“Slade!” gasps Constance.
This is unbelievable. But something clicks. I know this guy. Not Slade Lewis specifically, but I know his type. Hell, I’ve fucked his type. Guys who get off not on embarrassing women—a little embarrassment gets me going as much as the next submissive—but humiliating women. That’s what he’s doing. Publicly. He’s enjoying himself, and he’s not going to stop until I’m in tears.
If I saw this scene going down at a club, I’d shrug. It’s not my kink, but I’d know that both parties had consented and were having a damn good time. And if they weren’t, a single word would bring the whole thing to a halt.
But this isn’t a play party. There’s no safeword and no dungeon monitor or solicitous host to throw him out on his ass. He’s not following the rules, and it’s not okay. Would it still get him off if this were negotiated and boundaries had been agreed upon?
If so…god, Slade. Let me show you a world where you could find a yin to your yang. They’d be thrilled to have you. If not, then you’re just a raging asshole who should be dropped in shark-infested waters with a chum bucket for a chaser.
I don’t have the capacity to dissect Slade’s psychology any further because all my energy is being used to withstand his tirade. He continues to berate me, picking on every typo I’ve ever made, telling me Princeton called and wants their diploma back, insulting my work on unwinding this tangle of deceit—anything, everything he can think of. Constance is clued in and looks pissed. Jack seems to have no idea he’s watching sex. Not the sex I’d like to have, but it’s sure doing something for Slade. I’d bet money he’ll excuse himself for what will be a very brief visit to a private office to “make a phone call” before he and Constance head to Bakersfield.
In the meantime, his constant barrage of insults is grinding me down. I’m guessing my resistance to what surely would’ve had most people in a sniveling puddle of goo on the floor is only making this more satisfying for him. India Kittredge Burke, presenting a challenge since the day I was born.
He finally gets his way when he demands, “What are you, some kind of enchantress? A goddamn witch to have all these people falling all over you like you’re the Second Coming?”
I hate crying, and the fact I’m about to do it over news so old it’s ancient makes me even more pissed and out of control. Even replaying Hunter’s voice in my head isn’t helping. At first I hear him say I’ve beguiled him, but it morphs into every lecture he ever gave me, every time I disappointed him.
What I’d like to do is strip off my coat, get down on my knees with my forehead to the floor, and let Slade at my ass with the black leather belt yanked from the trousers of his finely tailored suit. Who is he to berate me for my fashion choices, anyway? He’s wearing fucking Burberry. But that’s part of it, right? It doesn’t matter how invalid his complaints. I still feel shitty and helpless, and tears are forming. I try to blink them back, but the constant criticism in front of Jack and Constance is too much. I swipe the first traitorous drop rolling down my cheek with the back of my hand.
Punish me any other way than this, you sadistic bastard.
Slade hurls a few more insults my way before declaring it’s time to head to Bakersfield—but he has a call to make first.
“Is there an office I can use?”
“102.” My eyes feel swollen from my efforts to resist crying, but I stare Slade down without blinking. “There’s no window.”
He smirks at my humorless joke and leaves. Constance goes after him, not meeting my eyes. She’ll call later, but I won’t get the message. My Blackberry will be sitting on my coffee table in my sorry excuse for an apartment while Crispin cleans up the mess Slade’s made. Jack tries to talk to me, but I close my eyes and tighten my jaw.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a plane to catch. We’ll talk Monday.”
*
When Crispin picks me up at the airport, he can tell something’s not right.
“What happened, India?”
“Don’t, please.”
“Okay.” He studies me as he closes my door. He’s wary after the last time I was here, maybe trying to be respectful of the barriers I’ve thrown up around myself.
“You remember when I asked you to be strict with me?”
“Sure.”
“You need to make that look like a nursery rhyme.”
He doesn’t try to talk to me for the rest of the drive but glances over periodically. I’ve tucked my knees up on the seat, and my arms are crossed tight over my chest. I’m trying to hold myself together until we get to his house.
