Descended (The Red Blindfold Book 1)

by Rose Devereux

  “Maybe. Why not? Come on, indulge me.”

  I sat with my hands in my lap, trying to keep a straight face. Marc peered at me over the easel, nodding his head thoughtfully as he watched the artist sketch. “It’s brilliant,” he said. “He’s bringing out a side of you I’ve never noticed until now.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am. You’ll never see yourself the same way again.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said.

  When the sketch was finished, Marc presented it to me with a flourish. Smiling nervously, I took it. It was an unusual portrait of an oval-faced girl with huge, exaggerated eyes, gamine-cropped hair, and a high cupid’s bow. The eyebrows were dark slashes, the chin slightly dimpled.

  “Is that really what I look like?” I asked.

  “A little bit, yes. You have an old-fashioned kind of beauty. This captures it.”

  “Old-fashioned?” I said, ready to tear the portrait to pieces.

  “Classic,” he said quickly. “That’s a better word.”

  “Yes, it is. Much.”

  “Can I keep this?” he asked. “It will only get ruined in that immense suitcase of yours.”

  “Take it,” I said, handing it back to him. “It’ll be a memento of tonight.”

  He kissed me on the tip of my nose. “I’ll keep it always. In fact, I’ll frame it.”

  After stopping at a café for coffee, we started the long climb to the huge hilltop church visible from Marc’s apartment. We stopped on the marble steps outside the cathedral doors and sat with our shoulders touching. The city spread out in front of us from one edge of the sky to the other. If I’d ever seen anything more beautiful, I couldn’t remember it.

  All of the years I’d searched for happiness, expecting it to arrive wrapped in a new job or apartment or boyfriend, and here it was. It might not last, but now I knew what it felt like. It was nothing more than a moment, so fleeting I couldn’t hold onto it. I wouldn’t even try.

  “I’m sorry,” Marc said.

  I looked over at him. “For what?”

  “For yesterday. For this morning. For the talk you probably got from Eleanor.”

  Surprised, I glanced at him. “How do you know about that?” I asked.

  “You wouldn’t be the first woman she’s tried to frighten away.” He squinted toward a tall building glowing purple in the distance. “I know she worries about me, but it’s more than that. We have very different opinions, as you overheard that day. She thinks our mother was perfect but the fact is, parenting wasn’t her passion. She painted, she traveled, she had lovers. She had her own life, and we weren’t always part of it.”

  I looked for a glimmer of hurt in his eyes, but saw only matter-of-fact acceptance. “What about your father?” I asked. “What was he like?”

  Marc shrugged. “He was as good a parent as he could be, I guess. He didn’t start drinking until my mother left, but even before that we had some epic battles. We were such opposites, I’ve wondered if I was the son of one of my mother’s lovers. Would I know? Would she have known? It would explain a lot. It certainly explains why fidelity is important to me.”

  I slipped a hand over his knee. “Those questions could drive you crazy.”

  “That’s why I don’t ask them anymore,” he said. “I try to let things be.”

  “Is that what we’re doing, letting things be?”

  His mouth twitched as he tried to smile. “All I know is that I can’t stop. I don’t want to think about you going home.”

  A slow fire lit inside me. This was the Marc I could talk to and understand. But I couldn’t tell him what Julia and Trevor had said. Though he’d asked me not to keep secrets, it would only ruin our time together. We had so little time as it was.

  “Listen,” he said. “I’m going to Provence next week to look at vacation properties. It’s been on my agenda, and I need to buy a place before next summer. Why don’t you come with me?”

  The fire in my chest burned higher and brighter. Go with him. Be with him. The invitation was much too tempting. But even if I could accept, my dignity wouldn’t let me. I was still sifting through the lessons of last night.

  “I’d like to,” I said, “but I just took time off.”

  His hand trailed across my spine and around my waist. “You could get an article out of it, couldn’t you? There are lots of Americans interested in buying a home in France. You could interview a property agent while we’re there.”

