Unbroken Love

by Cristiane Serruya

  “But I must have.”

  A shiver went through Sophia’s spine and she clamped it down inside. You have? “You must have what?”

  “I must have done something wrong,” he fretted, running his fingers over his jaw. His train of thought had been leading him to a path he didn’t like at all. “I am probably the cause for this. It could be any of the women I had. Or…”

  Don’t you pity yourself, dammit. “Or?”

  “Or Emma again. This may be another one of Emma’s schemes.”

  Oh, God. Not again. A veil of anger descended over Sophia’s face and her mouth opened to unleash it on him.

  I don’t want to hear you faulting me. “Listen!” I can do it myself.

  The command made her pause.

  “It’s my fault, Sophia! Can’t you see? I—”

  “Stop, please just stop.” Oh, Alistair Connor, you’re not listening. She shook her head and cupped his drawn face in her soft hands. “How is it that everything Emma does is always your fault? Do you think other people don’t have a say in their actions? Whenever anything bad happens, it’s automatically because you did something wrong? You’ve risen again. A Phoenix, more powerful.”

  No condemnation. No judgment. Is there any woman like her? He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “You have a way with words, don’t you, Counselor? You wind them around my heart and soul.”

  “I don’t want to see you referring to yourself in such a way. I don’t like it. Everyone regrets things in their past,” she said. “Even me. Especially me.”

  And he tensed. Alistair could see in her eyes the eager desperation to argue in his favor.

  But she realized he was stubborn enough to spar with her all night. “I love you, and I’m sure whomever wants us separated will lose interest as soon as they see that we will not fall for their lies.” She sighed softly and her breath made his lips tingle in awareness.

  Alistair dipped his fingers in her hair and combed it back, pushing a lock behind her ear. He didn’t want her to be worried about anything. He would take care of it. His eyes bore down on hers. With a concerned look on his face, he told her, “I want you to check if you know this number. On your computer and with Sarah. Maybe even with Davidoff.”

  “I will. Tomorrow.”

  “I want you to know that I believe in you.” He nuzzled the side of her neck and bit her softly, sending shivers of heated pleasure all over her body.

  And here we go again. She fisted his hair and brought his head up, kissing his lips with a hunger that equaled his. Not that I am complaining.

  “You, Sophia, make me crave things I never thought I’d crave again. I want to be with you all the time. I want everything you have to give.”

  “I want to be with you, too. I want to smother your bad memories with good ones. I want to be all you know, all you see.” She stood up, smiled deviously, and stretched. “I think it’s time to retire.”

  She looked gorgeous, and a thousand other things he couldn’t describe because he was too horny to think clearly. “Minx,” he said, already interested in other things than talk.

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, October 12, 2010

  5:22 a.m.

  A strange dream woke Alistair. He frowned, trying to remember it but gave up as a breath fanned his nipple, steering his half arousal to a full hard-on. Lazily, he opened his eyes and peered down at Sophia sleeping soundly on his chest, completely naked, but for the sheet, which did not conceal her.

  He smiled. He was never one for too much cuddling and spooning, but since his first night with Sophia, they started and ended their sleep tangled in each other’s arms.

  Has she rolled here on her own, or did I pull her over? He didn’t really care as long as they kept tangling up like that.

  Slowly he traced a fingertip over her spine. She murmured in Portuguese in her sleep and burrowed deeper against him, rubbing her cheek on his skin.

  He marveled at what she could do to him and his body with such gentle touches. She had tamed him so easily. She put a firm stop on his path to destruction and brought him back to light.

  As if summoned, sunlight streamed in from the window. Drawn to her, the beam enveloped them.

  It highlighted the astonishing peace she exuded.

  A peace he craved for himself.

  Soho

  Emma Miller’s Apartment

  5:58 a.m.

  Scrawny and unremarkable were the words Alistair would have used to describe the dark-haired, slender, and plain young man that opened the door, dressed in pajama shorts. The man had fresh red lash marks on his shoulders and chest, and a few that disappeared under his shorts, which didn’t hide his erection.

