21. CHAPTER 21
H e retrieved his lamp, took her elbow, and led her deeper into the tunnels. They stopped before a locked wooden door.
He pressed one of the stones, and it shifted, revealing a cavity with an iron key. He took it and turned the lock. The door squeaked open. Not as well-kept as the rest.
He entered first, struck the flint, and went around the room lighting deep red candles in silver candelabra. She lingered at the threshold, only stepping past when the room was lit. The candle flames cast a wine-dark glow across stone and oak.
He gestured her closer.
"Come in. Close the door."
She hesitated. Then she looked.
Nothing like the dungeon she'd imagined. It was a refined space. Beautiful, even. Dark oak panels softened the stone. Persian rugs layered the floor in crimson and indigo. A wide hearth at one end, its carved mantle severe and elegant.
The bed caught her eye first. Huge. Canopied in indigo and gold. Tall carved posts at each corner, thick and sturdy. A nobleman's bed. Substantial. Commanding.
Against the far wall, a sofa upholstered in the same fabric as the bed drapes. An ottoman. A mahogany armoire.
If that were all, it would be a dark and elaborate bedchamber.
But then there were other things. Iron rings set into the stone at measured intervals.
So discreetly placed, she'd have missed them if she weren't looking.
Strange apparatuses in corners. A bench stood before wooden stocks.
A padded structure against the wall. Leather cuffs hanging from chains.
Dalton moved about with familiarity — lighting the last candle, adjusting a wick. He belonged here.
For her part, the room didn't feel foreign to her body. Her pulse had quickened, but not in fear. It was something else…
She brushed her fingertips over a carved bedpost, leaving a trail in the dust.
"This room is not as well-kept as the rest of the house. No one has been here in seven years."
"You never came back?"
He shook his head. "I couldn't."
"But the servants — "
"Most don't know it exists. Only my valet and your maid used to clean here. Your maid left our staff, and I told my valet to leave it untouched."
The room, frozen. Holding its breath. As if waiting for her return.
"Why have it down here? Wouldn't it be more convenient near our bedchambers?"
He smiled. "That was your idea."
"Mine?"
"You read a gothic novel about a woman imprisoned by an evil prince who was obsessed with her.
In the novel, the prince keeps her in his dungeon and tortures her in all sorts of creative ways until she agrees to marry him.
You said you found the idea of a personal dungeon stimulating.
And wanted to recreate the scenes. We had a cellar that was perfect, and I aim to please my wife. "
"Good heavens. Were you not appalled?"
"Why would I be?"
"I'm sure it's not normal for a wife to read such novels. And to request her husband to do — " She gestured around. "Whatever it is that goes on here. "
"We had played with bondage before. It's another way to express desire. Nothing wrong with it."
She looked at the leather cuffs on the wall. "Still. Quite deviant."
He smiled. "Yes. And I wouldn't want it any other way."
She touched the padded surface against the wall. No seat. She ran her hand across it. Soft velvet.
"Would you tell me what everything is for?"
"All in its own time." He looked her up and down. "Remove your clothing."
A command.
Her gaze snapped to his face. No softness there. No warmth. Only authority.
She hesitated.
"Say the safe word and go back to your room, or obey me now. I want to see your body. Every curve."
When she still didn't move — not from defiance, but because she couldn't make her limbs obey either impulse — he added:
"The longer you take, the longer I'll punish you for disobedience."
Curiosity won. The room didn't feel cruel. It felt deliberate. Every object placed not for punishment but for ritual.
For trust.
That's what he was asking. To trust him.
She swallowed and reached for the sash of her robe. She undressed while he watched. The candlelight cut shadows along his jaw, darkening his eyes until she couldn't read them.
Her robe dropped. Underneath, a high-necked cotton nightgown with a long row of mother-of-pearl buttons.
After she removed it, she would have nothing.
He remained dressed and showed no sign of undressing.
A form of power, she realized. Her, naked and vulnerable, while he remained dressed and in command.
She started on the buttons .
He didn't move when the row fell open to her waist. She shrugged the gown off her shoulders and let it hang at her hips. His gaze dropped to her breasts, and her nipples tightened under his attention.
"Let it fall all the way."
A shimmy of her hips sent the nightgown to pool at her feet. She stood naked before him.
