“What does that mean?” Her breath wouldn’t quite steady, her body resonating with both distress and unrealized arousal. She couldn’t decide how she felt about that. “I don’t want to have sex with her.”
“No, no. I thought I made it clear you will have sex only with me, and then only if you opt in.” The laces gradually loosened, easing her breathing but not the fluttering demand for oxygen. “But exposing you to other people who understand, taking you farther on the trip by putting you into another’s power, however chastely, can be profoundly exciting. Discreet restraint means that. In a public or semi-public scenario, it’s impossible to guarantee no one will see what I put on you.
“Beyond that,” he continued, “I’m finding that I greatly enjoy the idea that I own you, if only for the few hours you put yourself in my power. Having my housekeeper deliver you to me would be especially delicious and I’ll be adding it to the scenarios.”
The corset gave, sagging away from her breasts, her nipples singing with bright pain. She pulled against the hook holding her arms above her head, feeling desperate. He quietly zipped up her dress, covering her again, then kissed the nape of her neck. “As always, your choice, Celestina. Read your options carefully and decide from there.” He cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing her trapped nipples through the brocaded silk, and she writhed, uncertain if she tried to escape or press closer. “You struggle so beautifully. And you continue to exceed my every expectation. I hope you’ll come back. Remember the rule. No orgasms. I will ask and you will have no choice but to give me an honest answer. Check your tablet and you’ll find I’ll have a selection of punishments for you to choose from if you do. Including allowing someone else to punish you while I watch. Mrs. Matthews, perhaps.”
He stepped back, unhooking her wrists. “I’ll be in my office if you’d like to stop in and say goodbye before you go.” The door closed softly behind him.
Chapter Thirteen
Rocked emotionally and physically, Tina barely managed to stagger to the bathroom and undress. Her nipples had gone very dark, and taking off the rings brought a rush of pain as the blood returned to the compressed and sensitive flesh. Along with the sting came a sharper arousal, her clit throbbing in time with her nipples, as if somehow indelibly linked. To her utter mortification, prominent on the vanity sat a jar of numbing cream. No doubt placed there by Mrs. Matthews, who obviously knew far too much about this wild sexual journey she’d unwisely engaged in.
The cream felt like heaven, however, numbing and cooling the fiery flesh, and she considered putting it on her overstimulated clit, too. That would fend off any of the now-forbidden orgasms. Why did he get to demand that? Where she’d felt nothing but relief when Noah said he wouldn’t put them both through trying for it anymore, this pissed her off. All of it did. How he’d teased her and promised punishments if she disobeyed. Making her want so desperately and then withholding it.
Or the next scenario will be only punishments for you to choose from.
He thought he had her. That he could financially blackmail her into agreeing to be punished for something as trivial and natural as having an orgasm—which she wasn’t likely to have in the first place.
Uncertain of the exact source of her anger, except that it seemed to be her default response of late and that this new sexual frustration didn’t help, she dressed in her street clothes, which seemed drab after the fabulous dress. Just a costume. Dress up and pretend to be a man’s fancy sex slave.
What the hell had she been thinking?
One thing she knew, she would not be visiting Ryan’s office for a cheerful good-night and the pretense that they enjoyed a friendly relationship. Fuck him. And not in the literal sense.
* * *
Ryan watched her car pull out of the drive, wincing as she nearly clipped the gate. Well and truly pissed off then. Tamping down the disappointment, he sipped the whiskey he’d poured in an attempt to distract himself from the burning desire—no, more like an inferno of need—that had begged him to go back upstairs and devour her instead. Even this angry, maybe because of it, she’d probably let him seduce her fully. He could have had her in the car, the way she’d yielded so sweetly to him.
But that wouldn’t have been fair.
Not just because of the semi-arbitrary rules he’d created, though he wanted to be scrupulous about bending those too much. Celestina possessed a sharp mind and she’d be on the lookout for loopholes going forward.
If there would be a going forward.
