by Lila Dubois
“Please what?”
“Please, Sir.”
He smiled against her, rewarded her with a long lick that dampened her skin. “I wasn’t reminding you of your manners. What do you want?”
“I want more.”
“More pain?”
“No…maybe.”
“Maybe?” He bit her nipple, gradually adding pressure until she cried out. He’d had to bite her far harder than anticipated to elicit that response.
She was aroused, reaching that point where her body craved pleasure as much as pain. She might not be a masochist in the truest sense, at least as far as BDSM standards of the word were concerned, but she craved pain when the scene was right.
Or maybe he was saying that because he wanted it to be true. He wanted there to be something between them besides the lies.
“More pleasure?” he murmured against the inner curve of her breast, his fingers still lazily sliding in and out of her pussy, not going deep enough to hit her G-spot.
“Yes,” she moaned. “I need you.”
He froze, those words slicing though him, finding a home deep inside him, and he hated himself for being so affected.
“I need you,” she said again. “Please, Sir. I need—”
He shoved off, taking a few steps back from the bed. She lay helpless and spread, and when she raised her head to look at him, her gaze was glassy with desire.
“Sir? Did I…”
Alexander reached for the zipper of his slacks. He didn’t take them off. He didn’t want to be vulnerable in front of her, and being naked was to be vulnerable. Being as naked as she was would also make them equals.
She no longer looked aloof, the untouchable queen. She looked wanton and sexy, her captivity evident in the chains digging into her skin, in the helplessness she displayed because he wanted her that way.
Alexander freed his cock from his pants, his rock-hard dick leading the way as he walked back to the bed. She dropped her head, spread her knees, and arched—as much as the bondage allowed, which wasn’t much—in apparent anticipation of his cock sliding into her body, pleasuring her even as he pleasured himself.
She was going to be disappointed.
Alexander flipped her onto her stomach, eliciting a yelp of surprise. With her heels against her ass, when he lifted her hips she had to balance on the point of her knees, her face and shoulders pressed hard against the mattress since her hands were trapped at her waist.
Alexander cupped her hips, then landed a few swats to the parts of each cheek he could reach, then the soles of her feet.
Then he wedged his thumbs along the crack of her ass and spread her cheeks open.
She tensed. “Is this how you’ll punish me?”
“And if it is?”
“Dry anal will certainly hurt.”
“You don’t get my cock,” he told her, even as he dipped his fingers into her pussy, then smeared them along the crease of her ass. “Not in your mouth, sex, or ass.”
Alexander laid his cock in the valley of her butt, squeezed the cheeks together, and started to thrust.
Alena made a noise of surprise, and tried to move, but the bondage made it impossible.
He stared down at her, the chains around her body, her pretty hair spread out over this bed where he’d had the opportunity to top so few women.
And never one who had mattered to him as much as she did.
Alexander gritted his teeth as his orgasm built, the pressure at the base of his cock excruciating. Her flesh was warm around him, not as tight as one of her orifices would have been, but enough to have him groaning as the first stream of ejaculate shot out, landing on her back and in her hair.
He kept thrusting until he was spent, until his muscles were shaky from the release.
Below him, Alena was once more uncharacteristically quiet.
Alexander retreated and tucked his cock into his pants. Alena slid her knees out from under her hips so she was flat on the bed.
Alexander undid the small hooks hobbling her wrists to the waist chain. If she could move her arms she could free herself from the rest of the bondage.
If this had been at a club, or if she’d been here as his sub, he would have done aftercare.
But his sex slave would have to take care of herself.
“I’ll set some food and water at the top of the stairs.”
She didn’t respond.
“Did you hear me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Some monstrous part of him made him say, “Yes, what?”
He watched her hands curl into fists before she said, “Yes, Sir,” her tone as cold and smooth as a dagger’s blade.
He was out of the room and at the base of the stairs when she spoke again. He’d left the door open, because, despite everything, he didn’t want her to feel trapped in a room she’d likened to a concrete coffin.
“You asked me if I thought telling you to stop would work,” Alena said softly.
Alexander gripped the handrail of the stairs, all his muscles tensed to stop himself from turning around.
Her words were low, tone flat and dead, completely unlike her normal voice. “Was there anything I could have said that would have made you stop?”
Alexander walked up the stairs, her question unanswered.
Chapter 8
“Mr. Wagner.” Jakob extended a phone towards him. “Mr. Schroeder would like to speak with you.”
“Please advise him that I will speak with him at my earliest convenience.” Alexander had been ignoring the phone all day, including multiple calls from Zakaria and one from Absolon, his curator. He considered answering Absolon’s call just to yell at the man for calling him rather than emailing.
Instead of answering any of the calls, he’d been sitting at this desk pretending to work, and trying not to think about Alena down in his playroom. His gaze had drifted to the bookshelf more times than he could count. He’d checked on her this morning. Brought her breakfast. She’d once more been regally amused, despite the collar locked around her neck.