"Turn around."
She turned until she faced away. She felt him move, and it was unsettling not seeing him. She glanced back and found him right behind her. Silent. His hand settled on her hip, and she flinched in surprise, not reluctance. He let the hand remain. She relaxed into it.
Then he moved it. Caressing her from mid-thigh to the side of her breast. Around to cup her, a finger circling the areola but never reaching the nipple.
His other joined in the mapping of her body. Running over her skin. Shaping to her contours. Every possessive stroke built heat that loosened something in her, made her want to press back into him.
Both hands met on her front — one on her belly, one between her breasts — and he pulled her against him. Her back to his chest, her bottom fitted against his groin, where his cock strained, thick and hard against his trousers.
"What do you feel?" His voice, low and close in her ear. "Afraid? Excited?"
"Both."
He pulled her closer.
"Vulnerable, isn't it? Naked. Under my power."
One hand slipped to the curls between her thighs. The other toyed with her nipple. Enough to torment, not enough to satisfy.
"Yes." The word broke apart as he pinched the nipple and one long finger slid between the wet folds of her sex.
The twin sensations were exquisite, thrilling. Novel and familiar at the same time. She didn't remember, but her body did .
"Already wet," he said, his finger sliding over the swollen bud, spreading the slickness. "And I've barely touched you. Such a good girl. You please me so much."
She could only whimper. She clamped her thighs closed around his hand.
"No. Open."
She obeyed. Barely. Something was building. She'd given herself this release before throughout the years. On nights when her body craved things she didn't understand. But this was different. Bigger.
"I think I'll make you wait a bit longer. After all, you took your time disrobing."
"Noo…" A sound of protest. She couldn't wait. His gaze, his hands, and the slow stripping had already made her wait too long.
A low laugh, and he took one wrist and raised it. The leather cuff buckled so fast that by the time she understood what he was doing, he had her trapped. Arms above her head, and nothing on her body but candlelight and his attention.
A bolt of heat went through her.
He disappeared from her sight. She twisted and caught him opening the cabinet.
He came back with a wooden bar, leather straps at each end.
With his foot on the inside of hers, he widened her stance.
Knelt. Fastened a strap above her knee. She craned to see, and he smacked her bottom — one sharp crack that stung and sent a rush of wet warmth between her legs.
"Face forward. Unless you prefer to wear a blindfold."
She faced forward. He buckled the second strap. When he finished, the bar held her legs apart. She was bound and spread. He had access to any part of her person he wanted, and there was nothing she could do about it.
She should have been afraid. Instead, she went soft and warm with desire.
"Do you know what is wonderful about surrender, Vivienne?"
"What? "
"You don't have to think." His hands everywhere, molding her body. "Don't have to wonder if it's right or wrong." His voice in her ear, deep and low. "It doesn't matter if you remember or not. Right now, you are my captive. You bear no responsibility. Your body is mine. For my pleasure. And yours."
A single finger. Lazy among her folds.
"Isn't it lovely?"
She was holding her breath, every nerve gathered to the place where he touched her.
Tighter… tighter… and then his hand withdrew.
She nearly sobbed.
That low laugh again. "So impatient. I could keep you here all night. Bring you to the edge and leave you wanting." Another slow swirl around her clitoris, and this time she didn't chase it. She knew he would deny her. So she leaned into him instead, gave her weight to the wall of his body.
That pleased him. He groaned and dipped his head to kiss her temple. Bit her earlobe. Dragged his mouth down her neck and sucked at the hollow of her throat.
"That's it. Stop fighting. I have you."
His mouth traced down her back. His hands shaped her buttocks. She squirmed, shy under the inspection, but there was nowhere to go. One palm cracked against her right buttock while his tongue traced a line at the peak of the left — the twin sensations, sharp and soft, had her gasping and clenching.
Another smack. "Still."
She couldn't be still. He was taking her apart.
He moved lower, and then his head was between her thighs, and he twisted around to look up at her. His breath was warm on her flesh. So close to —
And then she was in the air. She screamed, grabbing at the rope that held her cuffs. She was going to fall. She felt untethered, soaring .
But his shoulders were solid beneath her thighs. His arms around her torso, holding her steady. He leaned her back against the padded velvet surface, and she understood what it was for.