by Eden Bradley
She sighed. “It’s my mother.”
“The French artist?”
“Yes.” She picked up her glass, took a long sip, set it down again. Her throat was thick, tight, making it hard to swallow.
“Surely that’s not all I get?”
“You don’t want to hear this. It’s not pretty.”
“So much of life is not pretty. ‘Pretty’ isn’t a requirement for something to be important or interesting.”
She met his gaze, held it. “You’re very much the philosopher, aren’t you?”
“And you’re stalling again.”
She shrugged. “I don’t talk about her much. My mother is a mess, to be honest. She’s very bohemian. Or at least, that’s her excuse.”
“For what?”
“For being a flake. For spending her life flitting around the world, stopping only long enough to paint whatever strikes her fancy, eating and paying bills only when she remembers. Then moving on again.”
“A hard life for a child, being moved from place to place.”
“It wasn’t all bad. Even I can admit that. I had seen most of the world by the time I was eight. She took me all over Europe, to Tahiti, to Thailand.”
He leaned in to the table, closer to her, his voice low and more intimate. His hazel eyes were on her. “A whirlwind existence.”
“Totally out of control. I never had a moment when I could just sit still, contemplate who I was, my place in the world. I had no place…”
She remembered the sights and scents of the cities to which her mother had taken her. The light on the water of Venice, the spices and flowers of Indonesia. The lack of safety in it all, being in those strange cities with her mother often gone for days at a time, run off with a man, or to paint something intriguing, leaving her on her own in a hotel room. She’d learned to be an adult at a very young age.
Damien’s hand slid over hers, warm, reassuring.
“That explains why you’re so completely controlled now.”
She pulled her hand away. Why was there bile rising in her throat? “I wasn’t so controlled yesterday with you.”
“You’re angry.”
“Hell, yes, I’m angry,” she hissed. Her blood was boiling suddenly.
He asked very softly, “Are you angry with me? Or are you angry that you allowed yourself to let go?”
She shook her head, trying to calm down. “Both, maybe.”
“I understand.”
That was all he said, just those two simple words. But they made all the difference in the world.
His voice was low, so soft she had to strain to hear him over the music filtering through the background of muted conversation, clattering plates. “Tell me what happened.”
She stared at him for a moment. She was going to tell him. She didn’t know why.
“I was eighteen. I was tired of taking care of her, of being the parent, you know? I couldn’t do it anymore. I had to try to have a life of my own making. Some stability. We’d come here from London so she could see some gallery owners. And I was…I was so tired. I told her I wasn’t going back to Europe with her.”
“I take it that didn’t go over well?”
“She became depressed.” She stopped, remembered her mother as she’d last seen her, her beauty faded by sorrow and drink. “She was angry with me. Told me if I stayed behind, then I was on my own. Even though that was exactly what I wanted, it broke my heart that she would do that to me. Forsake me for growing up.”
“It wasn’t because you’d grown up. It was because she didn’t want to be alone.”
Was he right? Lord, the way he could see into her, know her life, without really knowing her at all.
He took her hand again, this time holding it firmly.
“You’re safe here now. I won’t let anything happen to you as long as you’re with me.”
But how long would that be? Another thirteen days and she would be gone. He would be nothing but a very interesting memory.
Too bad that was a blatant lie.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE LIVING ROOM IN HIS HOUSE WAS JUST AS she remembered it. Once again she noticed how the clean, simple lines of the furnishings contrasted with the more formal architecture. A lovely contrast, almost magically beautiful, like something out of a magazine. It was perfectly silent, other than the sound of his shoes brushing over the Persian rug as he moved to close the drapes, shutting out the light of afternoon outside. Then he came to stand behind her. She shivered simply knowing he was there, that close to her. She imagined if she leaned back just a little she could press against his chest, feel his heart beat through his clothes.
She was very much aware that she was thinking like some starstruck teenager. But she couldn’t help it.
He slid his hands down her arms, and she could feel the warmth of his touch even through her sweater. Her breasts were already full and needy, her sex damp.
He moved in closer. “We begin now.”
“What? Here?”
“We don’t need the shock or the luxury of my little dungeon. Today, it’s just the two of us, with whatever I have at hand. It will be a different kind of shock for you.”
Her sex clenched. Why did she feel the need to argue?
“I don’t understand. Why here, in this perfectly normal room? And don’t tell me I can’t speak now. We’re not playing yet.”
He was quiet a moment. Then, “Rest assured that I will work the anger out of you.”
“Will you, now?” She didn’t care that she sounded sarcastic.
His hands on her shoulders again, this time exerting a gentle pressure. She could sense the heat of him against her back, seeping into her spine. “I’m going to tie you up. To do some wicked, mysterious things to you. To make you come so hard you’ll scream. And you’ll love it. Before we’re done you’ll beg for it, for me to hurt you. For me to fuck you. And you won’t be angry anymore.”
His words enraged her. Inflamed her. She squeezed her thighs together. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“My mother is long dead.”
“Shit.”
“Lovely language for such a sophisticated woman.”
