Chase. Flora Dain
spilling out altogether. ‘She’s not enrolled at all. I was hoping you’d tell me how she knew about you.’
He still won’t trust me. My heart sinks, and then hardens. This may not be the moment to hint she’s involved with someone. ‘Your mother knows about me. Maybe she mentioned my name.’
He’s still frowning. ‘But how did she know where to find you?’ His hand pauses on its journey. His cold look chills my heart.
Why can’t he trust me? ‘Why not ask her?’
‘I do. She just clams up. So now I’m asking you.’
‘I tell you, I don’t know. What else can I say?’
His eyes glitter dangerously as we draw to a halt.
I glance out of the window and stare. ‘Where are we?’ We’re nowhere near the open spaces around his mansion. We’re still in Beacon Hill, only a few streets away from the State House, in one of the oldest and most exclusive parts of town. The colonial-fronted houses are elegant and secluded.
‘After you.’ I’m ushered out of the car and he leads me up to an imposing side entrance that swings slowly open to let us in and then closes behind us. We’re in a plain, white-painted corridor, all hushed carpet, gilded antique mirrors, low lighting. There are doors leading off but all are closed except for one partly open at the end. He murmurs into his phone as we approach it and I gather our arrival is being checked and some kind of clearance given.
He ushers me into the open doorway and I gaze around me while the door behind us closes softly, the final click of the lock the only sound in this soft, muffled chamber.
I turn to him, my heart thumping against my ribs. ‘Where the hell are we?’
He says nothing, but I can sense his excitement. His slow smile tells me where we are, like I didn’t already know.
It wasn’t a question, it was a cry for help.
We’re in a dungeon, or the next best thing in these safety-conscious, sophisticated times. It’s all here: the padded walls, the gleaming chains, the smell of leather.
And on the rail screwed to the centre of the floor, placed directly under the glare of the spotlights, like it’s the treasure at the heart of some temple of doom, hangs a gleaming pair of handcuffs, hard and uncompromising. They’re waiting for me.
It starts with the bracelets. It leads me to this.
Thrill of the chase.
‘Scared?’
Amid all this terrifying paraphernalia he seems perfectly at home, but I sense he’s watchful. He’s waiting for my reaction.
It’s just a game. I can play too.
I lean up to kiss his jaw, a tiny act of submission to set the tone. ‘I’d say yes if I thought it was that simple,’ I say, softly. ‘I’m not sure what I feel.’
His slow smile sends a tremor through me. ‘Hey. That was a brave answer. You never disappoint.’
He may not know it but I could, easily. Right now I feel about as brave as limp tissue. I keep my eyes firmly off the glittering cuffs. ‘You do this often?’
He’s shedding his jacket and loosening his tie. ‘No, I told you. I lack the patience to commit fully to this. I talked it over with Freda and we thought it might –’
‘Freda?’
His cousin Freda stole Ryan, my ex. She’s a techno wizard too and seems to have some hold on Darnley. What scares me is he seems unaware of it.
‘We’re in Freda’s house?’ Outrage builds, but curiosity beats it back. I need to know about this.
As he peels off his shirt his honed muscles emerge into the gleam of the spotlights like an Adonis. It’s an effort to keep my rage fixed on his face as his chest swells slightly, filling my vision, reminding me he’s beautifully built and, in here, all-powerful. And on the point of proving it …
All at once he pulls me into his arms and starts reaching into my hair, removing pins, a diamond clasp or two, and sweeping my hair back from my face. As he scoops it back he finds my lips, his expression unreadable. ‘No, Ella. We’re in my house. Freda rents a small part of it. She works for me. She manages – and
My stomach’s tied in a knot. ‘Were you going to ask me about this at some point?’
He frowns, impatient now. ‘I did. When I gave you the bracelets. You said you’d try it. Remember?’ His face grows troubled. ‘Ella, you promised.’
I gaze at this beautiful man, at the peak of his powers, in the heart of his world, so different from mine. I’d try anything to reach him. But this?
Take me somewhere … ‘We’ve done this in bedrooms and in our house. You’ve worn a stud, you’ve made me ….’ I swallow at the memory of some of the things we’ve done. An instant fizz of arousal surges through me and dries my mouth. I bite my lip and try to stay focused. ‘Why here?’
Mostly I want to ask where Freda comes into this, but it’s too late. He’s already unzipping my gown and braiding my hair into a loose single coil, his fingers scarily deft, like he’s done this often.
The thought makes me shiver. It also makes me hot. ‘I hope this will be fun.’ I give him a playful look, trusting to the power of my arousal. I can do this …
Instantly he grows silent and purposeful. With a stern look he presses a finger to my lips to ensure my silence and then slowly peels my gown away and lays it along a polished cabinet. My stockings and heels meet with approval but he scoops my breasts out of my bra-cups and rests them on the double rim of lace, testing the shoulder straps for resilience and tightening the straps a little at the back so they bulge in a perfect horizontal.
His touch is light, almost clinical.
He gathers my hands together as if in prayer, clamps my wrists into the glinting steel ring awaiting them. This part I understand – we’ve done this before, but here, under a spotlight and with all this kit bristling round the walls, it feels much more intense.
I try to focus on his power and his strength. Maybe some of it will rub off on me.
I don’t want to seem scared. It might be unwise.
‘Do you trust me, Ella?’ His eyes are full of heat, his voice thick with need.
This is my last chance to wriggle out, but all at once I need this too. And I want it to work for him. ‘Yes. I’ll always trust you.’
He kisses me on the forehead – the calm before the storm – and all at once he’s brisk. ‘Good. You’re going to wear this.’
Before I can protest he slips a sleep mask over my head and everything goes black.
‘Bend over.’
I bend low as he pulls lightly at my hips and splays my thighs. I know what’s coming now. Heat flashes through me in spurts of flame as fear and adrenalin surge and blend. With light blotted out my other senses sharpen instantly, primed with fear. I strain to hear what he’s doing.
‘Relax. You’re very tense. You’re shivering.’ His hands are smoothing my quivering shoulders, sliding round my tense, clenched rump, easing my bunched globes apart, his fingers warm and invading, testing and quelling my urge to stay tight. He lands a few experimental slaps on