Truly, he’d forgotten about the chains or that it would mean anything to someone else that Mrs. Matthews had witnessed them. Sloppy and stupid of him. A mark, perhaps, of how far he’d gone down the rabbit hole of deviant sex, that it hadn’t occurred to him to cover her up. If she gave him another opportunity, he’d be more mindful of her relative inexperience. Of course, it could also have been that he’d been so enthralled with her and their combined need that he’d simply lost his head. He frowned at the whiskey. Unlike him.
Though it had been a cover story—couldn’t have her knowing he’d screwed up, after all—he hadn’t lied about the charge it gave him. He’d never been that much into the concept of owning slaves as some sexual dominants were, much as he loved the collars, chains and ropes. Nor did he want Celestina as a slave. Not exactly. Something, however, about buying her time, a gambit that had begun primarily as a way to get her to both take his money and allow him to seduce her to the dark side of sex, had taken on a more powerful meaning for him.
He’d loved feeling as if she belonged to him. His alone to torment and savor. Though it wouldn’t help resolve the nearly painful erection that showed no sign of abating on its own, he entertained the captivating vision of Celestina, naked, collared and chained, being led by the leash into his study. How her dark, startled gaze would find him and she’d wait, wherever she’d been tethered, obedient and full of that aroused trepidation that so moved him.
He wanted her beyond reason.
At the stifling reception, juxtaposed against the skinny heiresses and fashionably pale society butterflies of Sarah Prescott’s ilk, Celestina had looked like a fervid red rose among fragile orchids. The dress, the light chains, the way she responded to his teasing, all conspired to set off her luxuriant and lavish sensuality.
For a few hours, she’d forgotten her worries. Had left behind the despair that trailed her like an oppressive cloud. She’d opened up to him, if only sensually, her lips and thighs parting at his least caress, lustrous eyes seeking him out, revealing her growing hunger.
No, she wouldn’t be able to stay away. She couldn’t.
Even if he’d frightened her, though she might be angry at him, she’d calm down. She’d wake tomorrow—or perhaps cool off on the drive home—and realize that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. That, deep inside, she craved the same things he did.
“What are you thinking?” she’d asked. And when he told her “Dark things,” the words had blasted right through her, cracking through her shell to the violently passionate woman he sensed beneath. Absurd that she thought it took her too long to reach orgasm. Some man had told her that. Her ex-husband, no doubt. Ryan blew out a breath to cool the burn of a too-large gulp of whiskey. Fucking idiots. Too anxious to get back to their beer and ball games to devote the time and attention to pleasuring a woman. Probably set it up like an athletic event, servicing the standard spots, drumming on her clit with all the finesse of a file clerk hoping to finish the paperwork by closing time. Exhorting her to deliver her climax like they’d urge a racehorse over the finish line.
She hadn’t liked talking about it, regarding it as a failing, most likely, and with a shade of the impatient exhaustion the topic had brought her in the past. Tensing even through her arousal, she’d begun to resist him and the orgasm she’d been on the verge of, reflexively shying away from what should have been pleasurable an
d had become a chore.
It might have pissed her off, that he’d impulsively imposed the rule that she shouldn’t climax, but she’d come to understand in time. The lure of the forbidden overcame many barriers. Life had worn away at her fiery brilliance, burying her under layers of ash and old anger. She could dig her way out, given enough incentive. Thwarting him would channel her rage. He’d love to see her do it. When he gave her the pleasure that had eluded her, she’d be that much more bound to him.
If she’d let him do it.
If he hadn’t run her off entirely.
If he hadn’t fumbled the entire thing, forgetting in the delirium of her ardent responses that she hadn’t played these games before, that she wasn’t like any of the others. In any way.
Resigned—and unable to resist looking—he took his whiskey and sat at his desk to check the tablet. Nothing from Celestina, though she might not have made it home yet. He wasn’t sure how far she had to go and, since she hadn’t offered the information, he hadn’t tried to look up her address. He would invade her privacy in other ways without remorse, even with remorseless delectation, but not her nonsexual life. Not until she trusted him enough to be part of her daily world instead of the hours he bought from her.