  Alistair knew he was seeing a male submissive and that the foreplay had just begun. He was well-acquainted with how Emma liked to start her day.

  “May I help you?”

  Alistair didn’t reply and pushed his way inside Emma’s apartment, shoving the man aside.

  “Hey,” he squealed, losing his footing and crashing against the wall. “You can’t—”

  “Try to stop me,” Alistair snarled and bared his teeth, towering over the younger man, who was still leaning on the wall for support.

  “How I love such a display of testosterone,” a female voice purred. “Come for a taste of good sex?”

  Alistair turned his head to see Emma.

  Wearing nothing but a short black leather jacket and toying with the small patch of her dark blonde curls, she cracked the whip expertly on the floor.

  Alistair’s lips twisted in disgust.

  The man tried feebly to interfere. “You—”

  “You.” Alistair poked him hard on the chest. “Get lost.”

  Trembling, the man looked at Emma, who said dismissively, “Go to your room.”

  “Yes, mistress,” he replied, looking at his feet, and skulking away to a plain, big room without windows, which contained only a wardrobe and a hard wooden chair.

  It was the only place in the apartment where subs could keep their private things. It also served for what she called the punishment of confinement. The sub would sit on that chair trussed up for as long as she wanted.

  The subs were also only allowed to wear the clothes she supplied, as she deemed herself the fashion expert. She always wore expensive costumes and clothes.

  Alistair knew her apartment intimately, for he had bought it a long time ago for their hardcore BDSM sex.

  The three bedroom apartment had been remodeled to a comfortable living room with an American kitchen, one huge bedroom, dressing room, and bathroom and the windowless space now called the sub’s room.

  It had fit the sisters’ needs very well.

  And his too, at that time.

  Emma had decorated it according to their sexual tastes and added soundproof walls.

  He thought of it as an expensive and stylish dungeon and had spent many hours there with Emma and Heather when they wanted to enjoy hard-core play.

  After Nathalie died, he didn’t care if Emma still lived there or not. He ordered his lawyers to draw up a contract for her and that was it. He had never set foot in it again.

  Alistair looked around distractedly for a moment, remembering the many scenes they had played there. And, yes, he couldn’t deny, he had liked it.

  Now, he knew better.

  Emma couldn’t believe her luck. To have him again inside her apartment was a dream come true.

  All she ever wanted was to have Alistair for herself. She wanted him to take her. Any way he wanted.

  She looked him over and salivated. His dark gray cardigan was buttoned to the middle of his chest and stretched over his torso. His strong legs filled the black jeans perfectly. He was wearing gray suede shoes, which she wanted to take off and lick his feet.

  He was even more handsome, strong, and sexy than she remembered.

  Emma didn’t intend to waste the opportunity.

  She shed her jacket and her big, lush breasts with brown nipples sw
ayed as she walked lithely to the middle of the room and dropped to her knees, whispering sensuously, “Sir, I knew that bitch wouldn’t satisfy you.”

  And she bent and licked his shoes.

  Alistair almost vomited. His anger bubbled and he crouched on his haunches. With a violence he thought he had controlled, he grabbed her by the long blonde hair, yanking it back with such force, a few strands were pulled out.

  A moan of pleasure left Emma’s mouth, but still she didn’t look at him. “I missed you, sir.”

  “Shut up!” His ominous voice reverberated in the sparse living room as he released her instantly. “Want my money to keep flowing? Dress decently and return in two minutes. I want to talk.” Breathe, Alistair Connor. You aren’t like this anymore. Just breathe.

  “Yes. Sir.” This time the honorific title came out with a slight mocking tone.

  “Emma,” he growled, irritated.

  Emma had always envied her sister for having such a desirable man. She rose gingerly, a hand massaging her scalp. The gratitude that left her mouth was real when she said, “Anyway, sir, thank you. That reminded me of good times.”

