Chapter 7
KATE
Red.
I say it. I hear it. I feel it, like a bucket of feckin’ seawater sluicing over my pounding head.
I don’t want to use my safeword. I want to be strong enough to take every delicious torment my husband, my Dom, devises. I don’t want to be the sub who fails.
But it’s not failure to keep myself safe. If I can’t tell the truth, we can’t play these games. It’s not fair to Cole, and it’s not fair to me.
And the truth is I can’t bear to be locked in a spreader. Not now, not here, not where I tortured Pyotr Tarasov with a similar device.
I don’t regret what I did. I deserved revenge. But looking at that thing in Cole’s firm hand, feeling the icy metal against the bone of my ankle, anticipating the absolute, unforgiving helplessness of being suspended and splayed…
I can’t do it.
Cole doesn’t fight me. There’s nothing about the set of his mouth that shows he’s disappointed. He doesn’t throw the spreader to the ground; he simply sets it on the floor, using a gentle push of his foot to move it out of reach.
He straightens and slips behind me. Before I can feel a heartbeat of panic, he guides my hands up and over the hook. He supports my arms for nearly a minute, giving my muscles a chance to relax without cramping, and then he eases my elbows to my sides. He strips my twisted bra from my wrists.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be.”
“I wanted this.”
“I know.”
“I thought I could…” I don’t know what I thought I could do—christen the new room, banish the old, follow through on every single challenge the man I love sets for me.
He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he turns toward the wardrobe and opens a drawer.
He produces a floor-length robe as soft as velvet and as dark as the heart of a forest. He helps me feed my arms through the sleeves, and he pulls the lapels close under my chin.
The knot he ties at my waist is very secure.
“Can you walk?” he asks.
“Walk where?”
“Upstairs. It’s time for bed.”
I nod, because words cost too much. I get to the foot of the stairs before I look back at the mess we’re leaving—my clothes, the glistening dildo, the spreader sitting silent as a log.
“Forget it,” he says. “I’ll clean up later.” He stays close as we walk up the stairs, and I know he’ll catch me if I fall.
He said it’s time for bed, and I believe him, because I’m knackered. Every muscle in my body vibrates with fatigue. But when we step back into the foyer, I’m astonished to see bright sunshine streaming onto the marble floor.
Of course it’s still light out. It’s summer. The sun won’t set till after nine. We sat down to Sunday Roast at half past three.
“Kate,” he says, his fingers light beneath my elbow. I follow him up to the second floor and down the long hallway to the bedroom suite we share.
He settles me on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to smooth my hair off my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone, and I feel the stretch of skin made stiff with salt—sweat or tears, I’m not certain which.
I don’t know what he’s measuring, how I’m being tested, but he seems satisfied with what he sees. He nods once and disappears into the toilet. I hear water running, and he comes back holding a glass. He passes it to me carefully, as if it contains some incredibly rare potion.
When I drink, the water feels like liquid silk, coating my throat and healing a million cuts inside me. I hear myself swallow every last drop.
“More?” he asks.
I nod.
This time, he runs the water longer. It’s colder when I sip it. I only finish half.
“Enough?” he asks, taking it from me.
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”
He puts the glass on the nightstand. I get to my feet, steadier now, and he reaches around me to pull down the summer-weight comforter, the cotton blanket, the top sheet I would never use if we were back in County Donegal.
Still wearing the robe, I swing my feet onto the bed. I let him pull the linens to my shoulder, and I close my eyes as he feathers a kiss on my forehead. Keeping them closed, I hear him head back into the jacks, closing the door behind him.
One more time, the water runs. I think he must be splashing his face, or maybe cleaning his teeth, but the sink runs longer than that. I wonder if he’s shaving, but that makes no sense at all, not on a Sunday night. I think he might be preparing for a night out.
But then I realize what he’s doing in that room.
In the dungeon, I felt the pressure of his cock against the crack of my arse. He twitched hard as he filled me with that lubed-up toy. I heard the harsh breath hissing past his teeth.
He’s giving himself the relief he didn’t get downstairs. His own right hand is doing what his wife didn’t, what his sub couldn’t.
My belly flips with an emotion I can’t name. I squeeze my eyes closed tighter, wishing I could drown out the rush of the faucet, even if that means hearing his quick, sharp breaths.
The scars across my thighs turn to fire. That’s when I realize what my twisted gut means. Cutting always made me feel this way. I’m ashamed.
Of course he’s as efficient at wanking as he is at everything else. He’s back in the bedroom in just a few minutes. His breath is even. Through my slitted eyelids, I can’t catch a hint of flush on his bristled cheeks.
I listen to him undress, and I feel the mattress shift as he climbs in on his side. He draws a deep breath, and I think he might be about to speak, but instead he lowers his head to his pillow.
I wait an hour before I stir, using the time to plot my motions. I want everything to be simple, easy, as natural as the sun setting outside our curtained windows. I want to make things right.
