Chapter 5 Eden’s Law #2
The question felt loaded. I sat, cradled the scotch, bought myself three seconds to formulate an answer that wouldn't trigger suspicion. “Same as most, I imagine. The appeal of structured power exchange. Consent as law.”
“Interesting phrasing.” Harrow's fingers tapped against his glass. “You sound like someone who's spent time thinking about legal frameworks.”
“I've spent time thinking about what happens when frameworks break down.”
“Haven't we all.” He drank, his expression thoughtful.
“That's what I find most compelling about this lifestyle. The inherent honesty in it. Two people negotiate exactly what will happen. Boundaries are stated clearly. Safe words are established. Everything that follows exists within parameters both parties agreed to.”
I listened, filing away his words. The way he framed it. Control as negotiation. Consent as contract.
“In my professional life,” Harrow continued, “I deal constantly with systems that pretend to be fair but operate on unstated rules. Politics masquerading as justice. Favouritism disguised as merit. Everyone lying about what they actually want and how they actually get it.” He leaned forward slightly.
“Here? No pretence. I want control. Damian wants to submit. Lori provides professional expertise. We state these things openly, agree to terms, and proceed accordingly.”
“Refreshing,” I said carefully. “Though I imagine the negotiation itself requires skill. Ensuring both parties understand exactly what they're consenting to.”
“It does. But that's where the artistry lives.” Harrow's smile sharpened. “Anyone can demand submission. True dominance means making someone want to surrender. Making them see that yielding to your control serves their interests as much as yours.”
My mind catalogued the admission. The philosophy. How neatly it aligned with his corruption. Making witnesses want to recant. Making defendants want to plead guilty. Framing coercion as mutual benefit.
“And when someone discovers the terms weren't what they believed?” I asked.
“Then the safeword exists for a reason.” He finished his scotch, set the glass aside. “Though in my experience, misunderstandings stem from poor communication during negotiation. If you're clear from the beginning about what you want and what you're willing to give, everyone leaves satisfied.”
Lori laughed softly from where she'd returned to the chaise. “Elliot could negotiate water from a stone. It's impressive, really. Watching him convince people that his desires align perfectly with their own needs.”
“It's a gift,” Harrow agreed without modesty. “One that serves me well in every aspect of my life.” He stood, moved to the bar cart, poured himself another measure. “More?”
I held out my glass. Let him refill it. Watched his hands, steady and confident, no tremor of uncertainty or doubt.
“What services are you offering?” he asked, returning to the earlier question. “Tonight. Specifically.”
“Whatever you require.”
The answer was perfect because it was vague. Eden operated on consent and negotiation, but it also operated on the understanding that some people came here to take and others came to give and the intersection of those desires created the scenes that happened behind locked doors.
“Understood.” Harrow set his glass aside, his expression shifting from conversational to commanding. “Then we have an agreement.” He circled me slowly, examining. “Strip. Everything except the mask.”
I did. Folded my clothes carefully, placed them on a chair near the door where Harrow's own suit jacket hung. My knife stayed strapped to my ankle, hidden beneath my trousers until the last moment, then tucked beneath my folded clothes where I could reach it if everything went wrong.
Naked felt like exposure I hadn't anticipated. Not the physical vulnerability but the psychological weight of standing in a room with a man I'd been hunting for three years, wearing nothing but a mask and the certainty that one wrong move would end this before I got what I needed.
“Beautiful.” Harrow's hand traced my shoulder, down my arm, assessing muscle and skin with appreciation that felt genuine. “You take care of yourself.”
“I have to.”
“It shows.” His fingers mapped the planes of my chest, circling my nipples with deliberate slowness. “Well-built. This should be very entertaining.”
Lori's hands joined his, smaller and softer, exploring the ridges of my abdomen with curiosity. “He's perfect,” she murmured. “Can we keep him?”
“Maybe.” Harrow's hand drifted lower, fingers wrapping around my cock with possessive confidence. He stroked slowly, deliberately, his grip firm enough to make my breath catch. “If he performs well.”
I responded despite myself, blood pooling where his hand worked. This was biology. Nothing more. My body following stimulus while my mind stayed detached, cataloguing details, listening for information that might prove useful later.
