by EM BROWN
He grinned. “Why do that when I can play you for it?”
She shook her head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“What are you afraid of? That you’re not going to win the five thousand...or that you’re going to be mine for three days?”
Ensnared in his gaze, she had nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape. She was starting to hate rich people. If he didn’t have the kind of money he did, he wouldn’t be able to throw out crazy-ass propositions. He wouldn’t be able to put her in the tough spot of risking her body for a cause that could really use the money. Outside of Ben, she didn’t have the connections to raise that sum. How could she deny the neighborhood five thousand dollars? Somewhere in this world, the good guys had to prevail.
But she didn’t want to give Ben what he wanted. Maybe it was a childish impulse. Maybe she was being stubborn. Maybe she didn’t want to be his little fucktoy. Maybe.
“If you’re not going to make a donation because it’s the right thing to do,” she said, “then you’re a pretty damn worthless billionaire.”
He raised his brows. There was a look on his face she had never seen before, but she was done talking to him and had turned away from him.
“Actually,” she said, turning back. “I’ll play you after you make a donation. And if I win, you keep the Tribune running.”
He stared at her. He was going to refuse, but she had to throw it out there. He wasn’t the only one who could proposition the other.
“Fine.”
She did a double take. He was accepting?
“And if I win,” he confirmed, “I get you.”
She grabbed the ball out his hands. “You’re on, motherfucker.”
His brows went up. He stepped toward her, invading her space. It sent her breath scattering.
He lowered his voice. “Talking trash. I’m going to have a lot of fun punishing you for that, pet.”
Chapter Twenty
Unable to think up a comeback, Kimani merely dribbled the ball and made her way to the court, as if his words didn’t merit a response. She didn’t want Ben to see her stumped or the fact that he had rattled her.
Don’t pay him any attention.
They watched a three-on-three game finishing up. While she collected herself, she evaluated how she was going to win. Given Ben’s height, he could easily block her shots, so she would have to create some space or beat him to the basket. Her shot technique was more solid than his, and that would have to carry the day because defending against him would be hard. He could power his way to the basket.
What had she gotten herself into?
She toyed briefly with the idea of trying to get into his head somehow, but that was perhaps his greatest asset. If she tried to mess with his mind, chances are it would backfire. And if she somehow made him mad, well, he might react as Reggie Miller did in the first game of the 1995 playoff series and lead the Pacers to victory against the Knicks.
“Twenty-one?” Ben asked as the game before them finished.
“Sure,” she said, agreeing to the popular version of street basketball. “How do you play?”
“However you wish.”
She went through the rules she knew, and he agreed to the variations.
“Jump ball?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Ladies first.”
She took the ball up top and started dribbling. He took a defensive stance before her. She faked right, then driving left, was able to get around him for a layup. In a game of Twenty-one, that meant she got up to three free throws.
“Hey, can we join?” asked a young man from the sidelines.
A crowd was starting to gather.
“No,” she answered as she made her free throw.
Nothing but net.
She dribbled the ball in front of her, the familiar feel of leather against her hand coaxing her muscle memory to life. She made her second free throw. Already she was up three to nothing. Eighteen more points to go.
She missed her third and failed to get the rebound. Ben dribbled the ball up top and took a fader over her. The ball bounced off the rim and into the net.
“Lucky motherfucker,” she muttered loud enough for him to hear.
He had taken the shot from the three-point line, though in her version of Twenty-one, it counted for two points while all other field goals counted for one. A good three-point shooter had the advantage since a three-point shot was worth twice a two-point shot. Like her, he made two of his free throws, putting him up, four to three.
She beat him to the rebound, dribbled over to half-court, charged toward the basket, pulled back as he continued forward, and drained her own three-pointer. She made all three of her free throws. Now it was eight to four. And she got the ball back. But she missed her jumper.
After taking the ball up top, Ben attacked the basket. She planted herself in the key just as he went into the air for his layup, knocking her to the ground. The ball went in.
“Hey, that ain’t cool,” one of the spectators said. “Knocking a girl down.”
Ben offered her a hand up. “Want me to go more gentle?”
Refusing his hand, she got to her feet. “Hell no.”
“That’s right, you got girl power,” a female encouraged.
Ben made two of his free throws, making him down only one point. They exchanged field goals and free throws, working up a sweat, till she was eventually up nineteen to eighteen. She had the ball for her first throw. If she made the first one, she got a second, and if she made that one, she would get her third. But if she missed, she would drop back down to eleven. She could deliberately miss the free throw, but then Ben might get the rebound and go on a run.
“What’s the matter?” Ben asked. “Not confident in your free throw?”
“Now who’s trash-talking?” she returned as she considered what she should do.
He lowered his voice, “When I win, our first night is going to be at The Lair.”
She nearly lost her dribble. Best to put an end to the game. She went for the free throw.
And missed.
“Ouch,” someone said as the crowd groaned in sympathy.
Ben recovered the ball, took it up top, and backed his way to the basket. He pivoted and drained a jumper over her head.