If she’d been or seemed at all vulnerable he would have brought her upstairs, given her the guest room down the hall from the master suite. Last night he’d hardly slept, and had gotten out of bed several times, making it as far as his office, his hand on the book that would reveal the hidden entrance.
“Mr. Schroeder ordered me to tell you that someone is looking for her, and you need to talk to him right now.” Jakob kept his expression neutral as he walked forward and set a phone down on the desk.
Alexander looked at it, then at the Jakob. Damn it.
He jerked his head towards his office door and Jakob nodded once, then exited, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
Alexander picked up the cellphone.
“Zakaria.”
“You can’t avoid me.”
“I dislike having the guards you forced on me acting as your spies.”
“Your privacy is not as important as your safety.”
“Safety,” Alexander said slowly.
“Someone is looking for her.”
“How do you know?”
“There have been several attempts to extract information about her from my team. One was a call, supposedly from an airline, asking about rebooking her ticket. When questioned, they claimed she’d given my company’s contact information with her passenger details.”
“Did she?”
“No. And your offices—both at Wagner Global and your personal team, received similar calls. There were also several Trojan horse viruses sent to non-security employees—people who might have been stupid enough to open the attachment—at both Wagner Global and RTW.”
“You’re sure they’re connected to her.”
“The emails were too similar for it to be a coincidence. Not when she is the only active case we have for you.”
Alexander closed his eyes, letting the words sink in.
“She’s working for someone with resources,” Alexander
concluded.
“Not top level resources, as both those attempts were clumsy. Surprising considering the level of tech she had.”
“Then perhaps the tech is her own, and without her, the people she’s working for don’t have someone with the right skills.”
“That’s what I thought also.” Zakaria sighed. “It means that you can’t let her anywhere near a computer. Even a phone would be dangerous.”
“Do you have anything else on who she is?”
“Some. Her digital footprint was scrubbed by the U.S. Secret Service.”
Alexander frowned at the bookcase. “Not the C.I.A.” The clumsy attempt to get info ruled them out.
“No. It looks like Magdalena Moreau is the bastard daughter of a U.S. senator named Augustin Moreau.”
“He did it to hide the fact that she is his daughter?”
“Possibly. There are some other possibilities too. We reached out to a U.S. colleague and they’re hoping to locate paper copies of school and employment records.”
“Let me know what you find.”
“I will. If you answer your phone.”
“Fine.”
“But, Alexander…” Now Zakaria hesitated. “Right now my men are facilitating you committing a very serious crime. Don’t put them, or me, in that position.”
“I have committed no crime.” He spoke each word clearly. “I gave Alena a choice. Prison or three weeks with me.”
“And what are you doing to her, during that time?”
Alexander didn’t reply.
“Bring her back to Vienna. Let my people handle turning her over to the police, or at least keep her in our custody. We have facilities for it. I know you’re worried about the fallout if the data breach is made public.”
This conversation was a painful verbalization of the thoughts that had kept him awake last night.
“Find out who she is,” Alexander ordered.
“Bring her back,” Zakaria countered. “The people she works with, or for… they’re looking for her. You might be in danger.”
“She is my concern,” Alexander said coldly. “You track down her associates.”
“Alexander—”
He ended the call, then very carefully set the phone aside. Rising from his chair, Alexander walked to the bookcase.
It was time to check on his slave.
She’d made a mistake.
Alena spread her toes then set them firmly on the concrete and imagined rooting herself in place as she shifted from warrior one to warrior two. Doing yoga gave her a physical outlet for the anxiety humming through her, but it did nothing to stop the internal debates.
Every train of thought brought her back to that single truth.
For the first time in her career she’d made a serious mistake.
She’d been intimate with him when she should have kept the BDSM play as a more neutral, physical interaction.
Intimacy was a bell that couldn’t be un-rung, and despite the coercion that brought her here, the fear and anger simmering in her emotional well, she wanted him.
Wanted him to be both her kidnapper and her rescuer. The dastardly villain with designs on her body and the heroic knight come to save her.
The door at the top of the stairs opened, the sound echoing slightly in the circular concrete tube that housed the stairs.
Alena had the safe room door open—she’d wedged it open with a leather strap she’d gotten from the drawer he’d forgotten to lock yesterday.
Heart pounding, she walked into the small bathroom area and rinsed her hands free of the concrete dust that coated them, then took the small towel she’d found in the industrial storage cabinet and dampened it to wipe her knees.
The sink was mounted on the top of the toilet tank, so that the water drained into and filled the tank. A very efficient and eco-friendly system that minimized the amount of water pulled from the large cistern.
Wondering how he had the cistern filled was one of the many logistical questions she’d used to distract herself last night.
That and some revenge and groveling fantasies.
Carefully draping the towel over the tap she ignored a second towel which was wadded up in a corner.
It was the one she’d used to clean herself yesterday after he left. She’d been sobbing by the time she finished unwinding the medical wrap and chains. She’d stuck her head under the small faucet, hiccuping sobs making the already awkward task of washing his come out of her hair almost impossible.
