Call Me Killer

by Linda Barlow

  Now she felt rattled. The ex must have been a submissive. Stephen was obviously a dominant. Sir Stephen, Kate had laughingly called him. Had she been referring to The Story of O? Of course—she must have been. Not only was he into sadomasochism, but his friends knew it.

  Would he hurt her? How much?

  How bad was the Bad Boy? What if he wanted to do a whole bunch of bizarre stuff that she couldn’t abide? What if he was a sadist, like Bartholomew Giles?

  "Viola? What’s the matter?"

  Get it together, she ordered herself. "I’m fine. I was just being silly."

  He gripped her chin in his fingers and turned her so she had to meet his eyes. "Tell me."

  "I was remembering your nasty hero, and hoping you weren’t planning to stretch me on a medieval rack."

  "Ah." His eyes glinted in that "you’re so teasable" way she was coming to recognize. "Now that would be payback indeed for your scathing review. I am going to invite you to come next weekend down to my gothic castle on Cape Cod. Will you come if you think Bart and his rack might be waiting for you there? We’ll have to see how courageous you are, my lady."

  Instead of freaking her out even more, his playful tone made her smile. It also sent a jolt of pure joy through her. He’s inviting me to his place.

  "Does this gothic place of yours have whips and chains?"

  He grinned. "Of course. Plenty of 'em. And all sorts of other kinky stuff, too."

  "Oh my god. I am so out of my depth."

  "We'll go slowly. We can begin with the gentle, caressing sort of whips."

  "I don't know, Stephen. I mean, I'm curious, but doesn't whipping hurt?"

  "Good pain. When you’re aroused, perception of pain is altered. A skillful dom can play with that, ensuring that your endorphins kick in, transmuting pain into pleasure."

  "That sounds like BDSM propaganda."

  He laughed. "How about a little demonstration?"

  "What kind of demonstration?"

  "I’m going to hurt you, but for only a moment. It’ll feel good. Is that okay?"

  "Wait, you’re going to hurt me? Not a lot, right? 'Cause that would not be okay."

  "Just a little, I promise. Will you trust me? Just use the word 'red' as your safeword if you need me to stop."

  Damn, it was hard to resist him. She nodded. Something about his low, mischievous voice and that Bad Boy look that had crept across his features. Oh god, I’m so lost. He hadn’t actually done anything yet, but it already felt sexy.

  His fingers had been delicately toying with her breast while they spoke. Now they closed together hard, pinching her nipple. The sharp, quick pressure sent a stab of pain through her that seemed to race down her nerves straight into her sex, which throbbed pleasurably. A small moan escaped her. Lovers had pinched her nipples before, but never so hard. Maybe there was such a thing as good pain. "I guess I'm not totally averse to whatever that was."

  "I’m not done yet." His other hand slipped between her legs and began caressing her. He was so good at it. He knew exactly where to touch her and how to escalate. Her arousal spiraled. Honeyed pleasure spread through her entire body as he continued to manipulate her sex. His hot eyes smiled into hers as his face came closer. He kissed her mouth in a teasing, provocative way that had her arching off the mattress to try to get him to deepen the kiss. His thumb drifted over her clit.

  If he keeps this up, I’m going to come, she thought, amazed at the speed with which her arousal had built. When she began to rock against his fingers, he compressed her nipple again. Harder. Much harder. The sensation snapped between her breast and her sex like an electric shock, but the sensation felt amazing.

  With his lips near her ear, he whispered, "Good pain or bad?"

  She tossed her head while continuing to churn her hips. Had his stimulation released her endorphins? "Do it again."

  "Let me get this straight," he drawled, his green eyes shining. "You’re asking me to pinch your breast again? You actually want another nip of pain?"

  "Just…shut up and do it again."

  "Say please."

  "I will not say please."

  "Say, ‘make it hurt so good, Master.’"

  "In your dreams!"

  He chuckled. "Training you is going to be so much fun."