Shit.
Deciding that two can play head games, she inched in close to him as he prepared to take his free throw shot. “What do you have in mind for The Lair? You want me to go down on you?”
He turned to her and smiled. “Among many things, pet.”
His free throw went nothing but net. He made his next free throw and was within one of winning. Her heart clenched. She was going to lose.
But he threw his third shot casually, and it bounced off the rim.
It was almost as if he’d intended to miss. Why would he do that?
But she couldn’t dwell on it. She retrieved the ball and took it up top. Most of the crowd was with her and cheered when she made a basket from downtown. She then nailed her three free throws. She could win this. But when her gaze met his, her concentration faltered. Ben stole the ball and dribbled toward the basket.
She caught up to him, but again his height became an advantage. He pulled up, and even though she ended up fouling him on the arm, his shot still went in.
She had lost.
“COME WITH ME,” A WOMAN behind the check-in of The Lair told Kimani. It was the redhead who had delivered the invitation that first night.
The night had barely begun, and Kimani was all nerves, like she was the night before the Northern California high school girls’ basketball championship. She reminded herself that she had survived four days with Ben. She could survive another three. And part of her was almost giddy at the heights he could take her body to. It was getting there, the road to rapture, that frightened her.
“My name’s Amanda,” said the woman who led her up the stairs to the Upper Balcony. “I’m going to help you get ready.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” K
imani replied.
“I’ve got specific instructions.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Like your bath. I’ve got the water up already.”
“I took a shower—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t want my hair to get all wet and frizzy.” She touched her hair, which she had sectioned off and pinned into an updo, to make sure it was still in place. The hairstyle was more elegant than the occasion called for, but it had taken relatively little time. Similar to the last time she had come to The Lair, her clothes were casual, consisting of her Converse sneakers, capri-length jeans, and a short-sleeved shirt.
“Don’t worry, I won’t touch your hair,” Amanda said.
Wait, were there places she was going to touch?
Amanda led her to a bathroom, cozy and nicely appointed. The room was lit only with candles and had a deep antique clawfoot tub with a double-slipper silhouette for leaning back at either end.
“So what exactly is the bath for?” Kimani asked, taking in the lavender-scented bath water.
“I’m not sure. I only have instructions on what to do, but I’m guessing it’s to put you in the mood.” Amanda gave her an encouraging smile.
“What if I don’t want a bath?”
Amanda cocked her head to the side in thought. “You’ll have to take it up with your Master.”
Kimani stiffened at the last word. He’d probably punish her for not following orders. It was easier taking the bath. No sense in fighting the small stuff.
“Want some help getting settled in?” Amanda asked.
“I can take care of myself. How much time do I get?”
“As long as you need.”
How about five hours? But Kimani knew she couldn’t hide out in a bath. She should just get on with it. Rip the Band-Aid off as fast as possible.
Amanda set down a glass of water on a table beside the tub. “I’ll be back with your outfit.”
Kimani frowned, hoping that the outfit did not entail a chastity belt.
After Amanda left, Kimani undressed and slipped into the tub. After a few minutes of soaking in the steaming, scented water, she felt more relaxed. She was also thirsty, so she finished the glass of water on the small table beside the tub.
As she leaned against the tub and closed her eyes, she saw Ben’s smoldering gaze. She couldn’t tell what he intended. The sex in the Silk Room had been rougher, more punishing than she had ever experienced. Should she expect more of that? It probably depended on how he felt about her...but what exactly did he feel? She wasn’t even sure he liked her. She was sure of his anger when he’d told her outside of Gordon’s campaign headquarters that she shouldn’t bother making up for what she had done. And she would never forget the look of betrayal after finding out about the Tribune article on his uncle.
After all that, he still wanted her. Maybe he just wanted to prove a point. Maybe he did want his money’s worth. Maybe he wanted to punish her.
Despite the heat of the bath embracing her body, she shivered. She would sooner run the baseline or do half an hour of burpees.
What are you, crazy? The sex is mind-blowing.
But burpees were so much safer.
She knew what to expect with burpees. What if Ben didn’t let her come? What if it was going to be pain without the pleasure?
When has he not let you come?
Memories of her time with Ben flashed through her mind: squirming in his lap as he finger-fucked her on the patio of Jake’s lakeside cabin; making her squirt for the first time; tied to the chair on Jake’s boat with her bikini bottom stuffed into her mouth; exhausted and exhilarated after he had wrung ten orgasms in a row out of her; coming undone in his arms as the shower jets blasted her; and having her ass penetrated with his hardness.
Even though she sat in water, she could feel a different sort of wetness develop. Would her arousal be helpful or not tonight?
“How is the bath?” Amanda asked upon returning. She handed Kimani another glass of water. “Your Master would like you to stay hydrated.”
Kimani balked at the word again and wondered if she would ever get used to it. She took the towel Amanda held out to her and dried herself, including the area between her legs.