She’d cleaned herself, then curled up on the bed and had a good cry.
And once the tears were done she’d rolled on to her back, spread her legs, and rubbed her clit with one hand, while the other played with her nipples.
Nipples on which she’d still worn the small gold rings.
Because she was a complete fucking head case.
She’d taken them off before falling asleep last night, warm under the heavy blanket she’d found with the towels in the storage locker.
There were also things in there she could use as weapons. Things that made her wonder if Alexander had thought this plan through. Scissors, a utility knife, even a scalpel in the expansive medical kit.
Or maybe he knew these things were there but trusted that she would come to the conclusion that a weapon was useless. Even if she killed him, which she of course would not, she was still in his house in the middle of nowhere. Being locked in a Moldovan prison for murdering a man who was clearly economically important to the country would doubtlessly be worse than the Serbian prison.
The third possibility was that he trusted their bargain. That he trusted her in so far as she’d agreed to be his BDSM slave for three weeks, and in that role she wouldn’t raise a hand against him.
She could hear his footsteps on the stairs as she slid naked onto the bed.
Through the open door she glimpsed his shoes, then his legs. More and more of him came into view as she knelt and spread her knees.
His hard-soled shoes hit concrete and she raised her chin, perfectly submissive except for her failure to lower her gaze.
Alexander stepped into the room.
“Good afternoon, Master Alexander.”
The change in verbiage was a choice, a strategy to hopefully shield her from some of the emotional pain she’d felt last night. In Vienna he’d been “Sir.”
Here he would be “Master Alexander.”
She saw the surprise on his face before his expression became suspicious and closed down.
It made sense that he would be suspicious. She would be in his place.
She wished this was the first move in some new game strategy she’d concocted since she’d seen him last. That would be far less pathetic than the thoughts that were actually running through her mind.
She wanted him to touch her. Not as he had last night. Not in a way that made her feel cheap and small. She wanted him to touch her the way he had in Vienna. Maybe if he did, it would ease some of the hurt that lingered.
“You slept well?” he asked softly.
“I did once I found the blanket,” she said softly.
Alexander walked towards the bed, but stopped short of being within touching distance. “Who are you, Alena?”
Irritation pricked at her. Couldn’t he see she was trying? Didn’t he understand what she was offering, what she needed from him?
Last night he made it clear that he doesn’t care about your needs. He’s not your play partner. Not your Dom who has to take care of you.
“I told you already.”
“Your name, but that’s not who you are.”
“Google it,” she shot back.
“Mind your manners.”
“Google it, Alexander.”
“Try again.”
“Oh, of course. How dare I? Google it, Master Alexander.”
That soft needy feeling was gone, and in a way she was desperately glad. It would be easier to live with herself if she didn’t succumb to this pathetic urge to be soft and hope
that in turn he would behave like the man, the Dom, he’d been in Vienna.
She crossed her arms over her breasts and smiled at him.
“Arms down.”
The urge to ignore the command, force him to manipulate her limbs, simply so he’d put his hands on her, was both petty and appealing. But she didn’t want to play dumb or be bratty, because she didn’t want him to think of her like that. Still, the way he’d approached her—cold and aggressive, wasn’t what she’d hoped for, didn’t match her feelings. She wanted him aggressive, yes, but hot and passionate.
In her fantasies and daydreams he did exactly what she wanted. They were, after all, her fantasies. But the reality of him, the real Alexander who was standing only a meter away was his own person with his own desires. A man who could, and would, do what he wanted, with no regard to what she might want or need, because that was the relationship they’d agreed to.
The only thing she could do was to retreat within the cloak of her confidence.
Very few people knew or understood exactly how powerful it could be to move through the world projecting confidence. She’d seen the occasional article titled Confidence Is the New Black, or The Sexiest Thing You Can Wear: Confidence.
It was more than that. Confidence projected authority, and as many a sociologist had proven, people backed down from authority. They hesitated to question it.
But that rule didn’t really apply when it came to facing down men like Alexander. Men who didn’t have to think about projecting their authority. They were born to it. Knew no other way of being.
Alena dropped her hands back to her thighs. “I’m sorry, Master Alexander.”
“Off the bed. Stand at the footboard.”
She brushed against him as she went past, but he didn’t touch her, didn’t even acknowledge her.
Alena swallowed hard, then forced her chin up. When he finished digging in a drawer and approached her with a pair of padded cuffs, she arched a brow and held out her hands.
He attached the cuffs. “Turn around.”
Alena waited until she was facing the bed to close her eyes and let a grimace of fear twist her lips.
He bound her then, arms stretched out above her head, cuffs secured to the chains that dangled from the bedposts. Her legs were similarly bound, cuffs around her ankles, then ankles spread wide and the cuffs secured to the legs of the bed with more chain. Her bad knee was sore from the previous bondage, but this position was tolerable.