“God, I’m sorry.” Her cheeks were burning, with shame, with lust. “About the language. About your mother.”
“Don’t be. She was a nightmare. And yes, that has plenty to do, I’m sure, with my sadistic tendencies toward women. A sort of divine retribution. Divine to me, anyway, to take that rage and turn it into something positive. To turn it into pleasure. Freud would have had a field day with me. But that doesn’t make what I said about you any less true.”
Her whole body heated, the heat turning to a molten desire that flooded her system. The way his mind worked, the way he spoke to her, was the biggest turn-on of all. Even knowing he was just as damaged as she was got to her.
But she hated that he was right about her. She knew it already, that if he touched her again the way he had yesterday she would scream, would beg for him.
God.
“And Magdalena?”
“Yes?”
“The scene starts now. Prepare yourself.”
She swallowed, hard. But she didn’t want to fight it.
She stood in silence as he went about the room, lighting small candles in glass holders: on the coffee table, the side tables, the mantel. The tiny flames cast a soft glow around the room, illuminating the space in a flickering play of light and shadows.
He came back to her and removed her clothes quickly, and as gracefully as he did everything else, every movement almost a dance. This time he took her bra off, then her panties. She didn’t attempt to argue. She knew she wanted to be naked with him. For him.
He led her to one of the white sofas, sat down, then pulled her into his lap. She let her arms rest at her sides. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. But that problem was solved for her when he reached behind him, pulled the thick satin cord holding the drapes back, and used it to bind her wrists.
She bit back hard on the panic welling in her throat. Yet at the same time she was fascinated at the sight of her hands being bound in this way. And that silken cord was so much better than rough rope would be for her. Too perfect. How did he know these things?
His voice was low, soothing. “Don’t be frightened by this. The rope symbolizes your freedom. That you are handing yourself over to me.”
Somehow she knew exactly what he meant.
Once her wrists were bound, he raised her arms over her head and placed them at the back of her neck, allowing him full access to her naked body. Immediately he began to stroke her, running his hands over her flushed skin. Her sex was aching, needy, wet. When he brushed her nipples with his fingertips she let out a gasp. God, they were so swollen and full, it almost hurt. They did hurt when he pinched them, hard. She bit her lip and reveled in the pain.
“Ah, that’s it. You can take it, you see? I knew you could.”
With one hand he opened her thighs a little, enough to move down between them. He found her cleft, rubbed his fingers over her, shifted and pressed two fingers right into her.
She gasped.
“You’re so wet, so ready. You need this, don’t you?”
She couldn’t say anything. Her whole body was wracked with a sharp, stabbing pleasure.
He pushed his fingers in deeper.
“Say it, Magdalena. Say you need this. This pleasure, this bit of pain.”
She shook her head, wishing she could hide her face from him.
He pinched one of her nipples and she unconsciously arched into his wicked touch.
“Say it. Now.” His tone was harder, inarguable, followed by another pinch as he shoved his fingers deep inside her.
“Yes!” Her body convulsed, on the edge of orgasm already. “I need this. Please.”
“Good girl.”
He reached to one side and pulled a small, white candle from the table. He swirled the melted wax around in the holder, watching the slide of it against the glass.
“I need you to hold as still as you can, Magdalena.”
He fisted one hand in her hair at the back of her head, holding her firmly. It was a good thing, too, because the moment she realized what he was going to do with the hot wax, she wanted to run.
“This is going to hurt. But it will also give you an incredible release of endorphins. You have to ride out the pain, to breathe through it.”
He tightened his grip on her hair, really holding her down. Then he lifted the candle and tilted it over her breasts.
The molten wax came spilling down on her, seemingly in slow motion, giving her time to become truly scared. The heat of it hit her skin, not even hurting at first, just a slowly spreading warmth. Then the burn kicked in.
She yelled, tried to jump, but he still held her firmly by the hair.
“Breathe, Magdalena. You can do it.”
She tried, but all she could do was pull a quick, gasping breath into her lungs. She watched as he set the candle down and slipped his hand between her thighs to massage her clit. As it had when he’d spanked her, the pleasure fused with the pain, until it all felt good.
“That’s better, yes?” He kept at it, until her sex was swollen and pulsing. “Let’s try this again.”
He picked up the candle, and this time she felt better prepared as he held it over her and spilled.
Once more the initial warmth that turned into an aching burn as the melted wax cascaded over her chest, onto her breasts. She breathed into it, as he instructed her. And this time she was able to convert the pain. Her head rushed with the lovely endorphins he’d promised her.
Again he set the candle down and slid his fingers over her wet cleft as she rode out the searing pleasure. Incredible, this sensation, once she allowed herself to give in to it.
When she was on the verge of coming, he moved his hand up to her breasts, kneaded the full flesh there, massaging the wax into her skin. Her nipples came up hard, needing attention. And as though he could read her every desire, he moved to roll them, one at a time, between his fingers. He tugged and pinched them, sending pleasure shafting into her body.
She squirmed in his lap and felt his solid erection against her hip. God, he was big, and so damn hard. What would it be like to feel him inside her? If only he would slip his fingers between her thighs again. “Please…” she whispered.