I take the contracts from my bag, flip to the second-to-last page, make a change to the fourth clause on each copy, and initial by it. When I shove them across the table without saying a word, he starts to fill them out but stops when he gets to the change. Instead of reading “Pain: The submissive consents to experiencing a moderate amount of pain at the hands of the Dominant,” it now says “Pain: The submissive consents to receiving a moderate an extreme amount of pain at the hands of the Dominant.”
“India—”
“Don’t, please.” I drop to my knees and clutch at his jeans. “Please, Crispin. I don’t ask you for much. Please.”
My face is buried in the worn denim, my fingers grip the fabric tight, and my bare knees grind into the wood floor. My hands have started shaking, and I can’t make them stop. It seems like forever before Crispin is smoothing the hair on the top of my head.
“Ten minutes.”
I nuzzle his thigh in gratitude before heading to my room.
*
Two hours later, I’m tethered blindfolded to the cross, my back stinging with raised welts from a harsh flogger, my ass and thighs reddened from a firm hand-spanking, followed by a paddling. Now Crispin is imprinting parallel lines over all that with a cane. It’s not enough. He’s not hitting me as hard as he can, and I’m angry.
He cracks a seventh stripe on that most diabolical of sweet spots, the sensitive crease between behind and thigh, and then the cane hits the floor. Denim-clad thighs press into my heated, raw ass, and he lays his hands over mine, untethering my wrists.
“No,” I plead.
“I think you’ve had enough, pet.” His stubble whispers against the sensitive skin behind my ear, something I usually find comforting, but it’s doing nothing for me.
“No. It’s not enough. More. Please. I need more.”
“We’re done for now. You need to rest.”
My hands scramble at the wood of the cross, the loosened straps, holding myself to it even as he undoes the rest of my bondage.
“More!”
“I said no, Kit.” He’s broken out his best Dom voice, but it barely registers.
“What are you going to do, punish me?”
“I will when you’ve come to your senses, and it’s not going to be in a way you’ll enjoy.”
I’m free, and I feel like a loaded pinball poised to careen out of control. I want to slam up against things until I stop feeling anything at all, until I’m numb. I want him to hit me so hard I disappear, cease to exist. I’m still feeling far too much and it’s his fault.
“What are you, not man enough for this, Cris? Your pretty little sub tells you that you need to hit her harder, and you can’t get it up for that? What the fuck kind of Dom are you?”
I shove him in the chest as a parting shot, but he doesn’t budge. He’s like the goddamn Rock of Gibraltar, and his lack of reaction brings my fury to a head. I’m about to beat on his chest when he grabs my wrists in his inescapable hands.
“I’m man enough to know you’ve had enough. You’re hurt and you’re angry, and you think the way to make it go away is for me to beat the living shit out of you. I’m not going to. You’ve had enough.”
I struggle against him, but it’s useless. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so angry. I scream at him, saying god knows what kinds of horrible things, but he keeps a hold of my wrists, letting the atom bomb that is India Burke
detonate in a sparsely populated area. I’m still railing at him when his soft voice interrupts me.
“I’ll make you a deal, mili.”
I stop and flash my eyes to his, wary or maybe even predatory. I can’t resist a bargain, and he’s made some cherries in the past.
“If you take a bath and you still want more, I’ll give it to you.”
A dangerous offer. Warm water has a way of sapping my resolve.
“If I say no?”
“I can do this all night, and I’ll put you on a plane tomorrow. Or maybe lock you in your room until your flight on Sunday. Haven’t quite decided yet.”
I glare at him. I’m tempted to say no to be contrary, but neither of the alternatives sound appealing in the least. He’d do it, too. Besides, the distraction of a deal has taken the wind out of the sails of my tantrum, and if I’m totally honest, my body has started to hurt. The residual sting of the flogger, the heated ache from the paddling, and the blistering pain from the cane are fresh and present now that I’ve reemerged from subspace.