Because he felt certain she’d look for it, he added in his fantasy scenario of having Mrs. Matthews prepare and deliver her, tempted to put an insanely high value on it, reflecting how deeply the image had sunk its claws into him. He resisted that, too, lest she view it as additional pressure.
On impulse—maybe with a tinge of fear that she’d never contact him again—he added a few nonsexual encounters. Cat had set up that functionality, that he could make something a single a la carte item that could not be combined with anything else. Lunch. Coffee. Dinner. A walk on the cliffs. All very vanilla and an opportunity for them to talk, if she’d be willing. She hadn’t been all that forthcoming about her private thoughts without sensual pressure, so it might not work. But the option should be there if she looked for it.
He hoped she’d look for it. They needed to talk.
How the mighty had fallen, that he could even think that tired phrase.
Taking out his phone, he sent her a text to say good-night. The ball was firmly in her court now. Resolving not to worry further, he went upstairs to take care of his persistent erection while he drowned his concerns in fantasies about the sybaritic Celestina.
* * *
Good night, Celestina. Sweet dreams.
The text flashed on her cell phone and she gritted her teeth, tempted to throw the damn thing out the car window. She needed to assign his messages a special tone. Like the theme from a serial killer movie. That might suffice to remind her of his predatory ways. He might have that polished veneer, the affable charm, the effortless style of the very wealthy—but under it all he was a monster. She couldn’t forget it. The wolf who dressed in Armani and pretended to be solicitous, all the while circling, waiting for the moment of vulnerability to spring and devour with his sensually cloaked and contained violence.
God, she hated how vulnerable she’d been. After Ara died, she’d really thought nothing ever again would touch her. Even Noah’s abrupt and heartless departure hadn’t hurt, a sure sign that she’d gone numb. It hadn’t bothered her that the twins had happily failed to acknowledge her birthday—she’d told the truth about that. Or her friends. She’d lost the one person she needed and that would leave her forever half-alive.
Or so she’d thought until tonight.
Something about Ryan Black got inside her, insinuating himself into her deepest thoughts as inevitably as he’d persuaded her to spread her thighs so he could stroke her intimately. Maybe the kinky games did it, circumventing her usual defenses, so he reached some fathomless part of her psyche where a different self lurked, still vital, naked, tender to the touch and violently sensitive to any overture.
It simmered still, churning with a hunger he’d awakened. She ached with unrealized desire as she never had before, not even after those youthful backseat make-out sessions. Those were the times that orgasms had slipped over her, stealthy, delicious in the quiet release they brought. Those had been so uncomplicated, full of furtive excitement, with no expectations of what would occur, better in many ways for both of them knowing it wouldn’t culminate in sex, as if removing the all-important end goal let them luxuriate in the moment.
Not unlike what had happened with Ryan, come to think of it. Her nipples tightened with the memory, her clit and vulva starving for stimulation. With one hand on the steering wheel, she pressed the heel of her hand against her mound, a half-formed idea of calming herself in mind. It had the opposite effect and, seemingly unable to stop herself, she pulled up her skirt, the slide of cloth reminding her of Ryan’s insistent caresses pushing the red silk up her thighs. Working her fingers under her panties, she almost gasped to find herself so slick and swollen.
Was that how she felt to him? So wantonly aroused, so obviously ready to be penetrated. No wonder he’d looked and behaved as he had, gripping her chains, gray eyes boring into hers. Of course he’d believed she’d loved every moment of it.
Hadn’t she?
The heat built and she tried holding her hand still, just cupping herself for comfort.
No orgasms. I will ask and you will have no choice but to give me an honest answer.
He would, too, as it seemed there was nothing he wouldn’t ask her. Another way of opening her. But she could always lie. He wasn’t psychic or all-knowing. Maybe she’d never even see him again. She didn’t have to ever go back. Never again subject herself to his restraints of any kind or his threats of punishment and dark things.
...a selection of punishments for you to choose from...including allowing someone else to punish you while I watch.
