me, that’s it. I won’t waste my time on someone who isn’t one hundred percent committed. You won’t get trained, and you won’t earn my cock. Plain and simple. Do you understand?”
Panic swept across her face when she saw that he was serious. Michael hoped that she wouldn’t force his hand, but he knew from experience, he had to be firm, fair, and consistent. If he told her something, like it or not, she would leave him no choice but to follow through.
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered.
“Good girl.” Sitting on the bed, Michael picked up her hand and stroked the back of it. “Now, I want you to put your hands above your head and keep them there until I give you permission to move them. That’s right, Rose. Just like that.”
Reaching, he planted a palm on Rose’s far side and leaned over her. “Your underarms are good.” He ran his hands from her elbows past her pits, stopping with his fingers bracketing her breasts. “You have a beautiful body. Your breasts are perfect.” Lowering his head, he blew on one nipple and watched it harden to a diamond point. “I wish I had nipple clamps with me. I’m going to have to see what’s here that we can use. You’re so responsive.”
He covered one peak with his palm and flexed his fingers. Breath hissed between her teeth. She arched and pressed herself into his hand.
Greedy girl.
Smelling her arousal, he slid his hands lower, skimming the neat dip of her waist, the curves of her hips, the length of her clean-shaven legs. Her denuded mound looked as smooth as her cheeks.
“Open for me, Rose. Do a goddess pose and let me see that pussy.”
Bending her knees to each side, she pressed the soles of her feet together and drew them up until she was fully exposed to his view. Her inner folds were glistening pink, wet with her juices, and her clit was swollen. He’d have been tempted to slap it if she’d left any hair, but she had done a thorough job.
“Good girl,” he said smoothly, adjusting himself. “Now, I’m going to stand by the bed and watch while you make yourself come. You do play with yourself, don’t you? You’ve had orgasms before?”
Rose’s face grew red. “Yes, Sir.”
“With just your fingers, or do you need something else to help you get off?”
“I, um, have a hard time getting off with just my hand. I have a vibrator that I use.”
“Did you bring it?”
“Yes, Sir,” she croaked.
“Get it.”
Straightening her legs, she rolled off the far side of the bed, found her purse, and rummaged through it. He’d been expecting a vibrator, like a dildo that buzzed. Instead she had a mini bullet that was maybe all of three inches long.
No shit.
“Let’s see what you can do,” he said as she settled into place. “I want you to give yourself as many orgasms as you can until I tell you to stop. Begin.”
Rose parted her folds to expose her clit, clicked on her vibrator with her right thumb, and pressed it against her nub. She slid her left hand up to squeeze her breasts. Taking her nipple between two fingers, she pinched, tugged, and twisted it, until her body stiffened, then convulsed with the first of three successive orgasms.
“Enough,” he said. Fuck, that was hot. So fucking hot, watching Rose come undone. Swear to God, she got off the first time in under a minute with no warm up, no foreplay, just a vibe on her clit and a hand on her tit.
He couldn’t wait to get nipple clamps on her.
“Good girl. Very good girl, Rose. I know it can be embarrassing, masturbating in front of someone, but you did it anyway. You did it for me. And now, I’m going to leave you alone. I want you to write in your journal. Describe how you feel about everything that’s happened so far today and how you’re feeling now, then get dressed for supper.” He took off his watch and laid it by her pillow. “Bring this and your journal to me in thirty minutes. I’ll be in the kitchen, starting supper. No excuses for tardiness, understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” she panted, still breathless from her climaxes.
“Okay, then. I’ll see you in thirty.”
Chapter Eleven
Journal Entry Sunday 17 July 2011, 5 pm
Where do I start? At the beginning, I guess.
Our first night here, I didn’t sleep well. I was excited, and nervous, and woke up once from a nightmare where the Demons found us here and were setting fire to the house to smoke us out. I was so tired last night, I never thought to lay out clothes for this morning. When Sir woke me, it was all I could do to drag myself out of bed. I spent most of my time looking for my shoes and got to the basement two minutes late.
I am to be punished. That scares me a little. Not that I don’t trust Sir, but he says it’s more psychological than physical. The not-knowing has my stomach in knots. I hated the disappointment that I saw in his eyes. I won’t let him down again, not if I can help it.
It felt good to exercise. Watching Sir work out helped make up for the shitty morning I’d had. He has an amazing body. I can’t wait to see all of it.
He told me that I’d be cleaning the house and ordered me to do it naked. The idea was at once disturbing and titillating. The thought that he would see me…watch me—that he could touch me, if he wanted—made me wet. I had to put a paper towel in the seat so that I didn’t make a mess.
This is a big house, and working barefoot and nude, pushing a vacuum and mopping, made my back ache. But he noticed. He got me ibuprofen for the pain. He consulted me on lunch and fixed a tasty meal for us. I love that he pays attention to me. Before now, I’ve been invisible to him. If he noticed me before, I didn’t know it. But then maybe he hides it the same way that I do. I took notice of him a long time ago, but I was way too young and far too inexperienced to know what to do about it. If there’s anything good about being kidnapped, it was Michael’s finding me, rescuing me. Now if I can just get him to keep me.