“Fine.”
“Good girl.”
He loosens his grip warily, as if I’ll make a run for it, but my word is good. When I take a step toward the bathroom, my legs give out, and the room spins. It’s possible it would’ve been a good idea to eat sometime today. Luckily, Crispin is prepared, and I don’t hit the floor before he scoops me up effortlessly against his chest. We don’t make it to the bathroom before I start to cry.
Chapter Twenty-One
‡
He rinses me off in the shower while the bathtub fills and then slips me into the steaming water. It hurts like a bitch for the first few seconds, but after the initial sting, it’s incredible. After getting me a glass of water, he undresses and slides in behind me.
“Tell me what happened.”
He wraps his arms around me, and I tell him about Slade, that fucker. Though he goes tense and rigid, he doesn’t say anything until I’m finished.
“Nothing he said was true.”
I shrug and shake my head.
“From what you’ve told me about Constance and Jack, they’d never let you get away with any of that.”
“No,” I grant, not wanting to impugn their characters. They’re two of the smartest and hardest-working people I know, and they don’t pull any punches.
“So why was it so upsetting?”
“I couldn’t defend myself. He was blatantly mind-fucking me, and there was nothing I could do.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when you got here?”
“I didn’t want to rehash it. I wanted you to make it go away.”
“I understand. But maybe talking about it first might have taken the edge off, and then I could give you what you need? I’m not going to hurt you. Actually…”
There’s a sigh from behind me. I shift to face him, leaning up against the opposite end of the tub. “What?”
“I’m uncomfortable being so rough with you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t always understand what you’re getting out of it.”
“But you’ve done all this with your other subs.”
He frowns but concedes. “Yes.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“That’s all they were. I mean, I cared for them. I wanted them to be happy. I felt responsible for them. But why they were doing it wasn’t that important to me because I never…”
He falters, and my heart seizes. He never loved them. That’s what he’s going to say. Don’t, Crispin. Please don’t. Love fucks everything up. It makes men think they own me down to my very core. That I’m not allowed to keep anything to myself. It means selling my soul and putting my whole self at risk. You don’t love me. Don’t love me.
But to protest would be to admit I know what he’s going to say, so I shut him up the only other way I know how. I throw myself across the tub, sending waves of hot, salted water sloshing over the sides. My mouth is on his, plundering, pushing, biting his lip hard. I taste blood—not mine—and then Crispin shoves me against the far side. My challenge has been accepted. We struggle in the warm water, flailing slick limbs, pulling damp hair, digging desperate fingers into flesh.
He grabs my sore cheeks, kneading with both hands, fingering the marks he’s made on me. I rake my nails down his back as I moan into his mouth. He wrenches his lips away from mine and growls, “Out.”
I want to push back, but the look on his face tames me. I climb out, naked and dripping, waiting for him. He emerges from the water and grabs my biceps, propelling me back until I hit the tiled wall hard, the cool smooth surface a shock against my skin. He pins me with his hips and kisses me again, insistent and aggressive.
He pulls away long enough to instruct, “Spread your legs,” and enters me roughly. No warm-up here, just a straight-up, hard fuck against a wall. This is the more I needed. Not more of a beating, although that would’ve done eventually. This is better. He’s slamming into me so hard I can’t touch the ground, even up on my toes. I scale his legs with my feet, finding my way to his hips and wrapping myself around him. Don’t let go, Crispin, don’t let me go.
“Come on, India. Give this to me.”
I’m startled by his use of my real name. I whine and push at him with my hands. My heart is beating hard with terror, my stomach clenching in panic, my throat closing with fear. He grabs my hair and pulls hard, forcing me to look at him.
“Goddamn it, India. Give it up. Now. Come for me.”
My body is warring with my head. I’m at the edge, and it could go either way. Female desire is fickle, and one stupid word could ruin this. But I want it. I want to be India making love to Crispin, not the fuck-toy-sex-doll everyone else gets. He’s the only one who’s ever wanted it. Who’s fought for it. For me.