  What Alistair didn’t know was that Emma blamed Heather for losing him. She never considered that her tendency to constantly abuse her sister and practice those evil acts had contributed to making Heather more unstable and to turn her away from their sexual entertainment.

  She stood there in a sexual trance. She wanted to suck Alistair’s penis and feel him hammering at the back of her throat.

  Alistair saw desire on her face. He fisted his hands and willed them to stay by his sides and not to throttle her. “Can you hear the tick-tock, Emma? You have less than two minutes.”

  That made the blonde woman rush to her room, leaving the door wide open.

  From what Alistair could see, she hadn’t refurbished it.

  There was a tall and huge bed with chains, handcuffs, and straps hanging on the corners and on its center. Neatly arranged to one side: whips, floggers, crops, canes, and miscellaneous things to cause pain. He knew that she kept a chest drawer full of other sex toys and a St. Andrews’ cross on the other side.

  He inhaled deeply, leashing his emotions tightly, and settled on the comfortable armchair, looking at his ruined Gucci suede shoes. I’ll have to get rid of these.

  In less than the two minutes he had given her, she was back in the room dressed in a white long-sleeve T-shirt and white long skirt.

  She didn’t fool him. That was one of Heather’s sub costumes. Emma wore no underwear with it. He could see her big brown nipples through the shirt, and the way the skirt highlighted her sex. If she turned, her round buttocks would be delineated too. The outfit was only missing the white collar and leather handcuffs.

  Even so, he wasn’t a bit aroused by the sight.

  “Sir?” she pleaded demurely, “do I look decent?”

  Alistair snorted inside and didn’t deign to answer. “Sit.”

  She sat at his feet, head lowered.

  “Emma. Don’t play with me.” He blew an exasperated breath. “Sit. On the sofa.”

  She obeyed instantly.

  “Let me make myself clear, Emma. I know that you sent the text messages and the photo. I don’t want you to approach Sophia. Never, do you understand?” He put his elbows on his knees and pinned her with his glare. He glimpsed her uncertainty before she nodded. “I don’t want you back in my life. Or any other woman, for that matter. I’m done with that.”

  Jealousy spiked her temper, making it flare out of control. She raised her eyes to look at him. Her blue eyes blazed with fire and she said daringly, “I’m shocked.”

  The only word Alistair had to describe the look on her face was dangerous.

  “You used to manage so much estrogen at the same time when we were together.”

  What’s your problem with hormones today, Emma? She had never used that tone with him or changed moods so quickly. Unbuttoning his cardigan, he fingered his belt buckle, and raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

  Immediately, her stance changed and she bowed her head. “Sorry, sir.”

  “If you ever approach Sophia, try to contact her in any form, or hurt her again, directly or indirectly, you’ll never see a cent from me and my lawyers will take this apartment away. Understood?” He was going to unbuckle his belt for effect but stopped himself short. You don’t want to give her the wrong idea, Alistair Connor.

  But Emma was already aroused and when she saw him fingering the belt, she licked her lips. She wanted to feel the belt on her skin. Badly. “Yes, sir.”

  Alistair had never allowed her to cause him real pain or humiliate him. A few hard slaps or whip lashes on his firm, round buttocks and on the back of his strong, muscled legs.

  She had enjoyed his grunts, knowing he did that only for her pleasure. She enjoyed it even more because Heather didn’t like to see him as a sub. Afterward, she always punished her older sister for spoiling her scenes. As much as she wished it, he never allowed her to cross the line.

  And more than that, more than anything, she had loved being his sub. He played by the rules and did whatever she wanted to get her satisfied, pushing the boundaries carefully. Even younger and not experienced in BDSM, he had good instincts toward his lovers’ bodies.

  Alistair had been the hottest, wealthiest, and most generous lover she had ever found.

  Her best prize ever.

  After Heather died, she had kept the apartment and a small amount of money flowing, little scraps in her opinion, and only due to compromising photos.

  Emma wanted the man, the stud, and the money back. The thoughts swirled in her mind as she planned.

