Chapter 25
COLE
When I bring a pro down here, I’m transacting a business arrangement. We negotiate a price. She signs a non-disclosure agreement. I exploit my power, testing my control.
But everything’s different with Kate.
This isn’t the proper way to bring her into my home.
I should take her to the kitchen and make her a cup of tea.
Give her a tour of the entire house—the wine cellar and the sunroom and the library, the parlor and our offices and the music room.
I should take her to the second floor with its four guest rooms and its master bedroom suite.
We have all the time in the world—till death do us part, if either of us actually believes the priest who pronounced us married.
But my marriage to Kate is hardly the thing of romance novels—heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, dozens of red roses, undying professions of love. She’s here because this marriage was arranged. That, and because I tied her up in Boston, because she got off becoming my sub.
And I didn’t become the billionaire CEO of Lone Wolf Enterprises by taking my time or by following anyone else’s rules. I gauge my competitors, and I pounce when I can gain the greatest advantage.
So Kate’s tour of my home begins in the dungeon.
I watch her closely. She’s no blushing virgin. She likely recognizes all the equipment in this room, even if she hasn’t played with it before.
But measuring her reaction gives me a chance to decide how I’ll use her first. I watch the set of her shoulders as she takes in my domain. I study her face in the smoked mirrors that fill one long wall.
She nods, just a little, as she studies the padded wall to our left, the one studded with anchors for chains or ropes.
I know she’s imagining herself spread-eagle, or suspended between floor and ceiling, bound at her neck, her waist, and her ankles.
She glances at the spanking table, swallowing hard as she recognizes the spikes on its collar, the shiny steel buckles built into its stirrups.
She barely acknowledges the bed, with its waist-high mattress covering a cage underneath, its iron bars echoing four posts, a headboard, a footboard.
She pays even less attention to the black leather couch with its matching armchair, and the stocks, and the stark iron hook hanging from the ceiling, strong enough to support a few hundred pounds.
She’s more intrigued by the armoire, with its shelves and drawers filled with tools for impact play, with vibrators and knives and dildos built for pleasure and for pain.
And she’s fascinated by the St. Andrew’s cross. It fills one corner of the room—six feet tall, its iron bars forged into a solid X. There’s enough room around it to crack a whip.
Her eyes flare wide as she studies the black leather cuffs waiting for her hands and feet. She licks her lips, the tip of her tongue betraying her nerves. She finishes her survey of the room with deceptive calm, lingering on the display of canes in the armoire.
It takes her a moment to find my eyes in the mirror, but when she does she drawls, “My, what a big dungeon you have.”
I take my time studying the words scrawled across her chest. The letters are backwards in the mirror.
I wonder how long it took her to create her Fuck You protest. Closing the distance between us, I spread my right hand across her belly.
Pulling her close so she can feel my hard-on against her ass, I give her the answer she deserves: “The better to fuck you with, my dear.”
Driving her home from Baltimore, I almost considered letting her go. I can live without her father’s money. I can rebuild my reputation from the client hit list without her Irish mob. Lone Wolf is bigger than Red Cap; I have better business connections.
But I don’t want to set Kate free.
I don’t want to miss learning how much pressure it takes to bruise the tender flesh on the inside of her elbows.
I don’t want to give up hearing her gasp and swear and fight as she accepts the submissive role she discovered in Boston.
I don’t want to miss calculating how many times she can come in a single session, then going one better.
First things first.
“You remember your safeword?”
Defiance flares in her grass-green eyes. “I won’t need it.”
I reach around and catch her chin, forcing her to turn and face me. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I know my own limits and they’re—”
I drop my hand. “I won’t have a sub who won’t protect herself. If I can’t trust you to stop me, then we can’t play the games I want to play. I can’t push your boundaries. Can’t test my control. Married or not, I can’t use you.”
I’m three steps away before she grabs my arm. “My safeword is red,” she says, like she’s reciting facts for a test. “My pause word is yellow.” And then, when I still look toward the stairs: “Please. Don’t go.”
I wait for a count of five before I turn around. When I do, she lowers her eyes. She drops her hands to her waist, twining her fingers together like a child caught lying. “Please,” she says again. “I’ll use it if I need to. I promise.”