“Yes!” As I gasp the word, an orgasm wracks my body, rolling out in waves, sending pleasure through every inch of me. Unrestrained, unadulterated pleasure. I should come as India more often. He’s emptying himself inside me, and I clutch his head in my arms, holding him close as he shudders.
“India,” he says with each last, uneven thrust, “India, India.”
I’m yours, Crispin. I’m all yours.
*
After the sex, I feel better but not a hundred percent. I’m still hearing Slade’s voice thudding in my head. I need to silence it before it grows any louder, otherwise all of Crispin’s hard work will be for naught. I tell him so while he’s holding me on the tile floor, and he’s pensive for a moment.
“I’m not going to hit you anymore.” He’s daring me to argue, but I’m not sorry. I ache, and I’m not sure how much more I could take and still drag my ass to work on Monday. “But I think some bondage would do you a world of good.”
His hand circles my wrist, and I’m instantly distracted. And horny. I love being restrained.
“Stay.” He disentangles himself and comes to his feet, a column of tan, masculine flesh. I admire him from my place on the bathroom floor while he showers, his muscles moving easily under his skin. He pulls his jeans on and walks out to the studio. I curl up to await further instructions and recall the sensation of Crispin’s hand around my wrist. More than the crack of the cane, it made me feel possessed by him, subject to his will. I’m meditating on it when he returns.
“India.” His use of my real name snaps me back to my full faculties.
“Yeah?”
“How would you feel about moving this to your room? I’d like to keep you tied up for a good long time, but the bed in here isn’t exactly made for long-term occupancy. You can say no, and I’ll figure it out.”
“No, that should be okay.”
“Good.” He’s got his Dom face back on. “Get up.”
*
An hour later, I’m propped against pillows on my comfy bed, being fed grape leaves and licking hummus from Crispin’s fingers. I also happen to be blindfolded and bound to the bedframe: arms stretched along the headboard, knees spread wide and tethered to my elb
ows, ankles cuffed and affixed to attachment points under the mattress.
“Open,” he urges and slips a bite of spanakopita into my mouth.
It is, like everything else Crispin has made for me or done to me, delicious. “Going Greek today, are we?”
“I believe I’ll go Greek on you later.” I almost choke on my next mouthful. “Are you finished?”
“Yes, sir.” Even though I could eat half as much again, I don’t want to fall into a food coma. I want to stay awake for whatever he’s plotting for me.
“I’ll be back in a bit. In the meantime, you’ll enjoy these.”
He applies some vicious clips to my nipples, and I whimper as my core clenches in wanting. I wait for him, testing my bonds periodically. Not because there’s any chance of escaping—Crispin knows what he’s doing—but because I can’t sit still with the constant pinch on my nipples and a little hapless struggle turns me on.
I pull at my wrists again and startle when I hear Crispin’s voice. “So eager to be released?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Not that it matters much. You’re mine for another couple of days, and I’d forgotten how much I like having you completely at my mercy.”
He unravels my bonds, starting with my ankles and ending at the blindfold, rubbing my limbs once I’ve been released.
“Turn around and kneel up.”
I do as I’ve been told, and he casually clips the cuffs adorning my wrists together behind my back. I get the feeling I’ll only be completely free for a few minutes at a time until I go home. Good.
He’s moving things about on the bed, the only clue the soft rustle of linens. The clips are removed from my nipples, and he licks and sucks at my flesh as the blood rushes back in. I inhale sharply. He bends me at the waist over a pile of pillows until my hips are elevated; my sensitized nipples are rubbing against the sheets and my head is resting on the mattress.
“Spread your legs.” He presses my bound wrists into the small of my back with one hand and drags the fingers of his other over my clit. I gasp, already throbbing. Bondage makes me disproportionately hot. I wriggle against him, trying to get more contact—it won’t take much for me to get off—but instead of a glorious orgasm, I get a harsh spank.
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