  He was right. I could. A good proposal would probably convince Katherine, especially if it added only a few days to my trip.

  But self-respect demanded that I hedge, and make him wait. After the turbulence of the last twenty-four hours, it might be the only control I had left. “Maybe,” I said. “I guess I can see if my editor’s interested.”

  His fingers tightened possessively around my ribs. “Why not try? If she goes for it, it would buy us a couple more days together.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said and stood up, ending the conversation before my pride faltered and I admitted the truth.

  And the truth was, I wanted to go with him. South, North, it didn’t matter. I’d never honestly considered saying no.

  The next day I’d call Katherine and say whatever was necessary to sell her on the idea. She didn’t have to know my real reason for pitching another article about France, and Marc didn’t have to know how much I dreaded leaving without him.

  So much for no secrets. Ever since I’d met Marc, honesty had become a hell of a lot harder.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was after ten when we walked back to his apartment. Just down the street from the building, he stopped beside his car and told me to get in.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “My place, a few miles from here. We’ll stay there from now on.”

  After a day off, Marc’s dominant side had returned in force. “All of my things are upstairs,” I said. “I’d have to go pack.”

  Marc softened his arrogant edges with a charming grin. “Your suitcase is fully packed and in the back of my car. My assistant once worked for a Hollywood starlet, and she’s had loads of experience folding dresses and skirts.”

  He opened the passenger door and beckoned me with a head-tilt. “Come on. I want you to see where I live.”

  Unable to resist his outstretched hand, I got in. We drove to a quiet, tree-lined street in the Marais district and parked in a private garage. Marc’s apartment was a rambling, top-floor loft with a sweeping view of the Seine. It looked almost like an artist’s studio, with antique kilim rugs scattered on the wood floors and artwork crowding the walls. Stacked on every tabletop were books about wine, architecture, photography, interior design. The sofas were distressed tufted leather, the windows huge and arched.

  “Wow,” I said, taking in the beamed ceiling. “I expected...”

  He propped my sketched portrait on the marble fireplace mantel. “What?” he asked.

  “Neat and austere, like your other apartment.”

  “That apartment is nice, but it isn’t my home.”

  He showed me the kitchen, which was sleek and modern except for an old butcher block etched with knife scars. The master bedroom felt surprisingly intimate considering its size and lack of decoration. Tall windows looked over a courtyard four stories below. There was a half-burned pillar candle on the nightstand, and a platform bed covered with rumpled Frette sheets. The walls were bare except for a large black and white photograph of his father’s chateau.

  “When was this taken?” I asked.

  “In the thirties, I think,” he said, releasing two panels of long velvet drapes from their hooks. “About ten years before soldiers ransacked the library.” He turned to a nearly invisible door set into the wall. “Come here. I have something to show you.”

  “What is it?” I asked, walking over to him.

  He gave me an expectant smile. “I’ve wanted you to see this since the night we met. I never t
hought you actually would.” Slowly, deliberately, he slid the door open. A low, amber-toned light came on, illuminating what looked to be a very private and lascivious fantasy.

  “My God,” I whispered, a frisson of cold fear snaking through me.

  Inside was the gleaming vault of a true bondage connoisseur. There were exquisite leather whips, paddles hand carved from glossy woods, muzzles, and wrist restraints welded from copper and stainless steel. Hanging from a chrome rack between shackles and a latex bondage hood was a coil of blood-red rope. One of the mahogany shelves held a collection of new and antique handcuffs, arranged by category with almost obsessive detail.

  “My tools of the trade,” he said. “Most I’ve never used, I just bought them so I could look at them. They were the only expression I’d allow myself.”

  I touched the rope, which was so delicate it looked almost like woven hair. “It’s very soft, isn’t it?” I said.

  “They call it asanawa,” he said. “I haven’t used it but I’ve always wanted to. It’s made of linen. You use it for kinbaku, which is a style of Japanese bondage. You can create patterns on a submissive that are mind-boggling they’re so beautiful. It has an amazing history going back hundreds of years.” His eyes lit up with a smoky glow as he talked. This wasn’t just a hobby for him, it was who he was.