“Lie down,” Harrow commanded. “Face up. Hands above your head.”
I obeyed. The sheets were silk, cool against my skin. I positioned myself as instructed, arms stretched above me, vulnerable in every way that mattered.
Harrow produced rope from somewhere. Black silk that matched the sheets, professional quality. He bound my wrists to the headboard with experienced ease, testing the knots, ensuring they held without cutting circulation.
“Too tight?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good.” He bound my ankles next, spreading my legs, securing me to the bed's lower posts. “Now. Let's see what you can handle.”
He blindfolded me. Darkness descended, absolute and disorienting. My other senses sharpened in compensation. I heard Harrow move, heard Damian shift position, heard Lori's soft breathing close by, heard the cabinet open and close.
Focus. Listen. People revealed things when they felt in control.
“You're tense,” Harrow observed. His weight settled on the bed beside me. “That won't do.”
His hands touched my chest, spreading something warm and slick across my skin. Oil, scented with sandalwood and something darker. He massaged it into my muscles with firm strokes, working from my collarbone down to my sternum, his palms broad and confident.
“Breathe,” he instructed. “You're safe here. I won't damage what I want to use.”
The massage continued. Down my ribs, across my abdomen, his fingers digging into the muscle with enough pressure to make me exhale hard. He avoided my cock deliberately, building anticipation or testing my patience. Both, probably.
Then his mouth joined his hands. Lips against my chest, tongue circling my nipple before teeth scraped across the sensitive skin.
I jerked involuntarily. The ropes held. He bit down harder, enough to send sharp sensation racing down my spine, enough to make my cock twitch where it lay hard and ignored against my stomach.
“Responsive,” Harrow murmured against my skin. “I like that.”
He moved to my other nipple, gave it the same treatment. Licking, sucking, biting until the flesh was swollen and hypersensitive. His hand finally wrapped around my cock, stroking with maddening slowness while his mouth worked my chest.
I bit back a sound. Refused to give him the satisfaction. This was a game. I needed to play it well enough to earn his trust without losing myself to what was happening.
Harrow's mouth travelled lower. Kissed down my sternum, across my ribs, his tongue tracing the definition of my abs with deliberate attention. He paused at my hip, bit down hard enough to leave marks, then moved to my inner thigh and did the same.
“Damian, Lori,” he called. “Come here. Help me worship our guest properly.”
The bed shifted as they joined us. Multiple hands on my body now, touching everywhere. Someone's mouth on my neck, someone else's on my thigh, fingers trailing across my chest, my arms, my sides. I lost track of who touched where, overwhelmed by sensation that came from every direction.
Then Harrow's mouth closed around my cock. Wet heat engulfed me, his tongue working the underside while he took me deep with practised ease. No hesitation, no gagging, just smooth suction that made my hips try to buck despite the restraints holding me immobile.
Someone else's mouth found my nipple again. Licking, biting, while hands massaged oil into my thighs, my calves, my feet. I was drowning in touch, my mind struggling to stay detached while my body responded with increasing urgency.
Harrow released my cock with an obscene sound. “Lift his arm,” he commanded.
Hands obeyed, raising my left arm higher, exposing my armpit. Then I felt Harrow's breath there, hot against sensitive skin, followed by his tongue. He licked the hollow slowly, thoroughly, tasting salt and the musk of my body with apparent appreciation.
“Fucking delicious,” he muttered. His tongue worked deeper, exploring every crevice while his hand continued stroking my cock with devastating rhythm. “I could do this all night.”
The sensation was overwhelming. My armpit had never been particularly sensitive before, but Harrow's mouth there sent electric shocks through my nervous system, made my cock leak steadily, made breathing difficult.
He switched to my other arm, gave it the same thorough attention, his tongue mapping skin while someone else's mouth worked my inner thigh, getting closer to my balls but not quite touching.
Then Harrow's lips found mine. The kiss was brutal, demanding, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth with the same confidence he'd shown binding me to his bed.
I tasted myself on his tongue, tasted the scotch he'd been drinking earlier, tasted power and control and the particular flavour of a man who took what he wanted without apology.