  Chapter 13

  Over coffee the following day, Stephen regarded a sleepy-eyed, tangled-hair Viola with amusement. They had just dragged themselves out of bed after a languid session of not-entirely-wakeful morning sex. Or afternoon sex, given that they had stayed up all night and not fallen asleep until well after dawn.

  Her cheeks were pink—probably from beard abrasion since he couldn’t remember when he’d last thought to shave. Her eyes were bright, and her smile, when she managed to stop yawning, was the same wide, mischievous grin he remembered from that long-ago summer.

  He was conscious of a deep pulse of affection for her. How strange and unexpectedly joyful this entire weekend had been. How odd that he had never realized how much he missed having her in his life.

  Still, there was a faint, almost indiscernible sorrow clinging to Viola now; the result, perhaps, of her failed marriage. She seemed less willing to tell him what was on her mind than she had been as a teenager. Although there was no reason to expect that she would open her heart to him after a single night in bed, he felt bewildered by her new elusiveness. Teenager Viola had not yet learned to hide anything.

  She was more guarded now. He had tried a couple of times to get her to tell him something more about her ex-husband, but she'd either ducked the questions or answered vaguely before changing the subject.

  Had something happened to make her develop a shell to hide under? If so, what? Had the guy hurt her somehow?

  There had been a curious incident this morning, early, when the morning sunlight had flooded into the bedroom where they lay, sleepily contemplating one another at the dawn of a new day. Viola had stretched and turned on her side toward him, flipping her long red hair back over her left shoulder. As she did so, he saw that there was a scar running above her collar bone, near her throat.

  The scar was about three inches long, a gash that must have required stitches. He hadn't noticed it during the night, but the room had been dark. "That looks nasty," he’d said, "how did you get it?"

  She stiffened. To his surprise, her entire body went rigid under his hands. "What do you mean?"

  Was she embarrassed by the mark? Maybe he shouldn't have called attention to it. Too late now. Gently, he reached out a finger towards her and stroked the spot. "Your scar. I’m sure you didn't have it nine years ago."

  Her lids came down, hiding the expression in her eyes. "No," she agreed. "I acquired that more recently. It was—" there was the faintest pause "—an accident." She nodded. "I had an accident."

  "What sort of accident? That looks as if something came dangerously close to cutting the artery in your throat."

  Her eyes flicked to his, and for a moment he thought he saw panic there. Then she twisted her head, pulling away from him. Since she obviously didn't want him to finger the blemish, he withdrew his hand. As he did, she tossed her head again so that some of her hair once again fell over her neck, partially hiding the mark. "I got cut with some glass. You’re right—I was lucky that no major blood vessels were involved."

  "But how—"

  "Car accident," she interrupted. "Flying glass from, you know, the shattered windshield."

  That didn't compute. Windshields had been made with laminated shatter-proof glass for years. They didn’t break, spewing sharp glass chunks; they crumbled.

  Viola’s eyes, usually so direct, avoided his, and her fingers on her right hand tightened on the sheet and began twisting the fabric nervously. These were classic signs that someone was lying.

  Stephen was puzzled. He was good at reading lies. When he'd invented Bart, Queen Elizabeth's Inquisitor, he'd done some research on how real interrogators identify lies by body language and linguistic analysis. A well-tra
ined, sensitive inquisitor could separate the lies from the truth if he was watchful and persistent enough. Bart was extremely good at it, but Bart, of course, was fictional.

  He tried to think of a good reason why she might be lying. What else besides an accident could cause a scar like that?

  Maybe she'd had some sort of surgery that she didn't want to tell him about? Had she been ill? Maybe it was cosmetic? Maybe she'd had a birthmark or tattoo removed? She had commented on the tattoo he had on his ass—the one he'd gotten to support Kate after her husband's fatal accident—but he'd had that nine years ago and she'd remembered it. He didn't remember any ink on her, except for the fake tattoos that had washed off.

  Trouble was, it didn't look like a surgical scar. It was too jagged.

  Had someone attacked her?

  His mind darkened at the thought of that. "You weren't badly hurt, I hope?"