He probably meant that horrible Mrs. Matthews. Tina had been excruciatingly embarrassed—humiliated, even—that the woman had seen the chains, knew about the nipple clamps and had tied her so tightly into the corset. She’d looked at Tina with that cold expression, like a refugee from an English boarding school, the sort where the headmistress forces the schoolgirls to bend over her desk while she lifts their uniform skirts and paddles their behinds for minor infractions while they weep and squirm and—
The orgasm took her over in a rush, nearly blinding her with the red-black crush of it. She managed to guide the car to the shoulder of the fortunately dark and quiet street, riding out the climax by pressing her lips as tightly together as she pressed her fingers to her own slippery folds.
It left her wrung out, emotionally ragged. This wasn’t her, acting like some sex-starved pervert fantasizing about being spanked by some strange matron while Ryan watched her, drinking in every plea and whimper, knowing she did it for him. Because he made her do it.
You struggle so beautifully.
Unable to dredge up the will to stop stroking herself, she turned over his words in her mind, all the things he’d said to her. She understood why he wanted this from her, that he got off on the power trip of owning her. That by placing chains on her she became subject to his will. Of course a man would love that. But why would she? Why had those images thrust her over the edge into a rare orgasm—possibly the most powerful she’d ever had?
It had taken the lure of money to get her to agree to all of this. She never would have otherwise. Money, though, didn’t account for this urgent desire. She hadn’t simply gone along with the program, she’d wanted to let him do his dark things to her. To chain her up, make her more wildly aroused than she’d ever been, to tell her she couldn’t come and then punish her when she did.
As she’d just done.
The thought of you under my power that way fills me with excitement.
She’d never tell. Ridiculous to think she would. That she’d agree to be punished at all, let alone for something like that. No matter how the thoug
ht haunted her.
Good night, Celestina. Sweet dreams.
She’d think about it tomorrow. Resolutely removing her hand, she drove home to take care of her girls, the real reason for all of this.
The only reason, she told herself firmly.
Dark things.
Chapter Fourteen
Good morning Celestina.
She ignored the text as she had the one the night before, then deleted them both for good measure. Wishing everything else could be as easily erased. Focusing on getting the twins ready for school, she struggled to keep her brain clear of the erotic dreams that had taken over her sleep and the salacious thoughts that seemed all too ready to pick up the theme from there. Thank God for the twins’ incessant chatter and supreme self-absorption. They were all excited for the oncoming weekend, going shopping and getting their hair done. They wanted to order pizza and rent a movie that night. And could they go out for pancakes before shopping the next day?
Once she dropped them off, however, nothing stopped the dream images from swarming up, hot, dark things rising from the cracks Ryan had pried open into her naked soul with the tantalizingly cryptic descriptions in his lurid program. Him putting her in chains while she knelt. The clap of a manacled collar around her throat, weighing on her with orgasmic intensity. His stern gray gaze on her from behind his desk while she bent over it, someone else lifting her skirt and she stayed riveted still, waiting to be punished however he demanded.
None of it made any sense. She’d never had those sorts of fantasies. Had regarded it all as vaguely ridiculous—the schoolgirls, the paddling, the women in prison. Now it seemed her fevered brain couldn’t churn out enough of them. Her, behind bars, naked, sweaty and dirt-streaked, awaiting Ryan’s pleasure. Or punishment.
Dark things.
Truer words were never spoken. And there she was, in the bright light of a sunny morning, craving more, the desire swelling her tissues and dampening a previously fresh pair of panties. Which only made her think of Ryan’s admonition to lift her skirt and sit bare-bottomed. When she let him take away her panties altogether. That thought, like all of them, scandalized and titillated her. More than anything, she wanted to open the tablet and concoct some scenario to both stoke and cool this need. A Pandora’s box of temptation and degradation, that luxuriously cloaked device. A hugely traitorous part of herself wanted to confess to her transgression of his rule—supposed transgression, as she still didn’t agree with it—and subject herself to punishment for it.
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