Chapter 9
Whoever said crying was a form of cleansing hadn’t cried over the shit I had in my lifetime, the most recent of which took the cake—namely that my daughter was fighting for her life.
I’d stolen from the devil himself in order to save her, and now I was paying the ultimate price: six weeks of forced slavery of the most vile variety.
The fact that a part of me enjoyed it only compounded the problem.
I unlocked my door and finally allowed the floodgates to break.
I’d barely kept my tears at bay while at the hospital, where I’d pulled Eve into my arms and rocked her long after she’d fallen asleep.
I wasn’t sure if I’d held on so long to comfort her or me, but the weight of her in my arms and the smell of her soft skin had righted my world, if only for a while.
I’d needed someone in that moment, and sadly I had no one but my three-year-old daughter.
I shed my clothes and collapsed into bed, and the sense of safety I usually felt within these walls was absent.
Gage Channing’s lingering intrusion permeated every corner of my sanctuary.
I curled into a ball and hugged my naked body, letting it all out in gulping sobs.
The rest of the night blurred—hours blending together as the clock on my nightstand moved time…
moved time closer to when I’d have to see him again.
Confusion and grief were powerful emotions; they haunted me now as heavily as my guilt did—the most disturbing case imaginable.
I tortured myself with the vivid memory of his sculpted body moving against mine, demanding my submission, and his whip lancing my bare skin in unforgiving blows.
Worse was how he’d forced me to pleasure… how even now I craved it.
I still ached from being denied so long.
Despite his damn rules, I slid my hand between my thighs and closed my eyes, burrowing my fingers into slick, throbbing heat.
My frenzied touch brought me to an exquisite build-up.
Gage’s blue-eyed gaze flashed in my head, and as I recalled the experience of grinding against him—again and again without release—I plunged into inevitable rapture, coming long and hard.
A deep moan poured from my throat, and I spread my legs wider as my body cramped and shuddered.
Heart pounding a deafening rhythm, I gave over to my release as it pulsed around my fingers.
A blessed haze engulfed me, and I drifted to sleep a couple hours before the sun peeked through the blinds.
The blaring alarm interrupted an alternate replay of Gage and me in my dreams. There had been no cruelty, no hunger for power and dominance—he’d touched me with the gentlest patience and whispered the sweetest words, unlike the language he’d used over the weekend.
I want to fuck your ass.
Yes, dream-Gage had been ten times better than foul-mouthed, sadistic Gage with his demands and a whip to ensure I bowed to him. I got to my feet and began his mandatory hygiene regimen.
Bath oil in the water—check.
Wash and condition hair—check.
Shave underarms, bikini area, and legs from thigh to ankle—check.
Rub jasmine scented lotion over every inch of skin—check.
I’d have to stop by the department store on my way to work to pick up a pair of four-inch heels—another requirement.
He even demanded I wear them to the hospital and while running errands.
With a sigh, I ransacked my closet in search of a short skirt.
A deep forage into my lingerie drawer produced a lacy bra and thong set I’d forgotten about long ago. I hadn’t worn such things in…
Shit, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn something so sexy. If Gage hadn’t promised to set up an account for me at Victoria’s Secret, I’d be in real trouble. As I moved toward the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker, a drift of cool air hit my ass. I hated thongs.
I hated Gage Channing even more.
I picked up the journal he’d given me and re-read his “rules…”
No masturbating.
Oops, already broke that one.
No dating, flirting, or touching/having sex with other men. No talking to men, unless work, errands, or hospital personnel require it.
Not likely to happen, since my social life was non-existent.
A niggling thought bothered me. Ian might fall into this category.
I couldn’t help my feelings for him, years ago buried but never forgotten, and I couldn’t help if I ran into him at the hospital.
What was I supposed to tell him? That I wasn’t allowed to speak to him?
Yeah, as if that wouldn’t raise a few questions, not to mention an eyebrow or two.
Must maintain hygiene regimen daily.
I already despised this rule.
Must always wear the collar.
The damn thing choked me, if not literally then figuratively. The thin strip of leather was a constant reminder that no matter how close freedom seemed within my grasp, it truly wasn’t.
Must follow the specified menu plan.
This one could be a problem, since most days I didn’t have an appetite at all.
Must wear four-inch heels, short skirts, and thong underwear at all times (work, hospital, errands).
Perverted bastard.
Must sleep naked.
Ditto.