  “Hundreds of years?”

  He nodded. “Sade didn’t invent it, he just gave his name to it.” Smiling, he watched me take down one of the whips, unwind it, and crack it in the air. The tip was fitted with a shiny little nugget of steel.

  “You look lovely with that in your hand,” he said. “Dangerous but lovely.”

  “Careful,” I said, dropping my voice. “I might use it.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Give me that before I take it from you by force.” He re-wound it in two flicks of his wrist and hung it back on the rack.

  I fingered a fur-lined leather cuff. “You aren’t afraid someone will see these things?”

  “My housekeeper knows what’s off-limits in this apartment. Anyway, I don’t live my life under lock and key.” He looked at me, his eyes searching my face. “Does all of this make you nervous?”

  “A little,” I said. “We have more time together now. I don’t know what that means.”

  He nodded, but there was something predatory in his smile. “Maybe we should have an agreement.”

  “I thought we already had one from the night Henrik kidnapped me.”

  Marc smiled. “Something a little more explicit than that, so you understand what I expect from you.”

  What I expect from you, spoken with such supremacy. Everything independent in me wanted to rebel, but my curiosity was too strong. “What kind of agreement are we talking about?”

  “Nothing too formal, just a few rules for you to follow.”

  I hadn’t followed anyone else’s rules in years. A night wearing a collar in a hotel was one thing, but a week was definitely worth debating. “What happens if they don’t work for me?”

  He shrugged. “You’ve seen the contents of my closet. What do you think?”

  “I think I should know what these rules are before I agree to anything,” I said, facing him squarely.

  Ever the tough tycoon, he looked unfazed. “All right, then. Take off your sweater.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What does my sweater have to do with it?”

  “Take it off and see.” His expression was cool and slightly amused.

  An alarm rang in my brain, a warning that I was stepping onto shaky ground. Whenever I took my top off in Marc’s presence, I shed logic and reason right along with it.

  But what the hell. It might be the only way to find out what wanton plans he had in mind for me.

  Crossing my forearms, I grabbed my sweater by the hem and pulled it off over my head. “Okay,” I said, lifting my chin. “Let’s hear about these rules.”

  With long, deft fingers, he reached for the front clasp of my bra and carefully unhooked it. Pupils widening, his eyes flickered from my face to my chest. “Rule number one,” he said. “Corsets are acceptable, but no bras this week. You’re just the right size and firmness to carry it off.”

  I gave him a dubious stare. “Even if I go out alone?”

  “Of course,” he said, pulling the straps from my shoulders and tossing the bra onto a leather wing chair. “You’ll do what pleases me, even when we’re not together. Submission isn’t something you try on for a few hours a day. It’s a mindset that becomes automatic.” He paused long enough to rivet me under his gaze. “Agreed, or have I scared my Sophie off already?”

  I squinted. A week without a bra was nothing. He’d have to do a lot more than that to discourage me. “Agreed.”

  “Excellent.” Sliding his fingers slowly down my naked stomach, he unbuttoned my jeans. “If you want to discuss our agreement further, these have to come off.”

  “Shouldn’t you take off your shirt first?”

  His glare was like a brisk slap. “You’re the submissive. Pants off. Now.”

  He yanked my jeans over my hipbones and knees before helping me step out of them. I stood up straight, trying to maintain my dignity in nothing but sheer, red lace panties.

  “Very pretty,” he said. “Though they don’t hide much.” Instead of removing them, he pushed his hand into the side of the crotch. He groaned quietly when he felt my heat. I was so wet, I was practically screaming yes to the rules after hearing only one.

  Finger sliding through my delicate folds, Marc brought his mouth close to my ear. “The next week can be an exploration,” he said in a gravelly voice, “but I’ll need absolute trust. That’s rule number two. You can’t hide or pretend to be someone you’re not. Your body, your thoughts, who you are – I want everything.”