  She was still tense—he could see it in the way she held her body. But she met his gaze now as she said, "I spent a few days in the hospital. Dad took really good care of me—he was great."

  That sounded sincere and direct. His impression that she was evading him faded. He must have been imagining things.

  Let it go. She would tell him when it felt right to her. He bent his head and kissed the mark thoroughly. "You could be covered with scars, and I’d still find you beautiful," he’d murmured, and her tension had melted away.

  There had been other moments last night, too, when he thought he'd sensed her withdrawing from him. They had both been grappling a bit with the unexpectedly intense feelings produced by their reunion, and on top of that, he'd dropped the "I'm kinky" bomb on her.

  If she needed some distance to get her bearings, that seemed to him to be normal and sensible. He wasn’t sure exactly how he felt, either, about their intense, unexpected intimacy.

  "I hate to say it," he said now, "but I’m going to have to hit the road soon. I need to get some work done this evening on my book."

  Her expressive face showed her disappointment, but she smiled and said, "That’s okay. I’ve got some work to finish up before classes tomorrow, too."

  "Besides, Rusty will be missing me."

  "Who’s Rusty?"

  "My golden retriever. I arranged for a neighbor to look in on him this weekend, to feed him and take him for walks, but he gets lonely if I’m gone for too long."

  "You have a golden? I love goldens!"

  "He’s a mutt, actually, but he obviously has a lot of golden retriever genes. No doubt he’ll slobber all over you when he meets you. You’re coming down to my place next weekend, right?"

  "I’d love to. I think I’m intrepid enough to brave your threats about dungeons and torturers," she added with a smirk.

  "Fear not, Rusty will protect you from the big bad dom."

  "Where on the Cape do you live?" she asked.

  "Brewster. Do you know it?"

  "Sure. That’s not far from where my dad lives."

  He nodded. He and Percy Quentin didn't agree on much, but they both liked living on the Cape. "The north side, where I live, is quieter and less touristy."

  "Is it near the beach?"

  "It’s on a hill overlooking the beach, and yes, my property runs down to the shore. Great location—there used to be a summer camp for kids on the property a few decades ago. The house is new, though—I had it built to my own specifications."

  "Whoa, lucky you."

  "It’s all due to Bartholomew Giles," he said, grinning. "If you like the place, you’ll have him to thank."

  Chapter 14

  It was a sunny, glorious afternoon as Viola drove over the bridge to Cape Cod the following Friday. At the end of the Cape Cod Canal she could see the hazy blue of the ocean sighing gently under a bank of puffy clouds. It was warm for April, and she had her window rolled down. She was dressed casually, in blue jeans and a green cotton shirt. Her hair, swinging loose over her shoulders, blew haphazardly in the wind.

  The drive to the Cape was pleasant. Again, she thought how strange it was that Stephen had been living just a few miles from her father’s place for the past year. She had been down here multiple times since her she'd started teaching at Whittacre. Stephen had been so close, but she had never known he was here.

  Of course, if she had known, it wouldn’t have made much difference. She had believed, after all, that he’d abandoned her nine years ago and never wanted to see her again.

  It still bothered her a little, the way that had happened. She had wanted to confront her father, and hear his side of the story, but Percy was out west, fishing with some of his good friends.

  She had spent some time during the week researching BDSM. In addition to informational websites and discussion forums, she found blogs of people relating their daily experiences with their partners. Some of the things people were into felt familiar, others were things she had never considered but found intriguing, and a few were so bizarre that she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to do them.

  It didn’t take long to go into a state of information overload. Stephen had not been specific about what his desires were, and she was reluctant to examine her own too closely. Exciting or not, it made her uneasy.

  Towards the end of the week, it had occurred to her that she could probably get some information from her outrageous cousin Diana, who had long referred to herself as a sexual adventuress. If anyone knew about the kinky stuff, she was sure it would be Diana Adams. Her cousin was disarmingly frank and open, too—there was nothing she wasn’t willing to talk about, and she never passed judgment.

  "Oh my god, Vio, you’re dating someone in the scene? Dom or sub?"

  "Well, I’m the one who’s going to get tied up and spanked."

