Chapter Twenty
Twenty
Vicky
Alex doesn’t rush me.
I take a sip of my water, then a bigger gulp. Then I drink more slowly, making it last, delaying the inevitable moment when I have to walk over to the bed, lie down, and be ‘checked.’
Will he find anything?
Yes, if he looks between your legs, he will find something.
All right… will he find any hairs?
I mean fuck, he’s going to lie me down and examine me. It’s a bit cold, isn’t it? Clinical. So very Alex.
Yet so very intimate.
My stomach churns, the glass slips against my sweaty palm. I bite my lip, and look anywhere but at him.
Or try to. Yet my eyes are drawn to him.
He removes his blazer, laying it over the arm of his chair, and rolls up a sleeve of his button-down.
Getting ready for battle. He’s unhurried, expression relaxed—unlike me.
His shirt clings tight to his broad shoulders, the thin material doing nothing to disguise his pecs or hide the flatness of his stomach.
He’s fucking delicious, and my body responds to that, too.
“Are you ready?”
His words jerk me out of my reverie. Did he notice me staring at him? Do I have drool to wipe away?
My eyes return to the bed. It’s a large, old-fashioned thing with a wrought-iron headboard, elegantly curving in a gothic style. It wouldn’t be my choice; it doesn’t really suit the room.
Yes, because when he fucks your ass, décor is important.
I swallow, go for a sip of water, and realize the glass is empty.
So I suppose that means I’m ready.
I’m so goddamn far from ready.
My heart’s pounding in my chest as I stand up. Naked. He’s still clothed, and that dichotomy reinforces my vulnerability. Obviously deliberate on his part, but no less effective for my realizing it.
My skin’s awake and sensitive, tingling all over. Not merely across my vulva, but everywhere. Partly my arousal, partly his eyes on me, and the stimulation of the past two torturous hours. I’ve been aroused for at least one of them.
I’m a mess. Emotionally, physically… I suppose I should be trying to resist, but my defiance is nowhere to be seen.
Fuck that. He doesn’t get to defeat me.
“I’m not in the mood,” I say. It’s a great line… save that it comes out with a tremble in my voice.
“No problem,” he says, rolling up his other sleeve. “I’ll give you thirty seconds to get in the mood, then if you’re not, I’ll spank you until you are.”
And the effect of those simple words, casually uttered?
Breath, catching. Nipples, aching. Stomach, churning. Pussy, clenching.
Defiance, gone.
He spends most of the thirty seconds he’s afforded me crossing to the bed and whisking the duvet off, while I stand and watch, unable to move.
It catches the air, billowing as it crumples to the floor.
Then he picks up one of our suitcases, carrying it to the dining table and opening it.
It’s full of his clothes, and I’ve no idea what he wants from within.
But Alex does nothing without a reason, so I’m about to find out.
His words from earlier return to me. Tic-toc. Thirty seconds, and how many have already passed?
I walk to the bed, trying to make it look like I’m not hurrying. The sheets aren’t black or silk. They’re a white cotton, though in a place like this, the thread count will be high. I crawl onto the mattress and lie down on my back. Awaiting my fate.
“Good girl,” he says as he walks over. “I’m glad to see you’re now in the mood.”
Resentment flares. He’s controlled me, forced me, humiliated me. And now he’s goading me.
“Bastard.” The word slips out before I can catch it, biting down, biting my tongue, wincing at my slip. But the only sign he even hears is a slight curl at the corner of his mouth.
“Hands above your head, please.”
That’s when I notice what he’s holding. It’s not a piece of clothing, it’s a bundle of rope. A few feet of it, the weave tight and thin. Where the hell did he get that from?
A shiver runs through me.
“Why?” I ask in reflex, a more coherent question eluding me. I’m exposed enough already, and now he’s going to restrain me too?
He pauses, standing beside the bed, looking down at me stretched out before him, and deliberately flexes the rope in his hands. “Are you objecting to a little light bondage?”
Turning my head, I look away. I don’t want to admit to the feelings it conjures, the reaction to the loss of my freedom. How vulnerable it makes me feel. I want to refuse, but I know he won’t give me a choice. What choice has there been so far?
“No answer?” he prods, amusement in his tone.
Now he’s laughing at me. After what he’s just put me through, he has the nerve to find my reticence entertaining.
Well, screw him.
“Hands raised, please,” he reminds, his words perfectly civil, even if the request isn’t.
I don’t move.
His voice takes on a condescending tone. “Are you being petulant, Tink?”