  “I’ve never been that open with anybody,” I said, my breath hitching as he penetrated me to his second knuckle.

  “Then that’ll be your challenge. Now, pay attention to what I’m about to say because I don’t like to repeat myself.”

  My muscles tightened around his finger, drawing him more deeply inside. “You won’t have to.”

  “Good. Rule number three: you’ll wear the clothing and shoes I set out for you in the morning. If you don’t like what I choose, you’ll wear it anyway. Personal taste isn’t the point. Submission is. Say you understand.”

  It took all of my energy to speak. “I understand.”

  He slipped in a second finger, stretching my sensitive nerve endings and sending a warm shot of ecstasy straight to my gut. “Four. No matter how I choose to dominate you, you’ll agree to it. It may involve pain, humiliation, and confinement. But refusing my desires, like questioning me, is strongly discouraged. You’re intelligent, Sophie, equal to me in every way but one. Sexually, you exist to please me.”

  His voice was resonant and hypnotic, an audible drug. I could hear his words but their meaning was blurred, as if he were speaking from another room.

  “Five. Absolute fidelity is required. You belong to the man who owns you. Six. I’ll take your work schedule into account, but otherwise you’ll be available to me. I’ll choose when and how I fuck you, and I expect compliance. You’re not allowed to masturbate or come without my permission, no matter how wet you are between those pretty legs.”

  He caressed my clitoris, teasing a broken moan from my throat. The rules were skipping past me like stones across a lake. I had to focus. A woman under the influence of Marc’s touch might agree to anything.

  “Seven,” he said. “You’ll give me respect and deference. In return, I’ll give you the pleasure you’ve always deserved.”

  “And what about the pain?” I half-whispered. Somewhere in all these rules was a catch. With Marc, there had to be.

  “Pain is part of the pleasure. I don’t need to remind you of that.”

  There it was. Pain was pleasure, and pleasure was pain. What an upside-down world he’d created for me.

  Forcing my eyes open, I blinked to clear my v
ision. I had to push back, to command respect. Marc was a businessman. He knew how it worked. An agreement had to include something for everyone.

  “It sounds like you’ll be getting everything you want,” I said.

  He smiled like a man used to exactly that. “By definition our relationship isn’t fair. But you’ll be getting something, too. The joy you’ll find in total submission to me.”

  “That’s great, but it’s not enough.”

  He stroked and caressed, the tip of his finger following the curve of my clitoral hood. “It seems I’ve got a tough little bargainer on my hands.”

  I scowled. “Little?”

  He loomed over me, making me feel every inch and pound of difference between us. “Very.”

  “On the record,” I said, a hot shiver rising from my pussy to my nipples. “Everything you’ve told me from the first day. You’ll let me write about it.”

  He laughed. “Forget it.”

  I tried to pull my legs together but they were too shaky. “Okay. My answer is the same as yours.”

  “This isn’t a negotiation.”

  “Then it’s over,” I said.

  His slick fingers stroked across my clit with just enough teasing pressure to make me frantic for more. I’d never felt needier, or more desperate to keep my head.

  Marc pierced me again with his middle finger. I wouldn’t let him make me weak, no matter how drunk I was on his touch. “This isn’t over,” he said. “Not even close.”

  “Stop,” I said, grabbing his wrist.

  “No.”

  “I won’t give in.”

  “Won’t you?” He stopped stroking me, and my life whirled to a halt. Everything was contained in the tip of his finger. He couldn’t leave me like this.

  “You’re giving in already,” he said. “Your cunt is wetter than it’s ever been.”

  I brushed a light hand over the massive bulge in the front of his jeans. “And your cock is harder.”

  He put his pussy-damp hand to my cheek. “I guess negotiating turns me on. Now what’s it going to be, Sophie?”

  I nibbled the inside of my bottom lip. One week. Seven little rules. It sounded like such a simple transaction – pleasure and pain in return for obedience. No promises, no plan for the future. Just the kind of thrilling experience I kept telling myself I wanted.