“No talking, now.”
God, he really was a sadist, wasn’t he?
Once more he lifted the candle and poured, the wax coming down on her skin in a rain of blazing heat. This time the pleasure kicked in right along with the pain. She panted, hard, when he pressed the wax into her skin. The heat radiated, fusing with pleasure as it coursed through her body. She was dizzy with it all, overloading on sensation. And she wanted more. Needed it. Needed to come. She moaned, squirmed. She could not hold still.
“I know what you need, Magdalena.” He pinched one of her nipples, hard. Another jolt of sensation shot through her.
“Oh! Please…”
“Patience.”
Finally, he reached down and pushed his fingers inside her. Her sex clenched hard as pure lust stabbed through her.
“No, Magdalena. Not until I say you can.”
He pinched her nipple with his other hand, a tight, punishing pinch. She could barely breathe, her head and her body buzzing. He shifted his hand and pressed on her clit with his thumb.
“Oh!”
“Not yet.” His voice was very low. “Do not come yet.”
She wanted to obey, was too far gone to question how much she wanted to comply with his demands. But her climax lay heavy in her body already. She arched her hips, moaned.
“No, Magdalena.”
And again he picked up the candle and spilled the wax onto her breasts. This time, the molten wax pooled over her nipples, stinging and hot. She took in a deep breath, closed her eyes, concentrated on his fingers working inside her, rubbing at her clit. And on the singeing pain on her skin, her nipples. Her body was poised on the edge of climax, waves of preorgasmic pleasure washing over her.
“I…I can’t hold on.”
“You will obey me.”
Yes…
She clenched her teeth against the powerful tide rising inside her. He pinched and tugged at her nipples, worked her clit. The pressure was building to dizzying heights. She knew she couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Please…”
“Please what?”
“I need to come.”
He paused. “Oh, really?” He gave her clit one hard pinch. The pain reverberated through her, making her sex clench with hot, surging desire.
“Yes!”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, please, Sir…please…” She was almost sobbing now with need.
“Tell me what you want.” He shoved his fingers hard inside her, burying them deep.
“Please…let me come. Make me come.”
He leaned over, his breath hot in her ear. “What is it you want? Is it this?”
He pinched her clit and her whole body clenched with nearly unendurable pleasure. Exquisitely painful.
She gasped. “Yes!”
“And what else?”
“Oh, God…”
He pushed his fingers in again, drew them out, leaving her empty.
“I want you to fuck me…please. I need you.”
His cock twitched against her thigh.
He leaned over her and said quietly, “You have no idea how much I’d like to do just that. But fucking is not part of this game.”
A small sob escaped her then. How could he do this to her? To make her want this, to make her need him, and then to deny her?
A tear fell onto the sofa cushion below her face.
“Such pretty tears. So pretty you deserve some sort of reward.”
She clenched her eyes shut, trying to stop crying. He shifted her weight in his lap and reached down to pull something from between the sofa cushions. She tried to see what it wa
s, but couldn’t. Then she heard a low, whirring buzz. She almost cried again in relief.
“I have here a very large vibrator. I hope you can take it. Do you think you can?”
“Yes! Please.”
“Are you sure?”
He pushed her thighs farther apart so that she was open to him. Then he touched the buzzing tip of the phallus to her hungry cleft. She moaned.
“Can you feel the size of it? Not yet, can you?”
He shifted her body once more, turning her facedown, then guided her up onto her knees. He had her spread her thighs, so that she was kneeling over his lap and wide open to him. He touched the vibrator to her again, this time pushing the tip inside. Her whole body shuddered with pleasure.
“You’re so damn wet, I think you could take anything,” he murmured, almost as if to himself. His quiet words were followed by a sharp plunge, and the thick, hard shaft sank into her waiting sex.
“Oh…” The sensation was excruciating. The shaft was enormous, filling her completely, painfully. Yet the vibration was exquisite, sending waves of near-orgasm quivering through her body.
“It’s only halfway in. Can you take more? Do you want it? Tell me.”
“Yes…yes, I want it.” She was shaking all over, with need, with pain.
He slid it in another inch and she felt the walls of her sex stretching, trying to accommodate the solid girth of the object. Very slowly, he moved it inside her, then slid it back out, until only the tip rested in her hot, clenching sex.
“Just breathe, Magdalena. Hold onto that edge. Ride it out. I’ll let you come soon.”
She took in a deep breath, tried to concentrate. But all she knew was the shock of pleasure stabbing through her body. He twisted the vibrator and she gasped.
“Hold it, Magdalena. Hold it back.”
“I can’t,” she panted.
“You can. You will do it for me.”
He held the vibrator against the lips of her sex for several long, agonizing moments.
“Please…please…”
“Yes, now.” He gave the instrument another twist, sending a shard of pleasure knifing into her body, then he shoved it deep inside her. Pain and pleasure fused, burst, and she screamed as she came. Sensation roared through her system like wildfire, searing her, branding her. She cried out again as she shattered in his arms.