Having him bathe me was amazing. The care he took with me, the feel of his hands on my body…washing my hair…drying me off…I wanted more. Still do.
Inspection was so fucking hot. He stared at my breasts. Studied my pussy. I could imagine having my hands bound and being used for his pleasure. When he told me to masturbate, part of me wanted to hide. The other part wanted him to watch. All I had to do was imagine his mouth on my breast, and I exploded.
I’ll have to earn his cock. I’m pretty sure that I can. I have punishment coming after supper. I’m so nervous about it. I don’t know what he’ll do, but I’m determined to not wimp out on him. He won’t train me if I do.
Journal Entry 17 July 2011 8 pm
Goddamn motherfucker.
Screw you.
Things went to shit just this fast. Dinner was nice, actually. Spaghetti with garlic bread and fresh grapes for dessert. Michael wanted to let my food settle before punishing me and had me read for an hour. Like I could pay attention, dreading what was coming.
He took my questionnaire answers and fucking used them against me. The smell that I hated was vinegar. The food that I hated was anything pickled in the shit. My punishment was to shove a big dill pickle in my mouth and wrap my lips around it like I was suckin
g a cock, then the motherfucker draped this square of gauze damp with vinegar over my nose for eight fucking minutes, seven for how long it took me to get downstairs this morning and one because I dared to say “but” when I saw what he brought from the pantry.
My nose burned like fire. And the stench. Jesus. I brushed my teeth and tongue first thing, and gargled, but I swear I can still taste that goddamn pickle.
As bad as that was, it’s what came after that has me wondering if I can truly trust him….
“I got a phone call from Mad Dog. Four Blackwater Demons were killed by unknown assailants. The cops found a girl in their van, bound, gagged, and blindfolded. She wasn’t any help in identifying who made the hit, but it wasn’t the Angels. There’s no word on the names of the men who were killed, and no news from the clubhouse, so I’m assuming things are calm.”
Rose was still shuddering, remembering the taste of the dill pickle that he’d made her suck on. How every breath of vinegar burned the lining of her nose and reeked to high heaven. It didn’t help that he said he’d tried it on himself first. It was evil, plain and simple.
“Why didn’t you let me talk to him?” she asked, hurt that he hadn’t. It was her brother, after all.
Michael shifted. Rubbed the back of his neck. “Because,” he said slowly, grudgingly, “you were asleep.”
She hadn’t slept since morning.
Rose clenched her fists, fighting the urge to hit something. “You mean, you’ve known all fucking day and haven’t said a word to me? Not one? What the fuck, Crash? You talk about communication and trust between a Dominant and submissive being crucial, and you keep something like that from me? How could you?” she whispered hoarsely, feeling betrayed. “ How dare you?”
“Rose—”
“No!” She vaulted from the sofa where they were sitting, unable to be in the same space with him a moment longer. “I’m going to my room. And if anyone from the clubhouse calls, you’d fucking better come get me. Sir,” she snarled.
Despite her dig, Michael remained calm. “Rose, stay. Please. We need to talk about this. I had my reasons, and I want you to hear them. Then, if you still want to go to your room, you have my permission. Go now, and that ass is getting spanked—unless you’ve decided to quit training. Decided that you don’t want my cock…that you don’t want me to be your first….”
She looked at him, letting him see the hurt in her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered hoarsely, pushing the words past the emotions strangling her throat. All day, she’d known her place, her job, her purpose. Now she knew nothing, except the stab of Michael’s betrayal.
“Because I needed you to stay focused. To get into a routine. To start your training. If I’d told you this morning when the call came in, you would have fretted and second guessed all day, wondering if the Demons would retaliate. How they’d do it. Who would get hurt. You’d have been distracted, and distracted people make mistakes. They have accidents. Where we are, we can’t afford either. We’re miles from the nearest hospital. The minute we need to go there, we’re exposed. Vulnerable. At risk. I held off so that we could get through today. And we did. I’m sorry that you’re upset, but I’d do it again to keep you safe.”
Rose turned away, unable to look at him, with those blue eyes pleading for understanding. She was still pissed about the pickle. The vinegar. The fact that his reasoning made sense.
She’d be lucky if she slept at all tonight.
Fuck.
“I’ll be in my room.” She took a step that direction, then turned back to him. “May I take my e-reader, Sir?”
Michael blew out softly. “Yes, you may. I’ll wake you at seven in the morning, if you aren’t up already. Exercise, then shower and breakfast. Good night, Rose.”
“Good night, Sir.”
She wrote in her journal while she was still raw, and vulnerable. She needed him to understand how much he’d hurt her, and she was afraid that she’d justify everything and downplay her reaction if she waited.