  “Emma,” Alistair’s voice brought her back to reality. “Mind on the task at hand. Do you understand?”

  She remembered that when he had asked a question he used to like to hear the answer loud and clear. In an attempt to entice him, she stated, “Yes, sir. I understand, sir. As promised, I didn’t approach her, sir.”

  From the look on her face, Alistair knew she was planning something.

  You’ve lowered yourself, Alistair Connor. You should have sent some else to do this. But you didn’t. Now finish it and leave. He tsked twice. “No’ good enough, you dirty scumbag. I can send a dom that likes twenty-four-seven slaves to take care of you.”

  A shudder rippled through her. Emma was not a real sub like Heather was. Enslavement to a severe dom would not fit her purposes and pleasures.

  “If I may, sir?” she asked peering at him, her long blonde hair cascading around her perfect face.

  He rubbed his chin trying to gauge her reasoning and if he should continue to play her game. “Say it.”

  “I don’t want you to think I’m being impertinent, sir. But I need a—” She was going to ask for a loan, but decided to change the sentence at the last minute. “Let’s say...a fee for my photography work.”

  You dirty bitch. So this is your game. Alistair seethed and gnashed his teeth, struggling to control his anger. He knew what she was talking about. Since Heather died, she had been selling those photos to him every now and then. Each time, they were more expensive. He normally would not abide blackmail but she knew she had him where she wanted.

  BDSM practice, even between consenting adults, was a crime in the United Kingdom. And all the photos she had were of him as a dom.

  He bit out, “How much?”

  “Half a million,” she said smoothly.

  Really? You’re pushing your luck, Emma. He scoffed and rose with finality. “One-hundred-thousand. Take it or leave it.” I have to find someone to destroy those. No matter how.

  “It’s very generous, sir.”

  Alistair thought he heard a mocking tone in her voice again.

  Seems you’re having difficulties understanding me, Emma. He steeled himself and with a single step, he was in front of her.

  Again he yanked her by the hair, this time pulling her off the sofa. “Remember, Emma, if Sophia, or Gabriela for that mat
ter, suffer a scratch, a single scratch, or these photos leak to the press, you won’t like the consequences.”

  One would have supposed she would scramble hastily to her feet to avoid the pain. But her body stayed limp, her knees barely touching the floor.

  “I didn’t hear your answer,” Alistair’s tone was even.

  “Yes, sir!” she screamed. “I understand, sir.”

  He let her hair go and she plummeted to the ground, whimpering, “Thank you, sir.”

  You disgust me. He was about to reinforce his orders, when a moan escaped her mouth.

  “Please, one last time, sir.”

  You never learn, do you? Bile rose in his mouth. “In the bedroom.” I’ll punish you. On my own terms.

  She rushed inside.

  He followed her, hating every second of it, his feet dragging in the mire.

  “Where, sir?”

  “Floor. On the sleeping place.” Where you used to chain Heather to sleep. “Face down.”

  She started to take off her T-shirt.

  “Clothes on,” he ordered. He was so angry that he considered for a moment flogging her.

  She panted and dropped on the floor, positioning herself.

  He chained her to the cold cement floor, disappointed with himself for doing it. He got up and opened the first drawer. Amid dildos and vibrators, there was a bunch of keys. He selected the one for the floor chains and took it with him. At the bedroom door, he turned and said, “This is the last time I’ll be giving you a nice lesson. Be warned. I hope you enjoy it.”

  Her first outraged scream pierced the air when he was closing the door. He turned the key in the lock and placed both in his cardigan pocket.

  No more intelligible sounds could be heard.

  His stomach churned with the whole situation. He looked at his watch. Less than ten minutes had passed since he had entered the apartment but it had seemed like an eternity.

  He took money from his wallet and donning his best dominant mask, he jerked the sub’s room door open. He handed the wide eyed sub five-hundred pounds. “Leave and don’t return! Find yourself a mistress that can take real care of your needs. This is an order and I’ll know if you don’t fulfill it.”