I murmur a little as I shift beneath the sheet. I stretch slowly, as if I’m just waking up. I roll over, taking care to catch the belt of my robe, to let it fall open, to slip off my shoulders.
My thighs throb as I move. Each red scar feels dipped in acid. I want to scrape them with the heel of my hand, force them to fade to white, even though I know the crimson marks will just come rushing back once the pressure is released.
Instead, I let my arm fall across Cole’s bare belly. The steady up and down of his breathing doesn’t change when I touch him. I wait, starting to count to one hundred, pretending I’ve drifted back to sleep.
I only make it to thirty-seven before the fire in my scars makes me shift again. This time I allow myself to open my eyes. I sit up and shove away the tangle of my robe.
When I turn back to Cole, his eyes glitter in the dark. The faint light of dusk catches one of his eyeteeth, making it gleam like it’s lit from within. He catches my hand as I reach toward the shadows between his legs.
“What are we doing, my dear?” he asks, sounding amused.
“Finishing what we started downstairs.”
“I thought you were sleeping.”
He’ll smell a lie if I try one. “I’m awake now,” I say, which has the benefit of being true.
He’s awake, too, all of him. Whatever service he gave his cock behind closed doors, he’s made it back to half-mast easily enough. It only takes a minute—one hand wrapped around the base of him, the other tickling his bollocks—and he’s hard enough to ride.
He groans as I straddle him. His hands are hot as he grips my hips. Shifting his weight, he helps me settle on top of him. We both suck in sharp breaths as he slides home.
Our bodies move like they’ve been programmed to do this forever. I know how to balance, spreading my hands across the muscles of his chest. He knows how to thrust up, driving deeper inside me. I clench my inner muscles like I’m demonstrating some secret dance.
“Sweet Christ,” he moans, shifting his grip and pulling me close.
Before I know what he’s doing, he’s rolled us over. He slips his hands behind my knees, easing my feet toward my arse. The position opens me even more, and he sighs as he fills me. His hips brush the insides of my thighs, heating my scars to the brink of combustion.
“You’re so tight,” he whispers, planting his wrists by my ears. “You feel so good.”
I’m supposed to say something, to let him know he drives me wild. This is how men and women fuck every night of the year—they don’t need hooks and they don’t need spreaders. They don’t need a newly rebuilt basement turned into the world’s most decadent dungeon.
A cock and a pussy, that should be enough. As if to agree, Cole reaches between us to tap the slick knot of my clit.
My toes should curl. My breath should catch. I should be on the very edge of exploding.
But none of that happens. My body feels like a science experiment, laid out on a counter in some sterile lab. Fill a beaker. Light a burner. Watch the temperature rise, closer and closer to the boiling point.
I can’t let him know this isn’t working—not after I initiated it. Especially not after I used my safeword downstairs. This is supposed to be simple. Easy.
I turn my lungs into bellows, pumping at a darkened forge. I rake his back, wondering if I’m leaving marks he’ll see tomorrow. I whimper, whimper, moan, choosing the moment I’ll pretend to come. I’ll count in my head—one, two, three, four, fi— Five is when I’ll scream his name.
I get to one, and Cole freezes above me.
Two, and he pulls out.
Three, and he shifts his weight, leaning on an elbow, breaking all contact with my body.
Four, and I murmur, “Fuck me now. You drive me crazy.”
Five, and he says, “Stop.”
“What?”
“Stop faking.”
“I wasn’t!”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not,” I lie, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching for his boxers, covering himself with silk and disappointed patience.
I clutch a pillow, holding it like a teddy bear. My cheeks are so hot, I wonder if the down filling will burst into flame. “I just want you to be happy.” I doubt he can hear my whisper.
Of course he hears. He has ears like a wild beast. “That won’t do it.”
I don’t know how to fix this. The twisted sex we crave didn’t work in the dungeon. The vanilla sex horny teenagers manage without a problem isn’t working here in the bedroom. Something as simple and as endlessly complex as a single shared orgasm is beyond us.
Helpless, I fall back onto the mattress, still gripping my pillow. I close my eyes, determined not to think about all the ways we’re broken. I’m immediately swarmed with images from the rest of today.
My father… fighting to get out a single, solitary word.
My mother… gloating at the foot of the table.
Ilya Danilov… ready to claim my sister and deliver a killing blow to the Canton Crew.
The world is coming apart around me, and I’ve driven away the one man I trust to find a way to put it all back together.
But he hasn’t gone away. He’s pulled back the covers on his side of the bed. He’s climbed in beside me and propped himself up on his elbow.
“Kate,” he says. “Look at me.”
I shake my head.
“Kate.”
It’s just my name. One syllable. Four letters.
But it’s a command. One I don’t know how to obey. But I’m certain if I don’t, things will be changed between us forever.