  "He knows what he’s doing, right? If you’re going to dabble in this, you need to make sure the guy knows how to play safely."

  "It sounds as if he has plenty of experience. He emphasized the safe, sane and consensual thing."

  "That’s good. How did you meet him? Was it through a trustworthy kinky community?"

  "No. I knew him when I was a teenager. We recently encountered each other, and our nine year old lust-fest started right up again. I didn’t know he was kinky until he confessed it to me."

  "Wow. Long-lost lovers?" Her cousin sounded wistful. "That’s so romantic. I wonder what ever happened to my high school honey. He was the love of my life."

  "C’mon, Diana, how many times have I heard you say that about some guy you just met?"

  "Yeah, I know, but it was really true about Francis. He spoiled me for everyone else. Sometimes I fantasize about hooking up with him again and everything being the same as it was."

  "Well, everything’s not the same as it was. When I knew Stephen nine years ago, he hadn’t yet morphed into Sir Stephen from The Story of O."

  "Whoa, Viola, I’m amazed that you’ve even heard of The Story of O."

  "I’m a literature professor, remember?"

  Diana laughed. She had a booming full-throated laugh, and it was impossible not to laugh with her. "So this guy, your personal Sir Stephen, does he have his own dungeon?"

  "I hope not," Viola had said, thinking of Bartholomew Giles.

  "If he doesn’t, you’ll probably have to go to clubs to try all the various equipment."

  "Clubs?"

  "BDSM clubs, yeah. A lot of cities have them. There are also private clubs, but you’ll need an invitation for those. Does this guy know people in the local scene?"

  "Probably, but I am not interested in going to any clubs. Bedroom only for me, thank you very much."

  "It kinda depends on the bedroom, girl. I suppose it could work if he’s installed a few hooks in the ceiling or on the walls, and maybe a spanking bench or a St Andrew’s Cross. He could keep all his whips and paddles and floggers in a cupboard, along with the gags and collars and harnesses, not to mention the butt plugs, nipple clamps, hot wax and the needles—"

  "Okay, stop. Do you go to these kinky clubs?"

&nb
sp; "I’ve been a few times. Not recently. The guy I’ve been seeing is vanilla. I had a sexy male slave for a few months once, but I got bored with the domme thing. I might like to try subbing, but I’ve never met anybody I trusted enough to top me." More soberly, her cousin added, "You should tell him what happened to you with that creep you married. I know it had nothing to do with sex, but it was traumatic and violent."

  "I’d really rather not. I hate to talk about it, or even think about it."

  "If he’s a safe, trustworthy dominant, he’ll want to know if there are any bombshells waiting to explode out of your past. Kink can be emotionally intense. Sometimes it triggers things. You should tell him. I’m serious."

  "I’ll consider it. We haven’t done anything too twisted, so it’s not an issue right now. He promised we'd take it slowly."

  "I know you want to put what happened behind you, but sometimes the only way to do that is to confront it, head on."

  Viola had changed the subject, as she always did when memories of her marriage intruded. But she knew Diana was right, and not just because of the probability that sex with Stephen would get a little rough. Intimacy meant being honest, and she had already lied to him once when he’d asked her about the scar. She hadn't wanted her nightmare thoughts about Derek’s brutality to mar the joy with Stephen. So instead of explaining how her marriage had ended, she had invented a fictitious car accident.

  The trouble was, she suspected he’d known she was making it up. She had never been a good liar. If he asked about it again, she'd have to tell him the truth.

  She didn't allow herself to focus too much on these dark thoughts—it wasn't in her nature to stay gloomy for long. Her interaction during the week with Stephen had been upbeat and lighthearted. They had spoken on the phone a couple of times and exchanged texts and email, and he excelled at making her laugh. She was sure they were going to have fun together this weekend.

  Viola wasn’t as familiar with this side of the Cape, and missed one turn before she found the quiet sloping road that led down toward the sea. She finally came to an old wooden sign that bore the name Silkwood. She turned into a sandy driveway that was covered with broken clam shells for traction.