I can see from the set of her jaw that it hurts her to say that. The words sound like they’ve been squeezed from somewhere deep inside, the place where she buries all her self-doubt, all her fears that she isn’t the kick-ass ball-buster she thinks she is.
It costs her. And that’s worth a reward.
She yelps as I half-carry, half-drag her over to the cross. It’s the thing she really wants. It’s the perfect introduction to my dungeon. To my rules.
She fights as I buckle her into the cuffs, pushing against my chest, going for my eyes. I lean into her once she’s trapped by the metal crossbars, using my weight to hold her in place as I bind first her left wrist, then her right.
She tests the bonds like her life depends on her breaking free, snarling when they don’t give the breadth of a hair. “This is the way you like your women, arsewipe? Tied up, so they can’t run away?”
“No,” I say. “This is for girls who haven’t agreed to play by the rules.”
“I’m not a girl,” she spits. “I’m a grown woman, and you’ll treat me like one.”
Interesting, that she takes such exception to my calling her a girl. I suspect she wouldn’t have a problem with bitch, or pussy, or cunt. I’ll make a point of calling her girl until she yields to it.
“Grown women don’t make messes with Magic Markers,” I say. I trace the outline of a dollar bill on her collarbone, purposely keeping my touch light as I measure the green scrawl.
She arches toward me, head going back, lips parting. I watch her nipples peak beneath her demure white gown. When she realizes she’s reacting, she tightens all her muscles. “Leave me alone, douchebag.”
“The mouth on you,” I say, half-turning to the armoire. “A gag will take care of that.”
“Big man,” she says, the Irish coming stronger in her voice. “First thing ya think of when a woman starts t’ talk. Gag her. Bind her. Ya won’t dare.”
She wants it. I hear that in her tone, see it in the hungry flare of her gaze.
I don’t know what draws her—the thought of the buckle around her head or the ball against her tongue, maybe anticipating that she won’t be able to fill her lungs with a full breath.
My sub wants me to strap her into a gag.
And that’s the reason I won’t do it.
She is not in charge.
I am.
I trace the letters on her chest slowly—F-U-C-K-Y-O-U—making my touch even softer. She squirms, trying to pull away, but the cross leaves her no room to maneuver.
“Grown women don’t swear, just to prove they can,” I say. “I was right the first time. You are a girl. A whiny little brat.”
“Fuck you,” she says. This time when she glances toward the cabinet, she lingers on the canes.
I’d laugh, if she wasn’t being so obvious. Instead, I grab her left leg, pushing up her white skirt to close my fingers around her knee. She struggles, but I’ve taken her by surprise. Caught up short by the bonds around her wrists, she doesn’t have a good angle to kick.
I fasten the buckle around her foot, opting for one notch tighter than she likely finds comfortable. It’s easier to catch her right ankle; she has no room left to fight.
“Yer a vicious gobshite, aren’t ya?” she growls. She tests her bonds, yanking hard, hissing when she realizes this isn’t a game. She’s pinned on the cross, spread-eagle, completely under my control.
To prove my point, I shove the skirts of her wedding gown above her waist. The fabric catches at her back, pinned between her ass and the cross. She swears at that, a long string of slurred syllables, and I can’t be sure if she’s cursing me in English or in Irish.
Smirking, I slip a hand between her thighs. She’s wearing white lace panties, wispy things I could tear off with one twist of my wrist. I wonder who chose them for her—probably that sister who stood up as her maid of honor. I can’t imagine any Red Cap Raider ever buying them in a store.
“Curse all you want,” I say, tracing the lace edge like I’m reading a secret message in ones and zeroes. “But that won’t change the fact that you’re mine. And I get to do whatever I want to with you.”
To prove my point, I yank her panties to one side and shove my thumb inside her.
She’s soaked. My hand feels like it’ll catch fire from the heat of her. By reflex, she curls away from my attack, but the cross and her bunched dress don’t leave her anywhere to go.
She’s shaking, trembling with rage, or maybe need. Her hips roll, and she pushes into the web between my thumb and forefinger. Definitely need.
She’s trying to control me, so I do the only thing a self-respecting Dom should do. I hold myself perfectly still, denying her even a sliver of pressure.
“Goddammit,” she whispers. “You’re a fucking sadist.”
“Not fucking,” I say, my amused tone doing more to nettle her than anything I could do to her body. “Yet.”
“Arsehole!”