Breach (BDSM Bedtime Stories)

Chapter 1

“You’re going to love Corsica,” he said. He was on his back, one arm behind his head, his other hand warm on her thigh through the sheet. “The beaches aren’t like here. Rockier. Private.”

She turned onto her side and propped her head on her hand. “You keep saying that. You haven’t actually booked anything.”

“I’m booking it tomorrow.” His thumb pressed into the muscle above her knee. “The villa has its own cove. You can swim naked if you want.”

“I can swim naked here,” she said.

“Your neighbors might have opinions.”

She’d been going to bed with Bonito for thirty-seven days.

His reading glasses sat folded on the nightstand beside a half-finished glass of water and the Kissinger biography he’d been working through for a month.

The clock read 12:14. The lamp threw warm light across the sheets, across his chest, across the room she knew better than her own house by now.

“Come here,” he said, pulling her against his chest.

She went.

“We should get a dog,” he said.

“You hate dogs.”

“I hate other people’s dogs.”

She yawned, reaching for the sleep mask on the nightstand. Pulling it over her eyes, she settled back against the pillow. “Wake me up if you book Corsica.”

His hand found her hip. “Goodnight, beautiful.”

She turned onto her side, one ear pressed into the pillow, and brought her hand up against the other.

The door came off its hinges. She heard it through the floor and the bed frame. Then the concussion, a pressure in her chest, and the sharp chemical bite of smoke filling the room.

She ripped the mask off and screamed. High, raw, the sound of a woman woken into violence. The bedroom door was gone, the frame splintered, and men were pouring through it, rifles up, mounted lights cutting white beams through the smoke.

Bonito lunged for the nightstand. His shoulder hit it wrong, too fast, too panicked, and the whole thing tipped. The lamp shattered on the hardwood. The Kissinger biography slid across the floor. The drawer landed upside down and spilled its contents across the carpet.

She kept screaming.

Three rifles found Bonito. He was on his knees in the broken glass, one hand still reaching toward where the drawer had been.

“Shut the fuck up!” The nearest operator swung his light toward her but kept the barrel on Bonito.

She pulled the sheet to her chest and sobbed.

Bonito’s hand closed on nothing. His fingers scraped carpet, swept through the spilled contents of the drawer. A phone charger. A box of allergy medication. A pen. His head snapped toward her.

She was sobbing into the sheet, curled against the headboard, shoulders heaving. Mascara tracked down her cheeks.

“On your stomach! Hands behind your head!” Two operators crossed the room and drove him flat.

A knee went into his back. His wrists were zip-tied before his face left the carpet.

One of them pulled a hood from a vest pouch and yanked it over his head.

They hauled him up by the elbows and moved him toward the door.

His bare feet dragged through the broken glass. He didn’t make a sound.

The room cleared. Rifles lowered. The smoke thinned.

She sat against the headboard in her underwear, the sheet bunched in her lap. Her breathing slowed. Steadied.

One of the operators held out a gloved hand. She took it and stood, looking at his eyes above the balaclava.

“Kaczynski?”

He nodded.

“Nice breach.” She walked to the closet and took Bonito’s robe off the hook. “I need to gather some things, but we can head out in about an hour.”

The men nodded. Balaclavas came off one by one, stuffed into vest pouches or pushed back on foreheads. The bedroom was becoming an evidence scene. Someone was already photographing the broken nightstand.

Kaczynski looked at her. “Glad you’re okay.”

She smiled and gave a nod.