That earns him a glare.
In response, he places a knee on the bed, kneeling up over me, then faster than I can react, and pins me with his hand around my throat. He’s not squeezing, but his weight is on me. My air’s cut off, and I try to push his hand away, for what little effect that has.
He ignores my struggles, enunciating each word clearly. “Hands above your head, please.”
“I don’t want to be tied up,” I gasp out.
“And yet, it’s going to happen. If you don’t obey, it won’t be your ass I spank.”
I wince at the implications of that, my pussy far too sensitive, and raise my arms in defeat, scowling at him. His grip eases enough for me to draw a breath, and I use it in the most foolish way possible: “You’re a bully.”
But my words don’t faze him. “No, I’m simply taking necessary precautions.”
He loops the rope around my forearm, beneath my wrist, tucks it swiftly through the wrought iron bars, and runs a coil around my other arm. It takes him hardly any time at all.
Is this Alex’s usual casual competence with everything he touches, or has he done this before?
Wait… did he do that… one-handed?
“You tie people up often, I presume.”
Only now does he release my throat, using both hands to adjust the ropes about my arms and secure them with a series of complicated knots, the ends of the rope whipping past my head as he ties them. “It’s been a few years.”
Oh, there’s a history I’m unaware of. Good to know. We’re finding out all sorts about each other.
The rope tugs tight as he finishes, and my breath catches.
I can’t help but pull. The rope’s soft, it doesn’t bite into my skin, but there’s no give.
As if I expected any less. I have a few inches of movement, but no more than that.
My hands are tied so that I can’t even reach the knots.
The best I can do is brush them with my fingertips.
He doesn’t object while I try, merely watches me with smug amusement.
I’m held, helpless, and at Alex’s mercy. For the second time in as many weeks. I slump back against the bed in defeat.
He was waiting for that. “Comfortable?”
“Perfectly, thank you,” I bite out, acid in my tone.
“Good.” He shows no sign of my sarcasm bothering him.
Then Alex runs his eyes over me, and takes his sweet time about it. His gaze lingers on my breasts, my stomach, on my recently plucked pussy. It drifts slowly down my legs then back up again, while I squirm at his scrutiny.
“I like the way you writhe.”
I immediately freeze, pressing my thighs together and angling my body away from him. For what good that does. It’s not like I can hide from him. He can force me to do whatever he wants, and we’ve already established I have no say in the matter.
“Spread your legs.”
Or he can just order me.
And tied up on his bed, with the threat of punishments hanging over me, there’s no choice but to comply.
Alex watches as I reveal myself to him, nowhere left to hide in whatever game he wants to play next. His gaze falls between my legs, to my perfectly smooth and oh-so-sensitive pussy.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, and I blink up at him, not expecting either the compliment or the note of reverence in his tone.
It’s rare enough to hear him swear. To hear it directed at me? In this context? With the hunger and desire in his voice?
I can’t help the shiver that runs through me, because it changes everything.
The humiliation now serves a purpose. My restraint now meets his needs. The interest that was so very absent for the last five months of our relationship is back, more intense than ever. This man, who I always secretly thought was too good for me, now wants me for me.
It’s recognition of what I only dared to dream. Perhaps I could’ve had it all along, if only I’d chosen to submit to him.
I’m not sure how I feel about that. I don’t see myself as submissive, though it’s obvious he’s dominant. Yet if we’re going to play like this, we should be clear with each other. Communication matters, right?
“I don’t know who you’ve tied up before,” I venture, “but I’m not a sub.”
“If you were, I wouldn’t be interested.” He chuckles, deep and low, and the sound pulls at me. It’s just so… controlling. So fucking sexy. So him. “No, Tink, there’s no challenge in taking what’s freely given.”
“Uh-huh.” Consistent to form. “And… uh… my safeword for these games?”
“No safeword, and these aren’t games,” he replies with indifference. “You’re mine, and I’ll do what I want with you.”
My breath catches, and I can’t draw another.
And apparently that covers all the communication needed. My mind’s blank anyway. I can’t think of a response, or anything intelligent to say.
And he can, too. Do whatever he wants. I’m bound, naked and helpless, my legs spread wide.
Alex takes his time walking around to the foot of the bed, his eyes never leaving my body.
My heart’s racing. I know what he can see: my arousal, obvious at the juncture of my thighs, now fully bared to his gaze.
There’s no hiding it. I’ve never been fully smooth down there or so blatantly exposed, and it’s… like I’m on offer.