After that, she opened the book that she’d been reading. Realizing that she was lost, she flipped through the pages until she came to the part that she remembered and continued from there.
“Do you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?”
When she was baiting the bull and ignored every red flag that I was throwing? “Yes,” I say a bit tightly. “But then most women wax eloquent on subjects dear to their hearts.” Seizing the opportunity when Miss Lucas is momentarily distracted, I lean and whisper, for her ears only, “You were clever, Miss Bennet, but unwise. Some men should not be teased.”
She stiffens imperceptibly and drops her gaze to her folded fan. “Sir, you are severe on us.”
Sir. One word to fall from those full, expressive lips, and suddenly I want more.
Jesus God. I must be mad. Or desperate. Or both….
Mr. Darcy. The ultimate book boyfriend, perfected in an erotic retelling of Domination and submission. Pride and Punishment was just the distraction she needed tonight, to quell her anger with Michael, to soothe her worries about the Demons, and to hopefully allow her to get some rest.
She fell asleep with the book half-finished and woke up in the grip of a nightmare.
Chapter Twelve
Michael jackknifed upright, listening in the dark, trying to figure what the hell woke him.
Rose. Crying out his name, begging him to find her.
Fuck. She must be having bad dreams again.
He jumped out of bed. Not taking the time to pull on pants over his boxers, he ran to her room and rapped on the door.
“Rose?” He heard nothing but a tortured moan. Testing the knob and finding it unlocked, he opened the door to the sight of Rose, struggling in her sleep, caught in the throes of a nightmare.
He crossed to the bed, bent over, and whispered, “It’s Michael. I’m here, Rose. I’m here for you.”
Reaching, he touched her hair and smoothed it back from her face. Rose came awake, eyes wide with panic until she realized where she was, and that he was here and she was safe.
“Shit,” she choked out. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. Another goddamn nightmare. I didn’t have them while I was in that basement. Why the hell am I having them now? I want them to stop, Michael. I need them to stop. Seriously, I’m bone-tired. I’ve got to get some rest or I’ll be good for shit tomorrow.”
“You’re still processing your experience,” Michael told her. “With Demons still out there, it’s natural that you’d have bad dreams, even night terrors. I’m no psychologist, but I saw enough in the service to recognize symptoms of PTSD. If you keep having them once the Demons are gone, you need to get a professional medical opinion. They might be able to prescribe something that will help you sleep, at least.”
“But what do I do in the meantime?”
Michael had an idea. He didn’t know how open she’d be to it, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rose groaned and smacked her mattress with her palm, like a wrestler giving up the fight.
“Damn it. We don’t know how long we’ll be here.” She rolled onto her back. Rubbing her face, as if she could erase the images that had tormented her, she spoke from behind her hands. “Have you heard anything?”
He shook his head. “Not unless they’ve called while I’ve been in here. Let me go get the phone, and we can check it together. Okay?”
He swore, Rose melted a little. She’d been so pissed at him, he wouldn’t have put it past her to tell him to go fuck himself and quit her training. He’d be living a nightmare then, with the rest of their time here spent in icy silence.
Retrieving his cell, he resisted the temptation to check it, returned to Rose’s room, and handed her the burner phone.
She pushed herself up on one elbow and flipped open the phone. Watching her punch it several times, he couldn’t help noticing that her tank top and knit
shorts hugged her toned curves and let her perfect nipples show through.
Maybe what he planned wasn’t such a good idea.
She blew out a breath. “Nothing,” she said. “No news is good news, right?”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “Even if the men weren’t in a position to call, your mother would have.” He took the phone and laid it on her bedside table. “Rose?” He spoke softly, like a horse whisperer taming a wild mustang—only this was his Wild Irish Rose. “Next time you wake up scared, just knock on my door and I’ll make room for you. It might help—feeling another person beside you, knowing that you aren’t alone. It might not help,” he admitted, “but it won’t hurt to try it, right?”
She bit her lip, considering. “I suppose,” she decided, sounding hesitant. “Are you okay with trying now? I’m afraid I won’t sleep at all unless I find something that works.”
“If you’re uncomfortable sharing space, we could try something else. What about putting my T-shirt over your spare pillow? It would have my scent when you hugged it. It might be enough.”
Rose liked that idea better.
Michael stripped off his tee, slid her other pillow into it, and tucked it against her chest. “See if it helps. If it doesn’t, you know where to find me. Good night, Rose.”
“Good night, Sir,” she whispered, hugging his pillow to her heart.
It was a bandaid approach and no real solution to her problem. But his temporary fix let her get some sleep, at least. When he went to wake her at 7 AM, she was still out of it.
Rather than wake her, he climbed onto the bed behind her but stayed on top of the sheets, so that she wouldn’t feel threatened. She sighed in her sleep and nestled back against him, drawn to his warmth like a magnet. It was another half hour before she stirred in her sleep.