“Here’s your bra and panties,” Amanda said, casually holding a cup-less shelf bra of red satin and black lace trim, and a matching crotch-less thong.
At least it wasn’t a chastity belt, Kimani thought ruefully to herself as her cheeks burned. She slid on the lingerie.
“And here are your stockings and shoes.”
Kimani pulled on the thigh-high nylons with elasticized lace tops, then stared at the black platform sandals with ridiculously high heels.
“Those are not my kind of shoes.”
“They were all I was given. I think they’re amazingly hot. You’ll look great in them.”
Amanda helped her into the shoes. ““You’ll be in the Dungeon. I’ll show you where it is.”
The Dungeon. That did not sound promising.
“Can I at least throw a robe or some clothes on top?”
“Your Master didn’t say you could.”
“But he probably didn’t say I couldn’t, either.”
“True. Well, it’s up to you if you want to take that chance.”
Kimani decided it was probably best not to risk it.
“Your Master did allow for a mask if you wanted some anonymity.”
From a dresser that had three mannequin heads with wigs and masks, she plucked off a black satin mask.
“You look super sexy,” Amanda said after Kimani had affixed the mask to her face.
And ready for the slaughter, Kimani thought to herself.
She followed Amanda down another set of stairs and through a room not unlike the one on the main floor of The Lair. In one corner, a woman of Indian descent was flogging her partner. On the sofa in the middle of the room, a transsexual was thrusting her hips into the man before her. Though neither couple paid too much attention to Amanda and Kimani, Kimani still felt as if she was being paraded through the room.
Amanda took her through a set of curtains into a room that appeared the opposite of the Silk Room. Instead of silk wallpaper, the walls of the Dungeon appeared to be the original concrete of the converted warehouse. Like Ben’s playroom, there was a St. Andrew’s cross and a wrought-iron bed with a mattress. There was also a rack and pillory.
“Have fun,” said Amanda before she left
Kimani swallowed.
Game on.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bloody amazing.
When Ben had picked out the lingerie, he knew they were going to look sexy on Kimani, but when he walked into the Dungeon, what he saw exceeded all expectation. The lingerie was the best damn purchase he had ever made. He liked the look of black lace on her dark skin, and her breasts, pushed up by the bra, looked fucking amazing. Her areolas made his mouth water.
He had chosen to dress the part as well, sporting leather pants and a tight-fitting black tee. Walking over to her, he made an obvious sweep of her from head to toe with his stare. She shivered beneath his devouring gaze.
All this beauty was his. She was all his.
Kimani didn’t know it, but she had walked into a setup with his challenge. He had known that she’d want to win the donation and possibly avoid being his for three days. That was a lot riding on her shoulders. She was the kind of person to put a lot of pressure on herself, and that had affected her game. He didn’t mentioned that, win or lose, he was going to make the donation.
“Whoever invented five-inch heels was a real misogynist,” she declared.
“So what does it say about women that you’re willing to wear them?”
“I don’t wear shoes like these.”
“Not even for fun?”
“Maybe once. At a Halloween party. So, I guess for fun. But it’s complicated. As a woman, you wonder if wearing shoes like these means you’re pandering to men, let
ting them define what’s sexy, and objectifying yourself. On the other hand, if you want to be strong and sexy, and you like wearing heels like these, you get slut-shamed. It’s a no-win situation.”
Was she stalling or talking because she was nervous? If he weren’t so eager to ravish her, he would indulge the discussion, but the Dungeon wasn’t a place for intellectual musings. The Dungeon was for sex. Wicked, kinky sex.
He looked at the half-empty glass of water she held. “Finish your water.”
While she drank, he retrieved a cord of rope.
She had finished the water, leaving a few ice cubes at the bottom. Fishing one out with his finger, he circled it around her areola. The cold made her gasp. He moved the ice closer to her nipple. She gasped louder, squeaking when the ice passed over the tip. The bud hardened nicely. He dropped what was left of the ice into the glass, which he took from her and set aside. Rope in hand, he began to bind her wrists.
“There are only two simple rules to follow,” he told her. “One, addressing properly every time you speak. Try it.”
She glared. “Yes, Sir.”
“Second, if you want to come, you have to beg for it. Got that?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good pet.”
She bristled.
Having finished tying her wrists, he threw the excess rope over a wooden beam overhead. The beam was there for suspension bondage, which he hoped to incorporate into tonight’s scene. Stepping back, he appraised how hot she looked. He walked behind her to view her backside. Her heels caused her arse to stick out, and he couldn’t resist palming her full buttocks, digging his fingers into the ample flesh.
Returning to stand in front of her, he played with her breasts, gently kneading, then roughly groping. He roused the other nipple to match the hardness of the first, tugging it, pinching it, twisting it. She grunted and squeaked while squirming. He slapped a breast when she squirmed too much. She stilled her movement and submitted to his manhandling.
“That’s better,” he said before sharply slapping her breasts a few more times.
Her brows knit in anger. She was probably wondering why he was slapping her when she was doing exactly what he wanted.