“What’s the worst that could happen? Neither of us enjoy it, so we stop and do something else? Céleste gave me a housewarming gift. We could play that instead.”
“What was it?”
“Candy-Land.”
Nora laughed. She had to, it was all so ridiculous.
“I know what you’re doing,” she said.
“Making you an offer you can’t refuse?”
“Will you ever stop manipulating me? Ever?” She hadn’t gone near him in a week, staying home, all alone, hiding from him, hiding from her pain. Only this offer would tempt her back into bed with him after all she’d been through. Truly, only this and nothing else. And he knew it.
“I’ll stop the day you stop enjoying it, Little One.”
She snapped her fingers in his face as he’d done to her a thousand times.
“That’s Mistress Little One to you.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
They retreated to the downstairs guest room. Inside it was quiet, still. Nora imagined she could hear her own heartbeat, but it was only the pounding of nervous blood in her ears.
The last of the evening’s sunlight streamed through the sheer white curtains over the large mullioned windows above the bed. The room was filled with golden light and silver shadows.
As soon as they entered the room, Nora shut the door to keep the new roommate out for the next hour. Something about the lock clicking made it all real to her and she closed her eyes, hand still on the knob.
“Eleanor?”
“Tell me this is real.”
He took her in his arms and held her to his heart. She rested her ear against his chest, his heart beating steady and ready and slow. He wasn’t scared. Of course not. Just a game, she told herself. Just another mind game.
“It’s not real,” he said. “It’s only a dream. And we never have to be afraid in our dreams.” Was he talking to her? Or himself? Either way it helped. The pressure lifted. Only a dream. Just a dream. Just her most deliciously decadent impossible dream.
Slowly, she pulled herself from his arms, faced him.
“Stand there.” She pointed at a spot on the floor at the foot of the bed next to the steamer trunk. He raised an eyebrow but obeyed.
“Here?” His bare feet were placed precisely where she’d pointed. “Or here?” He moved one centimeter to the right.
“Submitting for five seconds and you’re already a brat.” This was a very good dream. “There is fine. Stay.”
She found the matches and lit the candles arrayed on the fireplace mantel. The room was dark and growing darker. Soon the candlelight would be the only light they would dream by.
“Tell me again you want this?” She turned to face him.
“I want you,” he said. “All of you. For once.”
All of her. If that was what he wanted…
“Take your clothes off.”
She waited for the refusal, for him to remember who and what he was—dominant, master, owner—and who and what she was—submissive, slave, possession. Instead, he pulled his t-shirt off, folded it in half and lay it neatly over the back of the leather armchair. Jeans next, then his black—of course—boxer briefs, both folded and left on the chair, just so.
A clock gently chimed from somewhere in the house, telling them the hour was nine. The sun was almost gone.
“Lay on the bed, on your back, hands behind your head.”
His only act of rebellion was to wait a full three seconds before obeying. But obey he did. He went to the bed, lay down on the thick white antique lace counterpane and rested his head on the pillow.
“Safe word?”
“Yours will do,” he said. Hers was Jabberwocky.
“Hard limits?”
“Decapitation.”
“Søren.”
He looked at her, his eyes saying “silly girl” and his expression patted her on the head.
“Do you really think I have any limits when it comes to pain?”
No, of course she didn’t.
She placed a candle on the bedside table, picked up the handcuffs and took out the key, which she set next to the candle. She wanted to have it in case Søren changed his mind about being restrained.
Carefully, as if he were a wild animal easily startled into attack, she moved onto the bed, kneeling at the head. She took his wrists into her hands, pulled them into place, feeling his pulse under her thumbs. Steady pulse, cool skin. She cuffed his right wrist, and wrapped the links around the center iron bar. Then she snapped the other bracelet on the left wrist, where Søren had his son’s name tattooed over his pulse point. Fionn’s name. Nora’s handwriting. Now she knew what she was going to do to him.
Only when the cuffs were on did she let herself enjoy the moment. She touched his side, touched that shivery spot between his ribs. His skin was cool and supple but at the first trembling contact between his body and hers, gooseflesh rose up all over his chest. Smiling, she lowered her head, kissed the spot she touched. Søren breathed once, hard, but held still. When she raised her head, she saw him watching her every move, like a captured wolf watches its captor from the back of the cage.
Nora left him on the bed and went to the steamer trunk. She took a deep breath and opened the lid of the trunk. Kingsley did not disappoint. One whip. Two sets of floggers. Spreader bar. X-bar. Rope. Rope cuffs. Lube. Bamboo cane. Misery stick. And a tiny brown leather bag full of scalpels. And under the scalpels, a first-aid kit.
While he was looking at the ceiling—no doubt ruing whatever idiotic romance impulse that had led him to make this offer—she looked at him, all six-feet-four long lean strong perfectly proportioned body of a man half his age inches of him. He was probably hating every minute of this. She was in unholy heaven.
Nora took the scalpels out of the trunk and tossed the case on the bed. He wasn’t aroused, not yet, but she could tell he was intrigued. He knew perfectly well what was inside that leather case.
While he watched her, she undressed, laying her clothes on the armchair next to his. She could have tormented him, tossing his clothes on the floor, walking on them, bossing him around and about like he did with her for the sheer heathen pleasure of it all. But she didn’t, couldn’t. This meant too much to her to make light of it. And she knew he’d meant it when he said this was it. She only had this one chance, and she wasn’t going to waste it.
The sun was gone now. The only light came from the candles on the mantel, the candle by the bed. She returned to the bed and crawled next to him. Because she could, she touched his face, his lips, traced the perfect lines of his perfect ears. He wasn’t aroused, but Nora was, wet and shaking like a sapling in a storm inside. Her training went too deep, however, so she feigned calm on the outside, collected and in control.
She straddled him at the waist, pushing her vulva against his still soft cock. She bent to kiss him, because she had to, because she had never wanted him more than she did right then. She kissed him hard and deep, forcing his lips to part and pressing her tongue inside his mouth. When he returned the kiss, it was tentatively at first, letting her have her way with him, humoring her, she knew. Then something changed. The room darkened, the darkness deepened. He kissed her back harder. He pressed his tongue to hers. As she moaned in response, he caught her bottom lip between his teeth and bit it.